Chapter Text
The winding mountain road was making Chuuya want to commit murder.
Actually, that was a lie. The winding road was fine. The suspension on the imported Aston Martin was phenomenal. It was the passenger that was actively disintegrating Chuuya’s sanity, molecule by molecule.
Dazai Osamu had his knees pulled up to his chest on the pristine cream-leather passenger seat, aggressively pushing buttons on the dashboard radio. Static hissed. A pop song blared for a half-second. More static. A classical concerto. Static.
"If you don't stop doing that," Chuuya said, his voice entirely too calm, his leather-gloved hands gripping the steering wheel tight enough to warp the expensive wood grain, "I am going to use gravity to crush the entire center console into a cube, and then I am going to force-feed it to you."
Dazai paused. He turned his head slowly, resting his cheek against his knee. His right eye, uncovered and maddeningly bright, blinked in the dim light of the dashboard. "You're so tense, honey. Is it the altitude? Or just the overwhelming joy of spending uninterrupted quality time with your beloved husband?"
Chuuya slammed on the brakes.
The car screeched to a halt inches from the guardrail overlooking a sheer drop into the Nagano valley. Dazai didn't even flinch. The seatbelt locked, digging into his collarbone, but his completely insufferable smile remained perfectly fixed.
Chuuya threw the car into park and twisted in his seat. "Let's get one thing straight before we walk into this ridiculous place," he snarled, leaning close enough that he could see the individual threads of Dazai’s unnecessarily expensive silk shirt. "I don't care what Mori and your precious President agreed on. I don't care that this guy has been liquidating Mafia fronts and Agency contacts. The second—the absolute second—you try to use this little setup to humiliate me, I will blow our cover and bury you in the foundation of the hotel. Understood?"
"Humiliate you?" Dazai pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "Chuuya, you wound me. We have a role to play. We are the Tsushimas. Young, obscenely wealthy, and disgustingly obsessed with each other." Dazai reached out. Before Chuuya could smack his hand away, Dazai’s long fingers caught the collar of Chuuya’s shirt, adjusting it with a terrifyingly casual intimacy. "You are my fiery, spoiled trophy husband. And I am the indulgent heir who buys you islands because you look pretty when you yell."
Chuuya swatted Dazai’s hand away. "Don't touch me. And I’m not the damn trophy."
"Well, you certainly aren't the brains of this operation, so what does that leave?"
Chuuya exhaled a long, measured breath through his nose. He counted to three in French. Then, he put the car back into drive. "Just read the brief again. Where are we going."
"The Elysium Springs Retreat," Dazai recited, sounding bored now that he wasn't getting a rise out of Chuuya. He picked up the tablet resting on the floorboards. "Run by a man named Kuroda. He caters exclusively to high-net-worth couples looking for 'spiritual realignment.' It's also a highly fortified compound completely off the grid. No cell service, no internet. Kuroda is paranoid. He personally interviews every couple. If he senses a lie, or a lack of 'synergy,' you get turned away at the gate. Or shot. The intel is vague on that part."
"And the target?"
"Yamaguchi," Dazai said. The playful lilt finally dropped from his voice, replaced by the flat, cold tone that still haunted Chuuya's dreams sometimes. "Ability: Glass Menagerie. Turns organic matter into shatterproof glass. He's been hiding in the resort for three weeks. He pays Kuroda a fortune for sanctuary. We go in, we find Yamaguchi, we capture him, and we hand him over to the joint custody of our respective bosses."
"Simple," Chuuya muttered.
"Nothing is simple with you, slug." Dazai tossed the tablet into the back seat. "You have the emotional range of a teaspoon and the subtlety of a car crash. The moment Kuroda looks at us, he's going to know we want to kill each other."
"I don't want to kill you," Chuuya lied smoothly, taking a sharp turn toward the massive iron gates appearing through the fog. "I just want you to spontaneously cease existing. There’s a difference."
"Ah, true love." Dazai reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a small, velvet box and flipped it open. Inside sat two simple, heavy platinum bands. "Put it on."
Chuuya stared at the rings. A weird, cold weight settled at the base of his stomach. He hadn't thought about the props. He hadn't thought about what 'undercover as a married couple' actually entailed beyond sharing a fake last name.
"Give it here," Chuuya muttered, holding out his left hand.
Dazai didn't hand him the box. Instead, he pulled the smaller ring from the velvet slit. He took Chuuya's left hand.
Chuuya froze. He could have pulled away. He should have pulled away. But Dazai’s grip was firm, his thumb pressing lightly against the pulse point on Chuuya’s wrist. It was a calculated touch. Nullification, constant and thrumming, wiping out the low-level hum of gravity that usually vibrated beneath Chuuya's skin.
Dazai slid the cold metal onto Chuuya's ring finger. It fit perfectly. Of course it did. Dazai probably broke into his apartment to measure his fingers in his sleep.
"There," Dazai murmured, his voice dropping an octave, sounding unsettlingly genuine. "My beautiful bride."
Chuuya snatched his hand back, shoving it into his lap. "I'm driving into a tree."
"The gate is opening, Chuuya. Showtime."
Chuuya looked up. The massive wrought-iron gates were indeed swinging inward, revealing a sprawling, ultra-modern compound nestled into the side of the mountain. It looked less like a romantic retreat and more like a high-tech fortress draped in cedar wood and frosted glass. Armed guards stood by the entrance, wearing crisp white suits that looked absurd against the mountain backdrop.
Chuuya pulled the car to a smooth stop under the valet portico. He killed the engine.
"Remember," Dazai said softly, the warning barely audible over the sound of the rain beginning to patter against the windshield. "No abilities unless absolutely necessary. No killing the staff. And try to look at me like you don't want to claw my eyes out."
"I'll try to imagine you're a really expensive bottle of Petrus," Chuuya shot back. He opened the door and stepped out into the crisp mountain air.
Instantly, the scowl vanished from his face. He rolled his shoulders back, adopting a posture of arrogant, bored wealth. He walked around the front of the car just as Dazai emerged from the passenger side.
Dazai was a terrifyingly good actor. The shift was instantaneous. The slouch disappeared, replaced by a relaxed, fluid grace. He smiled—a soft, warm, entirely fake thing that made his brown eyes look almost golden. He reached out, wrapping an arm securely around Chuuya’s waist, pulling him flush against his side.
Chuuya stiffened for a fraction of a second, fighting the instinct to throw an elbow backward into Dazai’s ribs. The heat of Dazai’s body against his was jarring. It had been four years since they had stood this close without blood or debris flying through the air.
"Darling," Dazai murmured, kissing Chuuya’s temple. The bristles of Dazai's bandages scratched Chuuya's skin. "The air up here is wonderful, isn't it?"
"It's cold, Osamu," Chuuya complained, pitching his voice slightly higher, injecting it with a petulant whine. If he had to play the brat, he was going to excel at it. "You promised me hot springs. If my feet freeze, I'm making you carry me."
"I wouldn't dream of anything else," Dazai purred.
A woman in a flowing linen dress and a headset stepped out of the glass double doors, flanking two valets. She beamed at them, though her eyes were sharp, calculating. "Mr. and Mr. Tsushima? Welcome to Elysium Springs. I am Sayuri. We are thrilled you could join us."
"The pleasure is ours," Dazai said smoothly. "We've heard incredible things about Master Kuroda's methods."
"Master Kuroda is eagerly awaiting your arrival. He personally greets all our new couples." Sayuri gestured toward the doors. "If you'll follow me? The valets will take care of your luggage."
Chuuya let Dazai guide him forward, keeping his body language relaxed, leaning slightly into Dazai's space. He cataloged everything as they walked. Four cameras in the lobby. Reinforced glass. The staff weren't just hospitality; the way they stood, balanced on the balls of their feet, screamed ex-mercenary.
They were led into a sprawling, minimalist lounge with a massive stone fireplace. Sitting in a high-backed leather chair by the fire was a man in his late fifties, completely bald, with a neatly trimmed gray beard. He wore a simple black yukata.
This was Kuroda.
"Ah," Kuroda said, standing up. He didn't smile. His dark eyes locked onto them, scanning them with an intensity that made the hair on Chuuya's arms stand up. "The Tsushimas. The shipping magnate and his... muse."
"A pleasure," Dazai said, extending a hand.
Kuroda ignored the hand. He stepped closer. "At Elysium, we do not care about your money. We do not care about your status in the outside world. We care only about truth. We care about the bond." He looked from Dazai to Chuuya, his gaze lingering on the slight tension in Chuuya's jaw. "Your aura... it is chaotic. Violent."
Chuuya felt Dazai's hand tighten on his waist. A warning.
"He gets cranky when he skips lunch," Dazai said lightly.
"I am sensing resistance," Kuroda continued, stepping right into Chuuya's personal space. "A history of pain. Bloodshed."
Damn it, Chuuya thought. He's an empath. The briefing hadn't mentioned that. If Kuroda could read their actual emotions, the mission was dead in the water.
"Of course there's a history of pain," Dazai interrupted. His voice dropped, losing the breezy millionaire affectation. It became darker, heavier. He pulled Chuuya slightly behind him, a protective gesture that was so out of character it made Chuuya blink. "You think you can understand us just by looking? We tore each other apart for years before we figured it out. He broke my heart a dozen times. I broke his. That's what a real bond is, Kuroda. It’s not peace. It’s survival."
Kuroda stared at Dazai. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
Chuuya held his breath. He didn't look at Dazai. He couldn't. The words Dazai had just spoken were lies, meant for a cover story, but they resonated with a sick, twisting truth that echoed in the hollow space beneath Chuuya's ribs.
Slowly, Kuroda nodded. The intense scrutiny vanished, replaced by a placid smile. "Fascinating. A forged-in-fire dynamic. Very rare. Very powerful. I apologize for the intrusion, Mr. Tsushima. We must be careful about who we allow into our sanctuary."
"Of course," Dazai said, his smile returning, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "We value privacy just as much as you do."
"Sayuri will show you to the Lotus Suite," Kuroda said, bowing slightly. "Dinner is at eight in the communal dining hall. Attendance is mandatory. Rest well."
The Lotus Suite was on the top floor. Sayuri unlocked the door with a biometric scan, gave them a brief tour, and left them alone.
The heavy oak door clicked shut.
For three seconds, neither of them moved. Then, Chuuya violently shoved Dazai away, putting ten feet of space between them.
"What the hell was that downstairs?" Chuuya hissed, keeping his voice low just in case the room was bugged. He immediately started sweeping the room, checking behind the absurdly large abstract paintings and under the lampshades for microphones.
"Improvisation," Dazai said casually. He collapsed onto the white sofa in the center of the living room, kicking his shoes off. "He was digging. I gave him a narrative he could latch onto. The tragic, star-crossed lovers who fight as passionately as they... well, you know."
"You could have just said we had a rough year," Chuuya muttered, running his fingers along the underside of a mahogany side table. He found a small, circular device. He held it up, showing it to Dazai, then crushed it silently between his thumb and forefinger. "Room's bugged. Audio only, looks like."
"Obviously. It's a cult, Chuuya. Cults love surveillance." Dazai leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. "So, no discussing the Agency or the Mafia. We are Osamu and Chuuya. Deeply in love, violently co-dependent. Do try to keep up."
Chuuya ignored him, walking toward the bedroom doors. "I'm taking a shower. You unpack the equipment from the false bottoms of the suitcases. And then you can take the couch."
He pushed the bedroom doors open.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
"Hey, Osamu?" Chuuya called out, his voice dangerously flat.
"Yes, my sweet?"
"Come look at this."
Dazai sighed, pulling himself off the sofa. He padded across the hardwood floor, coming to stand behind Chuuya. He looked into the bedroom.
"Oh," Dazai said.
The bedroom was massive. It had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the misty mountains. It had a fireplace. It had a freestanding copper bathtub in the corner.
What it did not have were two beds.
Instead, in the exact center of the room, on a raised mahogany platform, was a singular, circular bed. It was massive—easily ten feet in diameter. It was draped in sheer white canopy netting. And, as a final insult, the maids had folded the towels into the shape of two swans kissing, surrounded by scattering of red rose petals.
"Absolutely not," Chuuya said.
"It's very... thematic," Dazai observed, a terrible smirk creeping onto his face.
"I will sleep in the bathtub."
"Chuuya, darling, think of the surveillance," Dazai chided, tapping the side of his head. "If the staff comes in and finds you sleeping in a copper tub while I have this massive monstrosity to myself, they'll know our marriage is a sham."
"Then you sleep in the tub."
"I have delicate joints. Besides, it's huge. We could put a whole dead body between us and still not touch." Dazai walked past him, stepping onto the platform. He picked up one of the towel swans and inspected it. "Do you think they have someone whose whole job is folding these? What a sad existence."
Chuuya rubbed his temples. A headache was already forming behind his eyes, sharp and throbbing. "Three days," he told himself quietly. "Three days, and then I get to go back to Yokohama and shoot people."
"That's the spirit!" Dazai cheered. He tossed the towel swan at Chuuya's head. Chuuya didn't even look; he just let a micro-pulse of gravity catch the swan inches from his face, dropping it harmlessly to the floor.
"Start unpacking," Chuuya barked. "I'm going to look at the blueprints of this place. We need to find Yamaguchi by tomorrow night."
Dinner was a psychological warfare exercise disguised as fine dining.
The communal dining hall was an architectural marvel of glass and steel, suspended over a rushing mountain river. A single, massively long table made from a single slab of reclaimed wood sat in the center.
There were six other couples. Chuuya hated all of them immediately.
They were all varying degrees of wealthy, tanned, and smug. There was a tech billionaire from Silicon Valley who wouldn't stop talking about micro-dosing. There was a French heiress who kept petting her husband's arm like he was a prize-winning greyhound.
And then there was Yamaguchi.
He was sitting at the far end of the table, looking incredibly nervous, picking at his sea bass. He was here with a woman who looked like a high-end escort. He kept checking the exits.
Gotcha, Chuuya thought, taking a sip of his ridiculously expensive organic wine. He tapped Dazai's knee under the table—two short taps. Target acquired.
Dazai tapped back once. Acknowledged.
"So, Osamu," the Silicon Valley tech bro leaned across the table. "What exactly does your company do? You mentioned shipping, but in this economy, the margins must be brutal."
Dazai smiled lazily, swirling his wine glass. He had his arm draped casually over the back of Chuuya's chair, his fingers idly playing with the ends of Chuuya's auburn hair. It was a calculated move—the physical contact was meant to sell the lie, but it was also driving Chuuya insane. Dazai's fingers were cool, and his touch was infuriatingly gentle.
"We deal in imports, mostly," Dazai said smoothly. "Specialty goods. High risk, high reward. It's a legacy business. My father left it to me. It's incredibly boring, to be honest. I prefer spending my time finding new ways to spend the profits." He looked down at Chuuya, his eyes softening into a look of absolute, sickening devotion. "Like buying my husband that winery in Bordeaux he wanted."
"I didn't want the winery," Chuuya said, leaning into the role. He took another sip of wine, glaring at Dazai over the rim of the glass. "I wanted the vineyard next to it. The soil in the one you bought is too acidic."
"I'll buy that one tomorrow, then," Dazai replied, unfazed.
The French heiress laughed. "Oh, you two are charming. How long have you been married?"
"Two years," Dazai said.
"Three years," Chuuya said at exactly the same time.
Silence fell over their section of the table. The tech bro raised an eyebrow.
Chuuya's heart spiked. Stupid. They hadn't agreed on a timeline.
Dazai didn't miss a beat. He let out a low, fond laugh, leaning over to press a kiss to Chuuya's cheek. "Three years since we signed the papers for the tax benefits," Dazai corrected smoothly. "Two years since the actual ceremony in Kyoto. Chuuya insists the legal date doesn't count because I was hungover when we signed."
"You weren't hungover, you were still drunk," Chuuya fired back smoothly, catching the lifeline. "You tried to sign the paperwork with a crayon."
The table chuckled, the tension dissolving.
"And how did you meet?" the escort sitting next to Yamaguchi asked. Her voice was quiet, hesitant. Yamaguchi shot her a warning look, but she ignored him.
Chuuya froze. They hadn't prepped this either. He kicked Dazai sharply under the table. You talk.
Dazai leaned back, looking up at the vaulted ceiling as if reminiscing. "We met at work, actually. Rival companies. Very hostile takeover situation."
Chuuya nearly choked on his wine. He glared at Dazai. What are you doing?
"Hostile?" the tech bro asked, leaning in.
"Oh, incredibly," Dazai said, his voice dropping into a dramatic, hushed tone. "We hated each other. Absolutely despised one another. We were essentially tasked with destroying each other's careers. We fought constantly. Screaming matches in boardrooms. I think he threw a stapler at my head once."
"It was a paperweight," Chuuya corrected, his voice tight. "And I missed on purpose."
"He didn't miss. I dodged," Dazai smiled. "But that's the thing. When you spend all your time trying to figure out how to ruin someone, you end up studying them. You learn their habits. How they think. What makes them tick. I spent so much time plotting his downfall that I realized one day..." Dazai paused. He looked at Chuuya.
The air in the room suddenly felt very thin.
Dazai's eyes weren't mocking anymore. The golden-brown depths were entirely unreadable. He reached out, taking Chuuya's hand where it rested on the table, lacing their fingers together. The heavy platinum rings clinked against each other.
"...I realized that a world without him in it was entirely too boring to endure," Dazai finished softly. "So, I quit. I left my company, took over my family's business, and asked him to come with me."
Chuuya stared at him. His chest felt tight, a bizarre, suffocating pressure building against his ribs. He knew Dazai was lying. It was a cover story. It was a brilliant, twisted bastardization of their actual history, sanitized for polite society.
But the way Dazai was looking at him—it felt like someone was peeling Chuuya’s skin back to look at his organs.
"That's..." The French heiress sighed, fanning herself. "That's the most romantic thing I've ever heard."
"It was annoying," Chuuya managed to say, his voice a little hoarse. He pulled his hand away from Dazai's, reaching for his water glass. "He wouldn't leave me alone until I said yes."
"And I never will," Dazai whispered, just loud enough for Chuuya to hear.
The rest of the dinner passed in a blur. Chuuya kept his eyes on Yamaguchi, tracking the man's nervous tics, mapping out the exits in the dining hall, calculating the distance between the table and the nearest window. But his mind was static. Every time Dazai shifted, every time Dazai's knee brushed against his under the table, Chuuya felt a jolt of electricity that made his teeth ache.
Midnight.
The resort was completely silent. The only sound in the Lotus Suite was the crackle of the dying fire in the hearth.
Chuuya sat cross-legged on the floor by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out into the dark forest. He had stripped off the suit jacket and tie, wearing only his black button-down and slacks. A glass of scotch—stolen from the downstairs bar—rested on his knee.
Behind him, Dazai was sitting on the edge of the ridiculous circular bed. He had abandoned his bandages for the night, wearing oversized silk pajamas that made him look like a ghost. He was tapping away on a modified, offline datapad, compiling the layout of the resort from their visual sweep.
"Yamaguchi's room is three floors down," Dazai said quietly, breaking the hour-long silence. "Guarded by two of Kuroda's men. We wait until the 'trust exercises' tomorrow afternoon. Everyone will be in the courtyard. The halls will be empty. We breach his room, subdue him, and take him out through the ventilation shafts to the roof. We call the extraction chopper, and we're gone."
"Sounds fine," Chuuya said, not looking back.
He took a sip of the scotch. It burned going down.
Dazai set the datapad aside. He didn't move, but Chuuya could feel his eyes on the back of his neck.
"You're quiet tonight, slug."
"I'm thinking about the mission," Chuuya replied defensively.
"You're thinking about dinner."
Chuuya tensed. He set the glass down on the floor. "Don't flatter yourself. You spun a good story to keep the civilians off our backs. Good job. Gold star. Now shut up and go to sleep."
He heard the rustle of silk. Footsteps approached on the hardwood floor. Chuuya didn't turn around until Dazai sat down on the floor next to him, their shoulders inches apart.
Dazai brought his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. He stared out the window into the blackness. In the dim light of the embers, without his coat, without his bandages, he looked remarkably young. He looked like the fifteen-year-old boy Chuuya had met in a crater.
"It wasn't entirely a lie," Dazai said.
His voice was terrifyingly soft.
Chuuya's breath hitched. He turned his head, staring at Dazai's profile. "What?"
"The story. At dinner." Dazai didn't look at him. "I didn't quit the Mafia because of you, obviously. I quit because of Odasaku. But the other part. About studying you. Learning how you think." Dazai slowly turned his head to meet Chuuya's gaze. "Realizing that leaving you behind would make the world substantially more boring. That was true."
Chuuya stared at him. The silence in the room was absolute. There was no banter to hide behind. No gunfire to distract them. Just the heavy, oppressive truth hovering between them like a ghost.
Dazai was an expert liar. He breathed lies. He constructed his entire reality out of falsehoods to protect the hollow, bleeding thing inside of him. But right now, his eyes were clear. Vulnerable.
It terrified Chuuya more than any ability ever could.
"You left," Chuuya said. His voice was ragged. He hated how small he sounded. "You blew up my car, and you left without a word."
"I did," Dazai agreed quietly. "It was the only way you wouldn't try to follow me. Or stop me."
"I wouldn't have stopped you." Chuuya gripped his knees, his leather gloves creaking. "If you had just... if you had just told me, you bastard."
"I couldn't," Dazai whispered. He reached out, his bare fingers hovering just inches from Chuuya's face. He didn't touch him. He just let his hand rest in the space between them. "I was drowning, Chuuya. If I had stayed to explain, I would have dragged you down with me. You belong in the light. You always have."
"I belong wherever I choose to be," Chuuya snapped, anger finally flaring, hot and familiar. He grabbed Dazai's wrist, hauling the taller man forward. Dazai didn't resist, letting himself be pulled until they were chest to chest. "You don't get to decide what's best for me, Osamu. You never did."
Dazai looked down at Chuuya's hand gripping his wrist. He didn't pull away. He looked back up, his expression unreadable. "I know."
The anger bled out of Chuuya as quickly as it had come. He let go of Dazai's wrist, letting his hand drop to the floor. He felt exhausted. Bone-tired.
"We have to sleep," Chuuya muttered, looking away. "We have a target to bag tomorrow."
Dazai didn't move for a long moment. Then, slowly, he stood up. "Right. The mission."
He walked back over to the circular bed and climbed onto it, pulling the heavy white comforter over himself. He shifted to the far right edge, leaving a massive expanse of mattress empty.
Chuuya stayed by the window for another ten minutes until the cold began to seep into his bones. He finished his scotch.
He stood up, shedding his button-down, leaving him in just his undershirt and slacks. He walked over to the bed. He climbed in on the left side, keeping exactly three feet of distance between himself and Dazai.
He lay on his back, staring up at the canopy netting.
The bed was too soft. The room was too quiet.
"Chuuya?" Dazai's voice floated over from the darkness.
"What."
"If we make it out of here tomorrow without Kuroda turning us into a spiritual sacrifice..." Dazai paused. "I'll let you pick the radio station on the drive back."
Chuuya closed his eyes. A tiny, involuntary huff of laughter escaped his lips. "You're an idiot."
"Goodnight, slug."
"Night, mackerel."
Morning broke violently.
Chuuya woke to the sound of an alarm blaring. It wasn't his phone. It wasn't the room clock. It was a high-pitched, shrieking klaxon echoing through the entire resort.
He was out of bed in a fraction of a second, muscle memory taking over. He grabbed his combat knife from his boot by the nightstand.
"Dazai!" Chuuya snapped.
Dazai was already up, shoving his arms into his coat. "It's the perimeter alarm. Someone breached the compound. Or someone is trying to break out."
Chuuya threw his button-down on, not bothering to button it, grabbing his harness from the chair. "Yamaguchi?"
"Probably panicked. He knew he was being hunted." Dazai grabbed the datapad. "Communications are still jammed. We need to move. Now."
They threw open the heavy oak doors of the Lotus Suite and sprinted down the hallway. The once serene resort was in absolute chaos. The wealthy guests were pouring out of their rooms in silk pajamas, screaming and demanding answers from the staff. Armed guards were shoving past them, heading toward the lower levels.
Chuuya and Dazai wove through the panic, their movements synchronized perfectly. They didn't need to speak. Dazai took the lead, checking corners, while Chuuya covered their blind spots, his hands glowing with a faint, deadly red light.
They hit the stairwell, taking the steps three at a time down to the third floor.
They burst into the hallway leading to Yamaguchi's room.
It was a massacre.
The two guards Kuroda had stationed outside the door were dead. They weren't just dead—they had been turned into statues of pristine, clear glass, frozen mid-shout. One of them was shattered from the waist up, shards of blood-stained glass glittering on the carpet.
Yamaguchi's door was ripped off its hinges.
"He's running," Dazai said coldly, stepping carefully over the shattered glass guard. He walked into the room. It was empty. The window was blown out, cold mountain air rushing in.
Chuuya stepped to the window, looking out. "He jumped. Into the forest. It's a straight drop to the valley floor, he must have used his ability to cushion the fall."
"Then we go after him," Dazai said.
Before they could turn, the heavy sound of approaching footsteps echoed from the hallway behind them.
Chuuya spun around, gravity humming loudly in his veins, ready to fight.
Standing in the doorway was Kuroda.
The retreat master was no longer wearing his peaceful yukata. He was flanked by six heavily armed mercenaries. But Kuroda wasn't looking at the dead glass guards. He was looking directly at Chuuya and Dazai.
"The Tsushimas," Kuroda said. His voice was no longer calm. It was laced with a dark, thrumming energy that made the air in the room vibrate. "I knew there was violence in you. I smelled it the moment you walked through my doors. You brought this chaos into my sanctuary."
"Listen, old man," Chuuya snarled, stepping in front of Dazai. "The guy who did this is running. If you get out of our way, we'll solve your problem for you."
Kuroda tilted his head. His eyes went completely black.
"I am an empath, Mr. Tsushima," Kuroda said slowly, raising a hand. The air in the room suddenly grew heavy. It wasn't gravity. It felt like despair, thick and suffocating, flooding the space. "But I do not just read emotions. I manipulate them. I feed on them. And the pain you two carry for each other... it is going to feed my gardens for a very, very long time."
Chuuya felt a sudden, sharp spike of absolute terror tear through his mind. It wasn't his fear. It was foreign, forced into his brain. He stumbled, gripping his head.
Beside him, Dazai didn't stagger. He just stood there, his eyes narrowing into slits. Dazai reached out, grabbing Chuuya’s shoulder, instantly nullifying the emotional assault with No Longer Human. Chuuya gasped, his mind clearing instantly.
Kuroda blinked, shocked. "You... you blocked it."
Dazai smiled. It was the darkest, cruelest smile Chuuya had ever seen. The Demon Prodigy had awoken.
"Chuuya," Dazai said smoothly, not taking his eyes off Kuroda. "I believe our cover is blown."
"Finally," Chuuya cracked his knuckles, a terrifying grin spreading across his face. The red aura of For the Tainted Sorrow flared to life, lifting him an inch off the ground. He looked at the mercenaries, then at Kuroda. "I was really getting sick of that ring anyway."
Dazai let go of Chuuya's shoulder, taking a deliberate step back. "Try not to break the windows, darling. It's drafty."
"Shut up, Osamu," Chuuya laughed, and launched himself forward.