Chapter Text
Chapter One: Second Skin
I suppose I’ve always been a good liar.
It comes naturally—slipping into whatever shape people expect, molding my words and expressions until they see exactly what they want to see. The sweet Atsushi. The wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly Atsushi. I’ve worn that mask for so long it almost fused to my face.
Almost.
Lately, shedding it feels intoxicating—like peeling off a second skin and finally breathing. Disguising yourself as someone you’re not is exhausting. Pretending to be good, pretending to care, pretending to be harmless. All lies. And I’m so very tired of lies… unless I’m the one telling them.
I sat alone in my office at the Palace of Abilities, the building silent save for the distant hum of Yokohama outside the reinforced windows. I created a persona at the Armed detective agency.I am there sometimes if I’m too busy someone else takes my place when I leave.
A shapeshifter. One of mine.
I trained her meticulously—every gesture, every pause in speech, every flicker of hesitation people associate with Atsushi Nakajima. No one suspects a thing. And why would they? The mask is flawless.
It gives me freedom. Freedom to move, to scheme, to belong everywhere and nowhere all at once.
There are people here I tolerate. Kyouka, for one. And then there’s the suicidal maniac—Dazai Osamu. An amusing contradiction of a man. I often wonder if he’ll ever succeed. I imagine myself laughing if he does, watching from afar as his body finally stills, whether dangling from a rope or shattered at the bottom of some building.
Either way, it makes no difference.
Betrayal doesn’t bother me. Loyalty is a currency, and I’m wealthy enough to spend it recklessly. I operate within multiple organizations—threads woven so tightly no one notices they all lead back to me. If one group turns on me, I simply replace myself. A minion here, an informant there. Information flows upward. It always does.
I was scrolling through old files when the knock came—sharp, hurried.
My assistant burst in before I could answer, breath uneven.
“Mr. Atsushi—someone named Fyodor is here to see you. He says it’s urgent.”
I didn’t look up.
“Let him in,” I said calmly. “He’s a business partner.”
Ah. Fyodor Dostoevsky.
A man after my own heart.
We think alike, Fyodor and I. We both understand the truth no one wants to say aloud: abilities are a disease. They rot the mind. They invite madness, destruction, endless competition over who’s stronger, who’s righteous, who deserves power.
Heroes. Villains. Such childish labels.
Ever since I was young, I wondered—what if the good side isn’t actually good? What if the so-called villains are simply people who saw the hypocrisy first?
Society loves rules when they benefit the powerful. Don’t do this, it’s illegal. Don’t do that, it’s immoral. Meanwhile, people starve, rot in slums, suffocate in poisoned environments—and the world worries about petty crimes instead of systemic cruelty.
Maybe some of us are just trying to survive.
Maybe some of us are trying to fix what’s broken.
The door opened.
Fyodor entered quietly, pale eyes sharp with intelligence, and—without asking—sat in my favorite chair. I didn’t stop him. I liked that chair too much to deny someone else the pleasure of rolling it back and forth.
“Greetings, my dear Atsushi,” he said smoothly. “I’ve come to speak with you about my vision.”
I finally looked up and smiled.
“I’m listening.”
“I’m forming an organization,” Fyodor continued. “You won’t need to abandon your current position—consider it… part-time employment. A collaboration of ideals.”
He folded his hands, gaze unwavering.
“It will be called The Decay of the Angels.”
I felt it then—that familiar thrill beneath my skin.
A second mask, perhaps.
Or maybe… the first one I wouldn’t have to pretend in at all.