Chapter Text
“So, Atsushi-ssi, do you dream in Korean or Japanese?”
He looks up from the cup in his hands. “I don’t remember my dreams. But probably Japanese—I’ve only been in Korea a week.” Atsushi returns to drying the cups, cloth moving in slow, practiced circles.
It’s 4 p.m. on a Friday. Soon, the bar will fill.
A glance to the side is enough to spot Park Min-gyu—his newest co-worker—pacing back and forth like a restless child. “Min-gyu-ssi, if you need a break, go ahead. I’ll start setting up.”
“Don’t worry, I can help. I’m just tired from the week,” he sighs, already wiping down the counter. A small smile tugs at Atsushi’s lips, unnoticed.
Tonight, he might finally learn something about the case.
The bar hums with quiet luxury, and Atsushi finally steps away for a moment.
There are fewer patrons here, but their glasses never stay empty—the rich drink more than anyone else, he thinks to himself.
Taking out a notebook—Kunikida gave it to him to write everything about the case—Atsushi reviews what he has written so far:
The painting will be exposed soon, but there’s no definite date yet.
Rumours say the painting depicts a young woman dressed in red, but no one has ever seen it clearly (besides the owner).
The patrons, apparently, don’t know anything suspicious beyond the rumours.
Atsushi sighs—there’s nothing new.
He misses Yokohama, and for a brief moment, he wonders why Ranpo-san couldn’t simply deduce where the painting is so he could retrieve it and bring it back to the Agency.
Glancing up at the clock, he realizes his break is already over and returns to work.
As he washes the dishes, the sound of heels echoes against the floor, drawing closer with each step.
By the time he looks up, she’s already standing in front of him. Black hair, neatly tied into an elegant bun. A long red dress falls effortlessly around her, traced with subtle golden details.
“I would like an Omija Royale, please.”
Her voice is low and smooth as she holds his gaze—deep, unwavering, fixed on his sunset-colored eyes. Atsushi freezes for a moment, trying to understand why she feels so familiar.
“Excuse me?”
The music should have drowned her voice out, but to him, it sounds perfectly clear.
“Oh—I’m sorry, miss. May I check your ID?”
She hands it over without hesitation. Atsushi glances down. Ara Yeon-ah.
The name means nothing to him. And yet—her posture, the tone of her voice… even her scent—it’s all far too familiar.
“Please, wait a moment,” he says, handing the ID back.
The drink isn’t complicated. His hands move on their own, practiced and precise, leaving his thoughts free to wander. Where have I sensed this before? Yokohama… it has to be.
“An Omija Royale for Miss Yeon-ah.” His voice comes out smooth, almost automatic. The woman’s gaze shifts to him, acknowledging—but her expression doesn’t change.
“Thank you.”
Nothing more.
She places the money on the counter with quiet elegance, the soft clink barely audible beneath the music. And just like that, she turns and walks away—calm, composed, as if she had never been there at all.
The rest of the night passes smoothly, but Atsushi can’t stop thinking about her.
Ara Yeon-ah.
The name repeats in his mind, over and over.
The walk back to his temporary apartment is short. He barely notices it—lost in thought—until he nearly walks straight into the door. Luckily, the dim light from the hotel lobby pulls him back to his senses.
The first thing he notices when he steps into his room is the time. Almost five in the morning.
This routine still feels wrong. By now, he would usually be waking up, getting ready for work.
Now, he’s just coming back from it.
After a quick shower and a change into more comfortable clothes, he lets himself fall onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Where have I seen her before?
The thought lingers, stubborn. But exhaustion wins.
With a quiet sigh, he reaches for his phone. A few messages wait for him.
One from Kyouka, telling him she misses him and wishing him a good night at work.
Another from Tanizaki, mentioning that he and Kenji had chazuke earlier—and that it made them think of him.
And then, there are several messages from Dazai. Atsushi hesitates for a moment before opening them.
Dazai-san
Nee, Atsushi-kun! Your dear mentor is missing you!
I heard Akutagawa-kun is also on a mission in Seoul.
It’s been a while since you’ve seen each other, right?
Apparently, he’s undercover too. Maybe you can work together—just like old times~
Good night! Take care and keep us updated!
P.S.: Kunikida-kun made me do my work today :( come back soon!
Atsushi slowly sits up.
Akutagawa… in Seoul?
His grip tightens slightly around the phone.
And then—it clicks.
That scent. Subtle, but unmistakable.
He’s noticed it before. More than once.
No…
Everyone has a different scent.
If Akutagawa is here—if he’s really undercover—
Then that woman—
His thoughts begin to spiral.
Think.
He exhales slowly, forcing himself to settle.
Jumping to conclusions won’t help. Not yet.
The next night arrives sooner than he would like.
The bar hums with the same quiet luxury as before—low voices, clinking glasses, controlled laughter.
Atsushi moves behind the counter with practiced ease, his expression calm, composed. No trace of the thoughts that kept him awake lingers on his face.
Until—
The sound of heels. Steady. Unhurried. Familiar.
He doesn’t look up immediately. But he already knows.
By the time he does, she’s there. Ara Yeon-ah.
Black hair, neatly tied as before. But her—his?—dress—it isn’t red tonight.
Black.
Thin crimson lines trace along the fabric, shifting subtly as she moves.
Atsushi’s gaze lingers for just a fraction longer than it should.
Something about it feels—off.
“Good evening,” he says, his voice even. “What can I get for you?”
Their eyes meet.
This time, Yeon-ah doesn’t look away right away. Just a moment longer.
Enough.
“I’ll have the same as yesterday.” Her tone is unchanged. Calm. Controlled.
As if nothing has shifted.
As if everything hasn’t.
Atsushi nods, already reaching for the glass. But his attention isn’t fully on the drink.
The fabric moves again—almost imperceptibly, like a ripple without wind.
And then—it clicks.
Rashoumon.
His hand stills for the briefest moment before continuing. Of course.
So that’s why—
He doesn’t let the thought finish. Not here. Not now.
“An Omija Royale,” he says, setting the glass down in front of her. For a brief moment, neither of them moves. Then she reaches for it.
“Thank you.”
Polite, distant.
But her gaze lingers—sharp, searching. She knows. Or at least… she suspects.
Atsushi offers a small, professional smile.