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When the Armed Detective Agency first recruited their newest member, Dazai Osamu, they had no idea what kind of trouble they were inviting through their doors.
At first glance, he seemed promising enough—sharp-eyed, clever, and strangely charming when he wanted to be. His observational skills were impressive, and during his entrance test, he had demonstrated a sharp intellect well above the average.
On paper, he was exactly the kind of detective the Agency would be proud to have.
In reality, however, Dazai quickly proved himself to be a living nightmare.
Within the first week alone, the Agency discovered that their new employee had a long list of questionable habits. These included proposing to women for double suicides, disappearing in the middle of investigations, and somehow ending up in the river often enough that the local police had begun recognizing him on sight.
More than once, the police department had called the Agency with the same tired message.
“Your detective is in the river again.”
It didn’t help that whenever they fished him out, Dazai would cheerfully wave at them before wandering off as though nothing had happened.
Naturally, this behaviour did very little for the Agency’s reputation. Customer complaints began trickling in not long after his employment started. The trickling then turned into a steady stream.
He flirted with witnesses.
He mocked criminals.
He vanished when paperwork appeared.
And worst of all, he had to drag Kunikida into most of it.
If Dazai hadn’t been such an absurdly good detective, he would have been fired within the month.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, when he actually felt like doing his job, Dazai’s mind worked with terrifying precision. Cases that had stalled for weeks were solved in hours. Mysteries unravelled after only a few conversations. Patterns and motives fell into place as though the answers had been obvious all along. He was similar to Ranpo in that area, which meant the Agency was stuck with him.
All in all, Dazai Osamu was a menace.
He was insufferable, an absolute nuisance, a walking migraine in human form.
His boyfriend, on the other hand, was a complete sweetheart.
The revelation had nearly caused a collective crisis within the Armed Detective Agency.
Because really, how on earth did someone like Dazai manage to get a boyfriend? And more impressively, how did he manage to keep one with that terrible personality of his?
Kunikida had first met the boyfriend about a week after Dazai joined the Agency.
He had just returned from a case, alone, because Dazai had vanished halfway through the investigation with the casual announcement that he was “going to pursue a new lead.”
At this point, Kunikida knew from experience that “new lead” usually meant wandering off somewhere to jump into the river or trying another suicide method.
So, he had finished the job himself and returned to the office in a foul mood, already preparing the lecture he would deliver when Dazai eventually showed up again.
As he approached the Agency’s door, however, he noticed someone standing outside.
The young man looked hesitant, lingering just a step away from the entrance as though unsure whether he should knock. He worried his bottom lip slightly, glancing at the door before looking away again.
Bright ginger hair caught the afternoon light, vivid and impossible to miss.
He looked young, around Dazai’s age of 20. His clothes were simple and clearly well-worn: a faded blue hoodie, frayed jeans, and sneakers that looked like they had walked far more miles than they should have. He was clutching a small paper bag carefully in one hand.
Kunikida slowed his steps as he approached. “Can I help you?” he asked.
The ginger-haired stranger turned around quickly, striking blue eyes widening slightly before settling into something more cautious.
“Oh—uh—” He hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “I’m looking for Dazai. Do you know if he’s in?”
Kunikida felt a familiar wave of exhaustion settle into his bones.
Another one.
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and sighed. “I apologize on behalf of my colleague,” he said stiffly. “If you’ve come to file a complaint about his behaviour—”
“Oh! No, no, nothing like that!” the ginger interrupted quickly, waving his hands in alarm. “I’m not a client or anything.”
Kunikida blinked.
“I’m just here to visit Dazai.”
That was... unexpected.
Kunikida relaxed slightly, though not entirely. Knowing Dazai, an associate of his wasn’t necessarily good news either. Birds of a feather flock together, after all.
Still, he remained polite.
“I see. I’m not sure if Dazai has returned yet,” he said. “But you could have gone in first. We have a reception room inside.”
The ginger laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well... I didn’t make an appointment or anything,” he admitted. “I didn’t want to disturb anyone by just walking in.”
Kunikida stared at him.
Then he stared a little longer.
He had not expected an acquaintance of Dazai to be this polite. Perhaps he had misjudged the man.
“Please,” Kunikida said, opening the door with far more warmth than before. “Come in.”
Inside the office, the only other person present was Yosano, who was lounging at her desk with a fashion magazine in hand. She glanced up lazily at the sound of the door opening and noticed the guest. Immediately, she straightened with interest.
“Well now,” Yosano said, smiling as she pushed a chair towards him. “We don’t get visitors often. Come sit.”
After introductions were exchanged, the ginger—who introduced himself as Nakahara Chuuya—carefully placed the paper bag on the desk.
“I didn’t want to come empty-handed,” he said, looking slightly embarrassed. “So, I made these for you all to share.”
He opened the bag, and the smell that escaped was heavenly.
It was the scent of warm and freshly baked cookies.
Yosano’s eyes lit up instantly. “Well, I already like you,” she declared, grabbing one without hesitation and taking a bite.
“It’s good,” she said approvingly, finishing it in just a few bites before reaching for a second. “You should visit more often.”
Chuuya laughed bashfully, the tips of his ears turning red.
“Thanks. It took me a few tries to get the ratio right,” he admitted. “So I’m glad you like them.”
Satisfied that their guest was comfortable, Kunikida returned to his desk to resume working through the mountain of paperwork that Dazai had inevitably neglected. As he passed by, however, Yosano asked casually between bites of cookie.
“So, why were you looking for Dazai anyway?”
Chuuya answered easily, “Oh, I’m his boyfriend, you see. So I thought I’d drop by and—”
Kunikida’s foot caught on absolutely nothing. He stumbled forward, nearly dropping his notebook.
Behind him, Yosano choked violently on her cookie.
“You’re WHAT!?”
Both of them whipped around to stare at Chuuya in complete disbelief.
Chuuya blinked at them, startled by the sudden reaction.
“...His boyfriend?” he repeated uncertainly.
Kunikida and Yosano could only stare.
So.
Apparently, Dazai had a boyfriend.
And judging by first impressions, it was a boyfriend he absolutely, and definitely, did not deserve.
Nakahara Chuuya was kind and sweet and thoughtful, always arriving with something homemade whenever he came to visit.
Sometimes it was cookies, sometimes it was little pastries neatly wrapped in parchment paper, and most times it was an entire loaf of bread tucked carefully into a bag he carried with him. Whatever it was, it was always fresh, always delicious, and always shared generously with the entire office.
Even more miraculous was the effect Chuuya had on Dazai.
Whenever he was around, Dazai toned himself down considerably. Instead of wandering off, bothering his coworkers, or vanishing mid-investigation, he would simply hover around Chuuya like an overly affectionate cat. More often than not he clung to the ginger’s arm, draped himself across the back of Chuuya’s chair, or leaned against him with shameless contentment.
It made the office significantly more peaceful, so no one complained.
In fact, the Armed Detective Agency grew deeply grateful whenever Chuuya stopped by, glad that they could finally take a break from Dazai’s antics.
Still, the question lingered in everyone’s minds.
How on earth had someone like Chuuya ended up with someone like Dazai?
Chuuya often visited during lunch breaks.
On those days, he would arrive carrying a carefully packed homemade bento meant specifically for Dazai. The box was always neat and colourful—rice shaped into little portions, vegetables arranged with surprising care, and some sort of protein prepared in a way that looked far more appetizing than anything Dazai would have ever made for himself.
The couple would sit together at Dazai’s desk to eat, sharing the generously sized bento between them.
At first, the others didn’t quite understand the arrangement, until they saw how Dazai insisted on being fed every single time, his tone half-demanding, half-teasing. And Chuuya, always smiling indulgently, would patiently lift a morsel with his chopsticks and offer it to him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Dazai would then lean forward obediently to take the bite, and, without fail, his cheeks will blush a delicate shade of pink, as though this weren’t the thousandth time they had performed this little song-and-dance together.
The first few times it happened, the others couldn’t help but stare, still unused to the complete one-eighty their new colleague seemed to have taken.
The moment Dazai noticed their attention, however, his reaction was immediate. He would suddenly cup Chuuya’s cheeks with both hands and turn his face toward him, effectively shielding the ginger from the rest of the office.
“Chuuya!” he’d complained dramatically. “Don’t you know I’m the only one allowed to eat your cooking? Those bread and pastries are mine. You can’t just give them away!” He shot the rest of them a sharp glare while saying it, as if daring anyone to challenge the claim.
Meanwhile, Chuuya would blink up at him in mild confusion.
“Osamu,” he said slowly, “you don’t even like sweets.”
That was when the office realized they had judged wrongly.
Dazai hadn’t changed at all.
He was still just as terrible as ever.
The first time Ranpo met Chuuya was during one of these lunch visits.
That day, Chuuya had brought Dazai his bento along with a loaf of homemade raspberry sourdough bread, the crust golden and the inside dotted with bits of fruit.
The moment he walked in, the office practically lit up.
“Chuuya!” Yosano greeted brightly.
Before long, the staff had gathered around him like a flock of very polite vultures.
Chuuya laughed sheepishly as he began slicing the bread.
“I baked a little too much again,” he explained. “So please help yourselves.”
One slice after another disappeared into eager hands.
In the middle of all the commotion, however, Ranpo simply sat perched on his desk.
The great detective stared at Chuuya.
Then at Dazai.
Then back at Chuuya again.
“Huh?” he said aloud, as if he had witnessed something absurd when he saw the way his coworkers had swarmed the ginger, happily accepting slices and praising how delicious everything was.
He sounded genuinely confused.
Ranpo accepted the slice Chuuya offered him but didn’t eat it right away. Instead, he held the bread in his hand and stared at it suspiciously, as though it might suddenly reveal itself to be poisoned.
Chuuya noticed immediately. He chuckled, scratching the side of his head with a hint of embarrassment as his eyes shifted away. “I bake sometimes as stress relief,” he explained, glancing around nervously as the others happily devoured their portions. “And if I make too much, I have to give it away.”
Under the watchful eyes of both Chuuya and his coworkers, Ranpo finally took a bite, chewing slowly before swallowing.
“Huh?” he repeated, looking down at the bread again before slowly raising his gaze to Chuuya, who seemed to be nervously waiting for his verdict.
Ranpo took another bite, this time much bigger. He chewed quickly, then raised his hand in a firm thumbs-up. “You’re good,” he declared.
The relief on Chuuya’s face was immediate.
“Thank you,” he said with a laugh. “I thought I ruined it yesterday when I pounded the dough too much.”
Yosano leaned on the desk nearby, grinning mischievously. “Aww, you didn’t ruin it at all,” she said warmly. Then she nudged Dazai beside her. “Besides,” she added teasingly, “you made it with love. We can taste it.”
Ranpo paused at that, his expression slightly odd as he stared down at the almost-finished slice in his hand. Then he shrugged, shoved the rest into his mouth, and made grabby hands for more.
After that, Chuuya unofficially became something like an honorary member of the Agency.
Much like the barista downstairs who made the perfect cup of coffee, Chuuya quickly earned a special place within the office.
Naturally, the Agency vowed, silently but unanimously, to protect him at all costs.
It wasn’t just because he brought snacks, though admittedly that helped. It was also because Chuuya was simply kind, the sort of kindness that showed itself in small, thoughtless gestures rather than grand displays.
Before visiting, he always sent a message ahead of time after learning that Kunikida liked to schedule everything down to the minute.
When Yosano enthusiastically talked about the newest fashion trends, Chuuya listened with genuine interest, even when the conversation could stretch for hours.
Once, when Ranpo had wandered off and gotten lost a block away from the Agency, Chuuya had quietly guided him back without even mentioning it to anyone.
And when it came to Dazai, Chuuya researched recipes specifically designed to be gentle on the stomach, carefully planning lunches that Dazai, with his constant low appetite, might actually feel like eating.
When Tanizaki and Naomi joined the Agency, Chuuya baked a cake to welcome them. He made sure to include them in conversations, but never pushed too hard, giving them space after everything they had been through.
Naomi warmed up to him quickly, and she hovered around Chuuya almost every time he visited, peppering him with questions about cooking techniques after seeing the beautiful bento boxes he prepared.
“I want to make something this nice for my brother too,” she’d explained eagerly, and Chuuya was happy to give her tips.
When Kenji joined the Agency, Chuuya made a special snack from Kenji’s hometown village after hearing him talk about it once. The boy took one bite and his eyes lit up like stars.
“It tastes just like the one back home!” he exclaimed happily.
After that, Chuuya occasionally made it again whenever Kenji asked.
Years passed, and slowly, Chuuya became such a regular presence that seeing him in the office felt completely natural.
Most days he stopped by at least once, unless he was away on a work trip.
Those weeks were terrible as the Agency would suffer through what they jokingly called sugar withdrawal, deprived of Chuuya’s baked goods. However, the worst part of it all was actually Dazai.
Without Chuuya around, Dazai’s behaviour became significantly worse. He doubled down on his most annoying habits, causing trouble with renewed enthusiasm as though sheer persistence might somehow summon Chuuya back from wherever he was.
It didn’t work.
Instead, it only served to make everyone in the office more irritable as they wished fervently for the ginger to come back soon.
When Atsushi Nakajima first joined the Armed Detective Agency, he quickly began to question what kind of place he had gotten himself into.
At first, it had seemed like a miracle. After everything he had gone through, being accepted into the Agency felt like being given a second chance at life. But the longer he stayed, the more he began to suspect there had been a catch hidden somewhere in the fine print.
There was, quite simply, not a single normal person in the office.
Sometimes, Atsushi wondered if sanity was actually a disqualifying trait when applying.
His mentor, Dazai Osamu, was easily the worst offender. The man spent an alarming amount of time enthusiastically discussing increasingly elaborate ways to die, often while Atsushi was trying to focus on something important. Atsushi had lost count of the number of times he had walked in on Dazai attempting something ridiculous that required immediate intervention.
And that was only the beginning.
Kunikida was at least somewhat reasonable, if you ignored the fact that he spent roughly half his day trying to strangle Dazai while shouting about ruined schedules and violated ideals.
Yosano had a smile that made Atsushi instinctively fear for his life.
Ranpo could solve impossible cases in seconds but still managed to get lost walking around the block.
And Tanizaki and Naomi...
Well.
Atsushi tried not to think about them too much.
Sometimes he lay awake at night wondering if it was too late to politely withdraw from the Agency and pretend he had never shown up.
So when an unfamiliar person walked into the office one afternoon as though he belonged there, Atsushi immediately straightened up in his chair.
The man had bright ginger hair and striking blue eyes, and he carried himself with a casual ease that suggested he had visited many times before. His clothes were simple—a faded blue hoodie, worn jeans, and sneakers that looked like they had seen better days—but despite that, there was something warm and approachable about him.
Atsushi hesitated before offering a cautious greeting. “H-hello.”
The man noticed him immediately and smiled. “Oh! You must be the new hire,” he said warmly. “I’ve heard a lot about you these past few days.”
Atsushi blinked in surprise. Before he could even respond, the ginger suddenly pushed a small box towards him.
“I hope you’re not allergic to peanuts,” the man continued casually. “It’s peanut butter brownie. I didn’t have much time to make anything else.”
Atsushi stared at the box in stunned silence. He had just met this person, and he was already being fed. Touched, Atsushi went to thank him, when a familiar voice cut in.
“Chuuuyaaa,” Dazai whined dramatically. He appeared out of nowhere and latched onto the ginger’s arm like an overgrown child. “I’m hungry.”
The man—Chuuya—laughed softly and ruffled Dazai’s hair. “Okay, okay,” he said indulgently. “We can eat now.”
And just like that, Dazai dragged Chuuya towards his desk, leaving Atsushi behind as he stood there, holding the brownie box.
It didn’t take long for Atsushi to learn that Nakahara Chuuya was not actually part of the Armed Detective Agency. He simply came by during lunch to accompany Dazai before returning to his own job. And the moment Chuuya walked in that day, the atmosphere in the office had changed almost instantly.
People who had been working quietly suddenly perked up.
Yosano looked delighted.
Ranpo immediately wandered over.
Even Kunikida paused in his paperwork.
Within seconds, everyone had surrounded Chuuya like a flock of very polite scavengers.
“Did you bring something today?” Yosano asked hopefully.
Chuuya laughed sheepishly as he handed out small, wrapped pastries. “I made extra this morning,” he admitted.
The Agency accepted the snacks with visible relief. Once everyone had secured their share, they dispersed just as quickly, leaving Chuuya and Dazai alone to eat.
Atsushi noticed something else too.
Dazai had stopped trying to eat suspicious mushrooms he found outside, and he wasn’t talking about jumping out the window anymore.
All because Chuuya had come back.
Atsushi found himself thinking that if Chuuya’s presence could tame Dazai even slightly, then he sincerely hoped the man would visit every day. Not only that, but Chuuya seemed to be the only genuinely normal person Atsushi had encountered in the entire office.
Well, normal aside from the rather baffling decision to date Dazai.
Because of that, Atsushi found himself paying extra attention to the ginger-haired man, just to make sure he had no reason to stop visiting.
Later that afternoon, Atsushi noticed something concerning.
Chuuya looked tired.
Up close, the signs were obvious—slightly mussed hair, faint shadows under his eyes, and the way his hoodie looked wrinkled like he had thrown it on in a hurry.
“Nakahara-san, are you alright?” Atsushi asked hesitantly. “You look tired.”
Chuuya looked up and smiled reassuringly. “Just Chuuya is fine,” he said easily. “And I’m alright.”
He stretched slightly in his seat. “I just touched down from a long flight and came here as soon as I could so this person here could eat lunch.”
He glanced fondly at Dazai, who was currently separating all the vegetables from his rice with intense concentration. “He has a habit of skipping meals if I’m not the one cooking,” Chuuya added.
Atsushi felt deeply moved by the thoughtfulness. Not only had Chuuya gone out of his way to make lunch for Dazai after a long flight, but he had also even baked something for Atsushi as a welcome gift.
Then a new concern occurred to him.
“But Chuuya-san,” Atsushi said worriedly, “I heard you have to go to work later too. Won’t that be exhausting?”
Chuuya shrugged casually.
“I’m used to it,” he said. “Besides, I still have a lot of work piled up. And my boss definitely won’t let me take time off right now, considering the recent attempts by outside parties to expand into our market.”
From across the room, Kunikida suddenly spoke up. “Well, if you’re ever interested in changing jobs, you could always consider joining the Agency,” he said seriously. “Our benefits include significantly more rest days.”
Chuuya chuckled. “Thanks, Kunikida. But my job pays better.”
He reached over and ruffled Dazai’s hair again. “How else would I afford to feed this picky eater?”
The Agency members collectively looked down at the luxurious bento spread across Dazai’s desk. There was real crab meat, premium ingredients, and perfectly prepared side dishes that looked like they belonged in a high-end restaurant.
Then they looked back at Chuuya. Faded hoodie and threadbare sneakers. He was clearly overworked and spending most of his income on Dazai’s lunches.
Slowly, their heads turned towards Dazai, expressions darkening.
If only he wasn’t so useless that Chuuya had to work so hard to support him.
Dazai froze under the collective glare.
Before he could defend himself, Chuuya calmly picked up the vegetables Dazai had pushed aside earlier and stuffed them straight into his mouth while he was distracted.
Dazai startled, his lips pulling into a pout as the taste hit his tongue. But the moment Chuuya offered him a piece of crab meat afterward, his entire expression softened instantly. Soon the two of them were quietly feeding each other again, gazing at one another with shameless affection.
The members of the Agency took one look at the scene and immediately turned away.
Witnessing such scenes always made them feel like a voyeur. Somehow, it felt much more intimate than Naomi and Tanizaki’s usual displays, and that was saying something.
Atsushi clenched his fists the moment he recognized the figure approaching from the other end of the alleyway.
Akutagawa Ryunosuke. The Mad Dog of the Port Mafia.
Kunikida had warned him very clearly about this man. If Atsushi ever encountered him alone, he was supposed to run without hesitation. Akutagawa was dangerous, ruthless, and responsible for the deaths of countless people. Fighting him head-on was the kind of mistake that got people killed.
Unfortunately, the narrow alleyway didn’t leave much room for escape.
Akutagawa stopped several paces away, his dark gaze fixed squarely on Atsushi.
His coat stirred, the fabric rippling like something alive, and two sharp black tendrils lashed forward with terrifying speed.
Atsushi barely reacted in time.
His ability flared instinctively, strength surging through his body as he leapt backward, narrowly dodging the strike. He landed near the mouth of the alley that opened onto the busy main street, heart pounding wildly in his chest.
Akutagawa advanced a single step, the shadows of his coat shifting again.
“Atsushi?”
The familiar voice came from the side of the alley, and Atsushi froze.
A man with bright ginger hair stepped casually into the narrow space, wearing a familiar blue hoodie that had clearly seen better days. In one hand, he carried a paper bag that Atsushi recognized immediately, the same one Chuuya always used when bringing baked goods to the Agency.
“Chuuya-san?” Atsushi blurted.
Chuuya had already spotted him. “Oh, Atsushi!” he greeted warmly, raising a hand in casual greeting as he walked closer. “Fancy running into you here.”
Atsushi’s eyes widened in horror.
From the corner of his eye, he could see Akutagawa’s coat shifting again, the lethal fabric already preparing to strike, completely indifferent to the innocent bystander who had just wandered directly into the line of fire.
“No!” Atsushi shouted.
He lunged forward without thinking, throwing himself between them. His body moved on instinct, bracing for the inevitable impact as he squeezed his eyes shut, ready for the pain that would follow.
Three seconds passed.
Then five.
Nothing happened.
Slowly and hesitantly, Atsushi opened one eye.
Instead of an attack, he found himself staring directly into Chuuya’s bewildered face.
“What are you doing?” Chuuya asked.
Atsushi whipped around immediately, heart racing as he tried to figure out what Akutagawa was planning, but the mafioso hadn’t moved.
Akutagawa stood perfectly still a few meters away, his coat hanging normally again, his ability completely deactivated.
His narrowed eyes were fixed on them.
More specifically, they were fixed on Chuuya.
Chuuya leaned slightly to the side, peering curiously over Atsushi’s shoulder.
“Oh,” he said casually. “Did you make a new friend?” His voice carried easily through the alley, loud enough for Akutagawa to hear every word.
Atsushi remained tense, instinctively stepping sideways to keep himself between Chuuya and the mafioso.
Akutagawa’s gaze never left the ginger-haired man.
Atsushi braced himself. If Akutagawa attacked again, he would fight. He didn’t care how strong the mafioso was, he would protect Chuuya no matter what. He couldn’t let anything happen to—
Chuuya brushed past him, and Atsushi jolted.
“Eh—wait—!” He scrambled after him, but it was too late.
Chuuya had already walked straight up to Akutagawa.
The mafioso visibly tensed, every muscle in his body going rigid as his sharp gaze tracked Chuuya’s movements with wary precision.
Atsushi skidded to a halt a few steps behind them.
He could only watch in stunned silence as Chuuya casually reached into his bag and pulled out a neatly packaged loaf of bread and held it out.
Akutagawa stared down at it, his severe frown deepening.
Chuuya wiggled the loaf slightly when Akutagawa didn’t react. “It’s walnut bread,” he explained helpfully.
The mafioso slowly extended a hand, accepting the bread with visible reluctance, his expression still tightly guarded as he examined it like it might suddenly explode.
Then he looked up again, studying Chuuya more carefully, his sharp gaze taking in the worn hoodie, the ratty jeans, and the beaten-up sneakers.
He looked perplexed by what he saw.
Chuuya simply smiled back, reaching out and casually patting Akutagawa on the shoulder.
Both Akutagawa and Atsushi flinched.
Then Atsushi blinked in disbelief.
Hold on.
Something about this situation felt deeply wrong.
Why was Akutagawa flinching?
Wasn’t he supposed to be the terrifying one here?
Atsushi’s confusion must have been obvious on his face, because Akutagawa shot him a brief look that practically screamed you idiot.
Meanwhile, Chuuya had already turned away as if nothing unusual had happened. As he passed Atsushi, he pulled another loaf from the bag and shoved it into his hands.
“You boys have fun,” Chuuya said casually. He didn’t even look back, simply walking out of the alley towards the main street. Just before turning the corner, he waved one hand lazily over his shoulder. “Play nice,” he warned and disappeared.
Silence settled over the alley.
Atsushi and Akutagawa remained standing where they were, staring at the empty alley entrance where Chuuya had vanished.
Neither of them spoke nor moved, each holding a loaf of bread.
And both of them were completely and utterly confused about what had just happened.
Kunikida listened as Atsushi finished recounting the entire incident in the alley. The only sound in the office was the rapid scratching of pen against paper as Kunikida wrote furiously in his notebook, his expression growing darker with every detail Atsushi shared.
When Atsushi finally stopped talking, Kunikida pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and frowned. “This is bad,” he said gravely. “The fact that the Port Mafia targeted you in the first place is already a serious problem.”
Atsushi’s stomach twisted.
Kunikida continued writing, his grip on the pen tightening. “Regardless of what happened that day,” he went on, “it’s clear the Port Mafia is intent on capturing you.”
The scratching of his pen grew sharper as he filled another line.
“They may also attack the Agency,” he added. “We must prepare ourselves.”
Atsushi felt his heart drop, and the thought hit him like a physical blow. The Agency might get dragged into this because of him. Guilt crept in immediately, cold and heavy.
If the Port Mafia came after the Agency because of him—
If someone got hurt—
Atsushi lowered his head, his thoughts spiralling quickly towards a familiar conclusion.
Maybe he should leave. If he disappeared, maybe the Port Mafia would stop targeting the Agency. Maybe—
Before the thought could fully form, Kunikida suddenly tore a page out of his notebook and shoved it into Atsushi’s hands. The abrupt motion startled him, and Atsushi blinked down at the paper.
Then blinked again.
“...What’s this?” he asked slowly.
The page was filled with a long list:
Croissants.
Custard buns.
Almond flaked milk bread.
Chocolate loaf cake.
Cinnamon rolls.
Raspberry sourdough bread...
Atsushi looked up in confusion.
Kunikida adjusted his glasses with a serious expression. “It isn’t safe for Chuuya-san to come here for a while,” he said.
Atsushi nodded automatically since that made sense.
“But that means we need to stock up on goods,” Kunikida continued.
Atsushi froze.
“See if he’s willing to prepare a large batch,” Kunikida said firmly. “And inform him not to visit the Agency until the situation stabilizes.”
Atsushi stared at the list again, and the realization hit him slowly.
“No Chuuya-san?” he asked weakly.
Kunikida’s face grew grim. “Yes.”
Atsushi felt the colour drain from his face. “Then... Dazai-san...”
Kunikida closed his notebook with a heavy snap. “We will simply have to endure it.”
The future suddenly felt much bleaker.
Both of them silently recalled the last time Chuuya had been away for an extended period. Those had been dark days.
Without Chuuya around, Dazai had turned his full attention towards tormenting the office. He wandered around aimlessly, disrupted every conversation he overheard, and attempted increasingly questionable activities purely out of boredom.
Ignoring him was impossible. If no one responded to his antics, he simply escalated them—mostly by trying out his various forms of suicide methods right in front of them.
Atsushi shuddered. Just imagining those days returning made his soul feel tired.
Moments ago, he had been considering leaving the Agency to protect everyone. Now he was considering leaving for an entirely different reason.
The next time Chuuya visited, Atsushi nervously handed him the list along with Kunikida’s message. Chuuya glanced down at the paper and raised one eyebrow.
The list was long.
Very long.
He looked back up at Atsushi. “You know I’m not a bakery, right?” he said dryly.
Atsushi wilted immediately. “Ah—of course,” he said quickly. “It’s fine if you can’t.”
His shoulders sagged. It seemed the Agency would have to survive both a Chuuya-less snack supply and a Chuuya-less Dazai for an unknown amount of time.
A truly bleak future.
A few days later, the office door opened. Atsushi looked up just as a familiar and wonderful scent drifted through the room. The smell of warm bread and freshly baked dough.
His head snapped towards the entrance.
Chuuya stood there casually, holding a paper bag. He walked over and handed it directly to Atsushi.
“Anpan with red bean paste,” he said, and Atsushi accepted it automatically. Then his brain finally caught up.
“Chuuya-san?!” he blurted.
But Chuuya had already moved on, heading straight towards Dazai’s desk with a familiar bento box in hand.
Dazai immediately stopped pretending to work.
“Chibi!” he said brightly, making grabby hands at the bento with obvious excitement.
Atsushi snapped out of his daze and hurried after the ginger. “Chuuya-san!” he said anxiously. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t come for a while!”
Chuuya calmly set the bento down in front of Dazai. “I never agreed to that,” he said casually. Then he glanced at Atsushi. “Besides, who’s going to feed him if I don’t come?”
Dazai immediately nodded in enthusiastic agreement, grabbing Chuuya’s sleeve and tugging him down into the chair beside him.
“Exactly, Atsushi-kun,” he said with mock seriousness. “You wouldn’t let me starve, would you?”
Atsushi rubbed his forehead. “Dazai-san,” he said tiredly. “You’re an adult. You can feed yourself.”
Naturally, neither of them listened.
By the time Atsushi looked up again, they were already gazing at each other with soft, affectionate expressions while the bento sat open between them.
Atsushi sighed. Dazai was completely useless in this situation. And it would be incredibly rude to chase Chuuya out when he had already come all this way.
So in the end, Atsushi returned to his desk.
He sat down slowly. Then he clasped his hands together and silently prayed.
If the Port Mafia decided to attack the Agency...
...please let it be on a day when Chuuya wasn’t visiting.
Atsushi must have jinxed it.
The thought flashed through his mind the moment the front door exploded inward with a deafening bang, wood splintering as the force of an ability blasted it off its hinges.
Every member of the Armed Detective Agency snapped into motion. Chairs scraped across the floor. Papers scattered. Hands moved instinctively towards weapons or abilities as a group of men in black suits stormed into the office, guns already raised.
Port Mafia.
The men spread out quickly, practiced and coordinated, aiming their weapons directly at the Agency members. For a brief, electric second, it seemed like the room would erupt into violence.
Then one of the mafia men froze. His eyes widened.
“Oi—!” He shoved the barrel of the gun next to him downward, shouting something urgent.
The man beside him turned in confusion and followed the first man’s line of sight. His expression changed instantly.
One by one, the other mafia members noticed the disturbance. And like falling dominoes, their guns slowly lowered.
Then lowered further.
And dropped completely.
Instead of aiming at the Agency, every single one of them was now staring towards the same corner of the room.
The desk by the window.
The Agency members noticed immediately.
Just seconds ago, they had been bracing for gunfire. Now the attackers had stalled awkwardly near the doorway, weapons hanging uselessly at their sides.
No one fired nor moved, and the tension in the room became strangely... confused.
Then another figure stepped through the broken doorway. An older man with neatly combed grey hair and a monocle. His posture carried the quiet authority of someone used to command.
Hirotsu, the commander of the Black Lizard.
He looked around sharply. “Why are none of you attacki—” The words died in his throat. His gaze had landed on the same corner as the rest of his men.
Sudden silence fell over the room.
On one side stood the Black Lizard strike team, frozen in place.
On the other side stood the Agency, tense and ready to fight, but now thoroughly wrong-footed.
They didn’t understand why the attack had stalled. Finally, the Agency members turned to see what had captured everyone’s attention.
At the corner desk sat only two people.
Dazai was hunched over the bento box in front of him, frowning in deep concentration as he meticulously separated every single pea from his fried rice. Across from him, Chuuya sat casually in the chair beside the desk.
He was halfway through an anpan bun, chewing thoughtfully as he watched Dazai’s vegetable segregation with mild amusement.
Neither of them seemed remotely concerned about the armed invasion happening three meters away.
Sensing the sudden weight of dozens of eyes on him, Chuuya finally glanced up. He looked around the room, and his gaze landed on the crowd of Port Mafia members gathered awkwardly by the door.
“Oh, hey,” he said, lifting one hand in a lazy wave. “Fancy meeting you all here.”
Then he returned his attention to the bun.
Another long beat of silence passed.
Finally, Hirotsu cleared his throat carefully. “Nakahara-san,” he said cautiously, “were there... new orders?”
Chuuya didn’t even look up. “Ask your superior,” he replied, brushing some crumbs off his hoodie. “I’m just here for my lunch break.”
The room fell even quieter.
Eyes darted between the two groups. Did they know each other?
Hirotsu stepped aside and pulled out his phone, already making a call.
It didn’t take long. A few minutes later, hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway before another figure burst into the office.
“Why would a Port Mafia executive even be here?” Higuchi demanded as she stormed in. “Obviously this must be an impos...” She trailed off. “...ter.”
Her eyes had locked onto the man in the worn blue hoodie.
At the faded jeans.
And the scuffed sneakers.
“...Nakahara-san?” she squeaked, her voice cracking in disbelief. “W-What are you doing here? And dressed like that?!”
Across the room, the members of the Agency froze at the information they’d just gleaned.
Port Mafia... executive?
Slowly, their heads turned, their gazes locking onto Chuuya.
Dazai’s sweet, bread-baking boyfriend.
The man who made bento lunches.
The man who brought them pastries.
The man currently finishing an anpan bun without a care for the commotion.
Chuuya looked mildly irritated by the attention. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” he retorted to Higuchi. “It’s comfortable.”
Higuchi straightened instantly. “O-Of course, sir!” She shook her head as if resetting her brain. Then she asked carefully, “Was there... another plan regarding the Agency?”
Chuuya sighed.
“Ask your superior,” he repeated, gesturing lazily with a chopstick as he pulled the bento closer. “I’m just here for lunch with my boyfriend.” Then he pointed vaguely towards the rest of the room. “Just do whatever you need to do. I won’t interfere.”
Higuchi hesitated, muttering, “...But you’re my superior after Akutagawa-senpai.”
Chuuya ignored her completely.
Instead, he picked up a slice of radish with his chopsticks and held it towards Dazai. Dazai, who had finally finished his rice-sorting mission, leaned forward eagerly like an excited puppy.
The radish disappeared into his mouth.
Around them, dozens of people continued staring.
The Port Mafia members wore complicated expressions.
The Agency members wore even more complicated ones.
For the Agency, the shock was obvious.
Nakahara Chuuya—sweet, polite Chuuya who brought them homemade bread and pastries—was apparently a Port Mafia executive. One of the highest-ranking figures in the very organization they were supposed to be fighting, and possibly one of the most dangerous people in Yokohama.
The realization was difficult to process.
For the Port Mafia, the shock was equally severe.
Because Nakahara Chuuya, one of the Port Mafia’s most powerful executives, was apparently dating Dazai Osamu. The infamous traitor who had abandoned the organization years ago. Someone who had once been feared within their ranks, and whose name still carried weight within the mafia for all the wrong reasons.
(However, among the older Port Mafia members—those who had witnessed the legendary partnership once known as Soukoku—the shock manifested a little differently. They weren’t as stunned by the relationship revelation. If anything, seeing the two of them together again felt strangely familiar.
What truly unsettled them was something else entirely.
Their gazes kept drifting back to Chuuya. Or more specifically to his attire—that threadbare hoodie, the frayed jeans, the beaten-up, scuffed sneakers.
Because... just what on earth is he wearing?
This was Nakahara Chuuya—one of the Port Mafia’s highest-ranking executives. A man who managed millions in the organization’s assets and likely earned just as much himself.
All that money, and he spent it on that? He looked like a broke university student who had just rolled out of bed.)
After a moment of tense hesitation, Higuchi finally made a decision. “...Retreat,” she said quietly.
The mafia members weren’t surprised, and none of them showed the slightest hint of complaint. Even if Chuuya said he wouldn’t interfere, attacking the Agency while he was sitting right there seemed like an incredibly bad idea.
What if they accidentally interrupted his lunch date?
Chuuya might be the most approachable executive in the organization, but he was still an executive. Second only to the boss himself. Angering him was not a career move anyone wanted to make.
The Port Mafia withdrew quickly without a single shot being fired.
One particularly nervous thug even bowed apologetically towards Chuuya as they attempted to close the broken door behind them.
The Agency stood there in stunned silence. For the first time in history, an encounter with the Port Mafia had ended peacefully.
All because of one person.
A person who apparently sat very, very high in the enemy’s chain of command.
Slowly, every member of the Agency turned their gaze towards Chuuya again, who was currently trying to convince Dazai to eat his vegetables.
Their stares burned into the ginger’s back.
Dazai noticed immediately and scowled at them. “What are you all looking at?” he snapped. Then he wrapped his arms possessively around Chuuya. “Get your own boyfriend.”
The ADA exchanged tired looks.
Right. No matter who Chuuya turned out to be, his boyfriend was still a menace, and no one in the room could possibly be worse than Dazai.
Omake:
Chuuya in his usual work uniform—a crisp black coat over a sharp three-piece suit, topped with his signature fedora.
Chuuya arriving on a bright red bike that probably cost more than most of the ADA members’ salaries combined.
Chuuya single-handedly demolishing an entire enemy organization while cussing out Dazai, who was sprawled on the ground, stubbornly refusing move.
The ADA and the Port Mafia who were watching by the side: ...
The ADA, finally breaking the quiet: “Does your executive have a split personality or something? Why is he so different when he’s with you?”
The Port Mafia, equally baffled: “We also want to know why he's wearing those shabby clothes when he’s with you? It’s not like we can’t afford better.”