Chapter Text
Dazai’s words roll around his head like beads inside of a rattle.
My new subordinates are far more capable than you.
Every time he sees that man out and around — and trust him, he sees — the words roll into his head like a train on its rails.
What will it take to impress him?
was the first thought. Immediate, intrusive, like maggots digging into raw flesh. Then,
What will it take for him to die?
His fingers clenched into himself, leaving crescent shaped indents into his flesh as he stomped towards his newest mission, wind curdling through his hair as he approached whatever scut had been foolish enough to fumble within the affairs of the damned. And, even now, he was unable to escape the dreaded winds of Osamu Dazai’s influence.
The weretiger.
He feels Rashomon stir simply at the thought of the albino. Oh, how he loathes his weretiger. Ever present. Ever basking in the glow of Dazai - san’s praise, with not a thought dedicated towards those who mightn’t have been so lucky to revel in its radiance.
Something in the distance screams. It may be him. It may be Rashomon. It may be his victim.
All he feels is his ability begin to dig into flesh, blood spraying the grey floors crimson as skin was separated from bone, and the cold, deafening feeling of hatred. Growing within his stomach, like a parasite. Growing in size and number the more his brain lingered open the thought of the two men.
It should have been me.