Chapter Text
In this world, all is wrong; nothing is wrong. It‘s just the way this world is.
You met Fukuzawa at the lowest point in your life. Through dull pain and dried blood, he saw your silent plea. A plea nobody had ever heard or answered.
“What are you…”
Your eyes had blurred. Your mind dipped into a mixture of tears long-forgotten and blood too warm.
When he held your arms to prevent you from falling, you remember too clearly the flare it sparked, a burn of something lighting on your skin. A silvery jewel crafted into an intricate flower unfurled in your palm. You saw it then in the reflective surface of the petals, a way to control your curse.
All Men are Equal.
You had finally found your solution, the way to control this damn curse of yours. You would finally be free from its dictatorship.
“Please…” A quiet plea. “Please, can you take me in?”
No matter what, you knew back then that you had to grab on. The heavens had finally heard your prayers. You couldn't lose such a valuable piece after all you’d been through.
“If you do, I’ll—” The words had stumbled in your throat as you desperately tried to stay conscious. “I’ll do anything.”
You don’t remember the faces of your parents. They have long been blurred away between the ‘cures’ they gave you. The only thing you remember about them is their faces twisted in disgust. Carved into their expressions, you had seen the thoughts they didn’t bother to hide. A Disappointment. A Failure. A curse.
When they first discovered your curse, they spared no influence or money to try to rid you of it. All of it was useless. Then, they realised just how useful you could be.
They brought in people. People who could keep a secret, needed money, and were too curious for their own good.
(Touch this person. Absorb a part of their soul. Cut it off. What could be done with it? Could you do it for a corpse? Would you be able to completely rid someone of their whole soul? What was the limit?)
It was question after question, hypothesis after hypothesis, pain and hurt after blood and tears.
And yet, those aren’t the memories that predominantly haunt your sleep. There is one moment firmly etched into your mind far greater than all else, with the exception of the day you left.
You don’t remember reaching out to your mother. You don’t quite know why you did that. You don’t remember when exactly, but you guess it’s probably right after a ‘session’. That would be the only explanation for your desperation.
One thing you do remember clearly—way too clearly—is your mother’s hands slapping you away, a force pushing you back, and tears prickling in your eyes as you fell to the floor face to face with your reflection on the floor.
And yet. Despite her reflexes and all her caution, thorny roses, velvet dark and crafted of rubies, grew. They had pierced through your skin, dragging blood and growing in its scarlet life. Climbed up your arm like a snake. Each slow slither became a puncture in your skin.
She knew. You knew. She touched you.
There were no feelings in her voice, just cold indifference—something you were too used to. “Kill it.”
You didn’t protest, didn’t complain. You never did. Even when your hands bled from pulling at the vine, even when your skin broke as you tugged, even when you pulled out the jewelled roses on vines and saw the flesh under the dead cells. Raw, red, and watery.
You think you fainted afterwards.
Or maybe not. You don’t remember anymore. All you know is that they had burned the jewelled blooms. They had, without a doubt, returned the parts of your mother’s soul you took.
Maybe it was because he pitied you, or maybe it was because he had already been looking for someone to add to the agency he was building. He took you in with caring hands. The reason didn’t matter much as long as it was him.
You saw the gift connected to his soul that day—an ability that could inhibit the abilities of his subordinates, allowing them to control what may have been uncontrollable before.
When you first asked him about it, he had been surprised. To him, it was something newly discovered, since he founded the Armed Detective Agency not long before you met. All for a young boy who saw the world in a different light from others. He was bright. He was blunt. He deduced most of your story the first time you met. It was strange at first, but you gradually warmed up to him over time. He became the first friend you ever had.
Yosano was the second. Then, it was Kunikida. Katai. Dazai. The Tanizaki siblings. Kenji. Atsushi. And finally, Kyouka.
Over the years, the Armed Detective Agency quickly became the home you never had.
And that home… will be destroyed in the blink of an eye.
The Book?
You don’t know. You think this is a dream. It feels like one, at least. The paper crumbles slightly in your hand. You’re reading something. What are you reading?
You think you read something that makes you pause. Your brain feels like it has been dipped in slug. You’re dragging it through the mud. You’re bashing it against the cover. You’re gripping too tightly.
Something shocking, you think.
You’re not here. Your body is detached. Half of your soul floats away. Maybe it’s just a feeling. Maybe it’s real.
Does it matter? This world isn’t real, anyway.
Or is it?
You don’t understand.
It’s real.
It’s not the main one outside of the book,
but we’re still here,
tangible and real,
aren’t we?
Yes. You feel. You’re real.
But then? Why?
Fate, of course.
Undeniably, this is a part of that man’s soul.
His jewelled flowers are gentle. They flutter over your skin, twist around your left ring finger, before tentatively unfurling their tiny blue petals. They grow from you like a sweet lullaby, soothing and ever so enchanting. You didn’t expect his soul to be this way. Maybe you’re just lucky, taking the only piece that can be so beautiful. Or maybe it’s just because you only briefly brushed against his hand when you passed him. You still don’t know exactly how your curse works. At least even in your ignorance, you can still help.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Dazai told you about him before.
Speaking of him–
You rush into the alley where the purple-eyed man came out from, and sure enough, Dazai lies at the end, already surrounded by Kunikida and Atsushi.
Do you know?
Your ability works through touch.
The longer the touch, the more truth you’ll see
but fleeting touch means
taking the part most compatible with you,
the part that is most open to you.
Either the most familiar,
or the easiest,
or, more uncommonly,
the one part that
is reserved
just for
you
You’ve never been as intelligent as Ranpo or Dazai. They’re on a completely different level than you are. And yet, you don’t know why, but–
“Are you okay? You’ve been acting off these days.”
Yosano. “It’s okay,” you had told her yesterday. “I just feel a bit weird. It doesn’t seem like anything too major, so I’ll be fine.”
“You sure? I can always just heal you if there are any wounds.”
You had laughed. “No, no, no, I'd rather not. It’s okay. I don’t think it’s physical anyway…”
“Something to do with the heart then?” You remember her eyes softening. “Is something on your mind these days? You can talk about it with me if you want.”
“Thank you, Yosano… I think I just need to take a break. I… I don’t think I’ll be able to come tomorrow to the hideout.”
You expected her to think about it for a bit, or even to say something to dissuade you. After all, everyone would be there, including some of the mafia. It would be a big deal, affecting both the Armed Detective Agency and the Port Mafia. If this mission failed, one of your leaders would die, and bloodshed wouldn’t be able to be avoided. However, contrary to your expectations, Yosano had just nodded back then. “I think that’s a good idea. I’ll tell Kunikida and Ranpo.”
“Really? But won’t that be–”
She stopped you immediately. “Even if you do go, with your condition, I don’t think you’ll be able to do much. Just focus on resting and leave the rest to us. We’ll be able to handle it.”
You didn’t know what to say other than “thank you” at that moment. You couldn’t say anything else, not when you were lying to her.
Now you’re here at a cafe, staring right at the demon.
You had a feeling, but you hadn’t been sure. To see the living proof in front of your eyes is an… experience. The Agency went to chase after the Cannibalism user and Dostoyevsky, but right here, in front of your eyes, sits the latter. You know it’s dangerous. You know what you’ll do next is foolish, and yet, you don’t care.
Something has been whispering in your ears since you first met him. You glance at the crown of forget-me-nots that’s still resting gently around your ring finger. You don’t know why you haven’t peeled them off yet, or even tried to see if they brought you the same pain as taking the others off. You tell yourself it’s because it’ll be useful. It’s Dostoyevsky, after all.
Then why didn’t you tell anyone else about it? You know his Ability. So why–
Why do you want to keep this a secret? Is it because of that dream?
You don’t know. You don’t want to think about it. Thinking about it makes you feel like you betrayed your family and the people who you care about. Why are you even doing this? You don’t know either. You just are. You want to.
He intrigues you like nobody else ever did.
“Hello,” you greet, walking to his table. “Would you mind if I sit here?”
His eyes flicker up, and upon seeing you, he pauses.
Then, after a moment, with a tilt of his head and a smile, he gestures for you to sit. “Go ahead.”
Your eyes scan over him, dipping from the slight curl of his bangs to the slant of his eyes and the curve of his lips. He doesn’t move or do anything that might indicate that something’s wrong. He sits, earphones in his ears, sipping his cup. Indifferent. Unaffected.
After minutes pass with you just watching him in silence, you clear your throat and ask, “You’re not going to leave?”
“I don’t think there’s any need. It’s not like they know you’re here.” He hums and looks up.
The way he said that… there's no question in them, or any indication he’s searching for confirmation. He knows. He’s sure. He knows you know. It’s the truth. There’s no room for you to argue otherwise.
Not that you want to, anyway.
Instead, you allow yourself to smile. It feels strange. You feel strange. There’s a warmth unravelling within you that you’re not familiar with. It’s something that distinctively belongs to you, yet also doesn't. Your left ring finger burns, calling out for your attention.
“You’re not wrong.” You pause, raising your hand and catching the gaze of one of the waiters to place your order. From your peripheral vision, you see his eyes following your movements. He looks at you as if you were some strange specimen he’s studying.
After the waiter leaves, you turn back to him. “I’m just curious,” you say. “I want to get to know you.”
How is it that you knew where he would be? Why are your dreams showing you snippets of moments you know never happened, yet it feels like they should have? Who is Dostoevsky? What does he mean to you?
He considers you for a second, searching your expression for any hidden meaning or lies. “What exactly do you want to know?”
It’s not an answer you can say aloud.
You want to know him. Just him. What does he do in his free time? What are his hobbies? Does he have a favourite colour? A flower? What makes him smile and what makes him tick? You want to know him, as a person, as someone more than an enemy to the Armed Detective Agency.
The Agency will crucify you if they ever hear you say such.
He is a ‘demon’. A horrible person who has killed and will kill again. He’s dangerous. A murder. A terrorist. A villain. He is definitely not someone you should want to understand. He is not a blind date you’re seeing.
He is Fyodor Dostoyevsky, the Conjurer.
You’re pulled out of your thoughts by the waiter delivering your order. “Thank you,” you say, and they nod, quickly scurrying away like a prey sensing danger.
You turn back to the person in front of you. Instead of the full truth, you just tell him, “Everything that can be of use.” It isn’t exactly a lie, but it isn’t exactly the truth either. “For a start, how about the reason you’re doing all this?”
He places his cup down. You almost expect him not to answer, but contrary to your expectations, he does. “To rid the world of sin.”
It’s almost like he’s playing the same game as you. Half-truths, half-lies. Do you believe him?
“Really…?” you say, unconvinced. “Is that the full truth?”
“Is yours?”
You don’t respond.
His eyes narrow in amusement. “It’s up to you if you believe it or not.”
He stands up before you can say anything else. The chairs scratch against the ground, like nails on a chalkboard. “Well, while it was a pleasant conversation, I do need to take my leave now.”
You nearly scoff. What an exaggeration. You two barely talked, and he is already running away.
He still looks like he’s studying you, eyes roaming over your face like it’s something peculiarly bizarre. Maybe you should feel offended, or even repulsed, but you don’t. All you see is a reflection of your own curiosity.
You open your mouth to add something. What exactly—you don’t know. You just want him to stay for a little longer, let you look for just a shade more. “Wait.”
He pauses.
You feel the words bubble up within you, “I–” But before any of them form, a voice interrupts you. A voice so familiar and so chilling.
No–
“Hey.” The voice is light, airy, yet it makes you completely freeze. “Lovely cafe, isn’t it?”
You turn like a deer caught in headlights, despite everything in you screaming to run away, do anything to avoid the inevitable confrontation. You curl your left hand up.
You can’t believe you forgot this would happen.
Your breathing staggers as you meet his eyes—liquid brown and gold. His gaze is narrowed, head tilted slightly to the side. Maybe he’s trying to put on a harmless expression, smile and all, yet you can see the slight strain of his lips and the cutting stare of suspicion.
You don’t bother to answer the question that hang his expressions. Instead, you allow your eyes to flicker to the demon, dragging his gaze to follow. As if he has just been reminded of him, his attention switched in an instant. You watch as his lips move, forming shapes you can’t make out.
There’s sound.
There’s no sound.
You can hear their voice.
You can’t hear their voice.
It’s there.
It’s not there.
You’re here.
You’re not here.
Who are you?
What are you?
In all these different worlds?
Your fingers dig into his hair. His arms are wrapped around your waist. It pulls you in closer. And closer. And even closer. He leans back slightly. You follow without thinking. Each breath, each moment, tangled and mixed, is part of a quiet tune heard only by the two of you.
𓆩♡𓆪
Blood. There’s blood on your hand. It’s not yours. That, you know. But– Your hand curls, fingers digging into skin, as you watch the body convulse. Something burst from them—from it. The moment passes like a flickering film. Horror, shock, and uncertainty crack inside you. You watch as the person who once was disappears. He’s no longer his killer. It’s just him.
𓆩♡𓆪
There’s only the gentle hum of domestic peace. A light scent, one of sweets and tea, fills the room. You lean your head on his shoulder, breathing a contented sigh. He’s beautiful. He’s here. He’s yours. Yes, yours. For the past decade and more. Your husband. Hidden away in a small lodge, away from the prying eyes of society, you relish in a world of your own. A world that is shared only by the two of you.
𓆩♡𓆪
You’re slumped on the table, phone to your ear. You say something, laughter falls from your lips. The person on the other side of the phone tells you to prepare for the Beginning. He’s worried. You can tell. He doesn't say it outright, but he implies it enough for you to catch on. You smile at Naomi as she informs you she’s going out for lunch with the others in the cafe downstairs.
𓆩♡𓆪
You’ve never seen him so… mad. He’s usually so calm, so collected and controlled. And yet, here he is, eyes burning with unfamiliar cold fury. The only things that give his emotions away are the tightening of his jaws and the chill that blankets his gaze. You struggle against the detective’s hold, but flinch when he digs his nails into your skin. You hate yourself for ever causing such an expression on his face. You know he’ll find a way out, and yet you still can’t help the ache in your heart and the apology threatening to bubble out.
𓆩♡𓆪
He says something about how worried he is. How he has been looking for you for ages. A part of you almost doesn't believe it, but his voice, his words… they’re filled with so much relief and softness that it almost has you melting. The empty void where your memories used to whisper for you to notice—notice what?—but you push it away. How can you not when he has your hands clasped so tentatively in his? Feeling the chill of his skin seep into yours, your attention drifts to his hands without fail. Small wounds, resembling bite marks, trail down his slender fingers and thumbs, all the way to the sides of his palms. Concern worms its way out at the sight.
You love him, don’t you?
You will always choose him,
and this time, it’s no different.
Or, is it?
Nothing really happened after that one scene at the cafe. You justified it as a mere coincidence.
‘Yes, you’ve been feeling stuffy these past few days, so you thought you’d go out to a cafe. You didn’t expect to find Dostoyevsky here. It was such a good thing that they arrived in time!’
The Agency believed you easily, except for Dazai and Ranpo. It isn’t as if those two believe you’re lying. It’s more so that they can tell you’re omitting something. What it exactly is, well, only you will be privy to that. If any of them ever discover the truth, you’ll be deemed insane at best and executed at worst.
No… maybe that isn’t even the worst.
Stares leaking with hatred. Whispers dousing in abhorrence. An abomination. A stranger. A monster. The faceless creature in the mirror looks back at you with vines wrapped around limbs and thorns protruding from skin. All crafted from jewels, they glinted under the murky light. Wild flora cackled as they sank themselves into eyes and lips and veins. They–
You tug out the crown of flowers around your finger.
You stare.
One beat. Two beats. Three beats.
Breathe.
You lean back, shutting your eyes.
You really should take up Yosano’s suggestion and take a break.
As for the flowers…
You should have burned it long ago and returned it to him.
The Book.
It’s another one of those dreams again.
Ever since the arrest of Dostoyevsky, they have increased in frequency. Every night, you find yourself in front of the same scene—a dim room with a single book placed on a lectern in the centre. Intricate stones line the edges, carved delicately into weaving patterns. Crafted vines, softly glowing, curl up from the sides to frame the Book. They always seem to beckon you with their warm and gentle light, telling you to come closer, read another tale, join them on another journey.
Tonight is no different.
You step closer to the stand. Your fingers brush against the pages as you watch the Book start to open.
When it finally stops, landing on a page you’ve yet to see, the surrounding space distorts, and you find yourself in an all too familiar manor.
The banquet spans out in full-swing around you. Music and false laughter fill the air. The sound of meaningless chatter seeps into your ears. People persistently continue to pour false flattery, trying a fool’s attempt to win you over. All just for a lick of your parents’ attention.
Funny.
When will they learn it won’t work?
Your parents barely acknowledge your existence outside of the times they showcase you like a prize. And even then, those times were brief. You never had enough time to truly make an impact in high society. Your parents were always too scared that your curse would be revealed if you stayed out too long. They told everyone that their “darling child” is “very sickly” to justify locking you up in the manor. Nobody seems to question it. Every time you make an appearance, they would all ooh and coo like you were some rare exotic pet put on display only on special occasions.
You laugh silently at that notion.
Unbeknownst to them, in reality, you’re just a cursed “monster” locked in a cage by the people who brought you into this world.
Today is your birthday. It is the one time in the year when they parade you briefly, put on a show as if they care about you.
You lift your glass, watching the light glint off the edges.
Maybe you should run.
It will be your only opportunity, after all. You heard their whispers to that ‘doctor’ of yours. They think you’re growing too dangerous.
You can already imagine the scene. They stand, sullen, announcing how their child’s illness got worse and is unfortunately no longer here with them. The condolences will pour in, and a grand funeral will take place. They’ll use your death to gain more influence and attention, while everyone will pretend they don’t know what actually happened.
Yes, you’ll have to run.
Everything so far is quite a memory,
isn’t it?
“Hello, is the seat next to you taken?”
But now, it is no longer so.
A tale from another universe,
Another could-have-been path.
You shall know it all.
You turn to see a man smiling softly at you. Amethyst eyes, a mixture of wine and indigo, and dark strands that fall just above his shoulder, slightly curling around the edges to frame his pale face.
Beautiful.
Like a porcelain doll.
You’ve never seen someone as ethereal as this man in your entire life. Granted, you haven’t seen a lot of people since you socialised with outsiders once a year. Still, the people in high society are mostly good-looking. They all have the wealth and connections to maintain youth and beauty, after all.
But none—none at all—can compare to this man.
He looks like an angel who fell from heaven.
You tilt your head and return his smile. “Please. Take a seat. It’s quite empty,” you lie, knowing full well that the person who had been sitting there just left to fetch you a refreshment. “I don’t think we’ve met, Mr…?”
“Dostoyevsky,” he says, taking your offered seat. His gaze scans over your face, and his smile grows. “And if I had to guess, you must be the birthday star of this banquet.”
You laugh. “You’re correct. How did you guess?”
Despite your lack of genuine socialisation, your parents still trained you in the art of speech and social etiquette, so that you wouldn’t ever embarrass them in such situations.
“You stand out in that outfit, and also,” he leans in, voices a quiet murmur. “Because you look like you’re preparing to run.”
You pull back sharply.
Should you play dumb?
You dig your nails into your hand.
No.
Judging from his words and expression, he clearly already knows; pretending not to understand would only amuse him at most.
You narrow your eyes. All pretence now thrown out. “What do you want?”
He pushes his chair back and stands up.
“I can help you escape, give you a place to stay, and stop your family from chasing after you.”
“What’s the catch?”
He smiles. “In exchange, I’d like you to help me with a certain task.”
You can’t believe the words you just heard. Can something this good just land in your lap? Can you even trust this person? Who is he?
”What task?” You eye him cautiously.
”Unfortunately, it’s not something I can tell to someone uninvolved.”
So you’ll have to agree before knowing…
How utterly suspicious. And yet—
You open your mouth to question him further, but right then, from the moment you first heard the offer, you knew you were going to accept without a doubt.
You will escape.
And if it means taking a gamble, then a gamble you will take.
This is no gold falling into your lap, and might just be burning coal. But that is okay. You will take the chance. The moment you finish your end of the deal—whatever it is—you’ll finally be able to live your life.
(At least, that’s what you expected.)
You will never expect that you’ll stay with him longer than the duration of that single task. You’ll never expect to dance with the devil on a ground scattered in needles. Never will you expect to trip and fall into a warm embrace.
You step back from the Book, trying to shake off the shivers running through your veins.
Why is this time different? Instead of a vastly different timeline, it chose to show you something eerily similar to your own, with just a single change. A change that flips the entire course of your life.
You can't help but wonder if these dreams actually showed all the potential paths, the ones that may have been possible. Or, is this all your hope that manifested this? A mere delusion?
No.
You close your eyes. The space around you once again wavers and fades.
It’s time.
You let yourself fall into the void, let the hands from the abyss grab you, falling back on a path you can no longer change.
Did you know?
In the real world,
The main one
Outside,
You
Are
Gone