Chapter Text
The Armed Detective Agency did not look like a talent agency.
That was the first thing Kunikida Doppo had noticed on his very first day.
There were no marble floors, no massive posters of glossy-faced models plastered across the walls. Instead, the building was narrow, practical, and quietly busy, lined with offices filled with people who worked behind the scenes to maintain the fragile illusion of glamour the outside world consumed so eagerly.
This was where reputations were managed.
Where scandals were buried.
Where disasters were prevented, or at least contained.
Kunikida liked that.
He liked systems. He liked structure. He liked knowing that if he followed the rules precisely, the outcome would be predictable.
Which was why Osamu Dazai was a problem.
Kunikida stood just outside Studio C, clipboard tucked under his arm, posture straight enough to ache. The hallway smelled faintly of coffee and hairspray, the muted hum of assistants and stylists bleeding through the closed doors. Somewhere down the corridor, a photographer raised their voice; somewhere else, laughter rang out too loudly to be genuine.
Kunikida checked his watch.
8:59 a.m.
Good. Early. As planned.
He flipped open his planner, leather-bound, neatly tabbed, every minute of the day accounted for in crisp handwriting.
9:00 – Osamu Dazai: fitting, campaign briefing
10:30 – test shots
12:00 – press appearance (conditional)
He exhaled, steadying himself.
This assignment mattered.
He was new. New to the agency, new to the industry, new to a world where talent often outweighed discipline. Pairing him with one of the agency’s most profitable yet notoriously uncontrollable models felt… intentional. A test.
“I can handle this”, he had told the director with confidence.
The file on Osamu Dazai had been thick.
Unmatched public appeal.
A face the camera loved.
A personality that absolutely did not.
Three previous managers. All resigned. One had left the industry entirely.
Kunikida’s grip tightened around his clipboard.
9:00 a.m.
The studio door remained closed. Empty.
He frowned.
9:04.
His jaw set.
By 9:07, irritation buzzed under his skin, sharp and familiar.
By 9:11, Kunikida Doppo had officially classified this situation as unacceptable.
“Unprofessional,” he muttered, making a precise note in the margin of his planner.
That was when a voice drifted lazily from behind him.
“Wow. Writing me up already? That hurts.”
Kunikida stiffened.
The voice was warm, amused, far too relaxed for someone who was late. He turned sharply, words already forming—
—and stalled.
Osamu Dazai stood a few steps away, hands tucked casually into his pockets like he hadn’t just disrupted a carefully constructed schedule. He was tall, long-limbed, his posture loose in a way that suggested he had never once worried about fitting into a space. His clothes were understated but deliberate: a cream shirt hanging open at the collar, black slacks tailored just enough to frame him without effort.
Bandages wrapped his hands and wrists, stark white against his skin, visible and unapologetic.
And his eyes, sharp, observant, far too perceptive, were fixed squarely on Kunikida.
“Oh,” Dazai said lightly, smile spreading as if pleased by the reaction. “You must be my new manager.”
Kunikida recovered quickly. He straightened, expression cooling into something professional and severe.
“You are late,” he said, voice clipped. “By eleven minutes. That violates agency conduct guidelines.”
Dazai hummed. “Eleven? I was aiming for ten. Tragic.”
“This is not a joke.”
“Mm,” Dazai replied, stepping closer, unbothered. “It kind of is.”
Kunikida resisted the urge to step back. “Osamu Dazai,” he said firmly. “I am Kunikida Doppo. Effective immediately, I will be overseeing your schedule, contracts, and public conduct.”
Dazai’s gaze flicked to the clipboard. The planner. The pen clipped neatly at Kunikida’s chest pocket.
“I know,” he said. “I was curious.”
“About?”
“You.”
That earned him a sharp glare. “Your interest is irrelevant.”
Dazai laughed softly. “You’re very serious. I like that.” He tilted his head, studying Kunikida with unsettling precision. “New suit. Slightly outdated cut. Cheap glasses, but you clean them obsessively, so you care how you’re perceived. You stand like the world will fall apart if you loosen your shoulders.”
Kunikida’s fingers twitched. “Analyzing your manager is inappropriate.”
“Manager,” Dazai repeated, rolling the word slowly. “Such a close title, don’t you think?”
“It is strictly professional.”
“What a relief,” Dazai sighed dramatically. “I’d hate to disappoint you.”
Kunikida took a measured breath. He would not be derailed by provocation.
“Under my supervision,” he said, tone sharp as a blade, “you will adhere to the schedule provided, attend all required appearances, and refrain from any behavior that could damage this agency’s reputation.”
Dazai leaned in just enough to be intentional.
“And if I don’t?”
Kunikida met his gaze head-on. “Then I will make your career very inconvenient.”
For a brief second, something flickered across Dazai’s face, surprise, perhaps. Interest, definitely.
“…Oh,” he murmured. “You’re different.”
Kunikida turned toward the studio doors. “We are already behind. Move.”
Dazai followed easily, steps light, grin returning in full force.
“Doppo-kun,” he sing-songed. “Do you think we’ll be working together for a long time?”
Kunikida didn’t look back.
“I intend for this arrangement to be efficient,” he said.
Dazai’s smile widened.
“Perfect,” he replied. “I’m very fond of long-term commitments.”