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A week before Dazai Osamu ever stepped foot inside the Armed Detective Agency, the building already felt… slightly different, though none of them could quite explain why.
It started in the meeting room.
Fukuzawa sat with his usual composed stillness, hands folded neatly in front of him, the kind of silence that made even the air feel disciplined. Across from him sat Kunikida, already upright, already tense in the way a man is when his schedule has been interrupted. Yosano leaned back in her chair with an expression that suggested she was only half-listening but would remember everything anyway. And Ranpo—
Ranpo was not sitting. He was perched on the edge of the table like he owned it.
Fukuzawa’s voice broke the quiet.
“A new member will be joining the Agency in one week.”
Kunikida’s pen paused mid-note. “A new member?”
“Yes,” Fukuzawa replied calmly. “Dazai Osamu . He will be assigned under your supervision initially, Kunikida.”
The pen snapped down onto the paper with more force than necessary. “Under mine? Sir, I need proper documentation before I can even—”
“There is no documentation,” Fukuzawa said.
That alone made the room tighten.
Yosano finally looked up. “No documentation at all? That’s… either extremely inefficient or extremely suspicious.”
“Both,” Ranpo said instantly, as if he had already decided.
Kunikida turned sharply. “Ranpo, don’t just agree with—”
“I didn’t agree,” Ranpo cut in, tilting his head. His eyes had sharpened in a way that meant he was no longer bored. “I evaluated.”
Fukuzawa’s gaze shifted to him. “What do you mean?”
Ranpo smiled faintly. “There’s nothing on him. Not a trace. No school records, no employment history, no criminal file that stays consistent for more than a page. It’s like someone keeps rewriting him whenever he appears somewhere.”
Kunikida frowned harder. “That’s impossible. Everyone leaves records.”
“Not him,” Ranpo said lightly, swinging his legs. “He’s like a blank page someone keeps scribbling on.”
Silence settled again, heavier this time.
Yosano tapped her fingers against her armrest. “So why are we bringing him in?”
Fukuzawa did not hesitate. “Because he was requested.”
“That’s not an answer,” Kunikida said sharply.
“I am not obliged to inform you.” Fukuzawa sharply replied.
Ranpo’s eyes narrowed slightly, curiosity sharpening into something almost eager. “I want to meet him.”
Kunikida blinked. “Of course you do.”
“No,” Ranpo said, almost offended at the assumption. “I want to meet him because you’re all pretending this is normal.”
That made everyone go quiet again.
Ranpo leaned forward now, voice lowering just slightly. “And because you didn’t refuse him.”
Fukuzawa did not respond immediately.
That silence was the answer.
Ranpo grinned.
“A peculiar man,” he said softly. “I’ll figure him out before he even arrives.”
By the next day, Ranpo had already begun.
He started with what little existed—fragments, inconsistencies, whispers that didn’t connect properly. A name that appeared in different places attached to different roles. A man seen in one account as a consultant, in another as a suspect, in another as someone who should have been dead.
Every thread collapsed in on itself the moment it was pulled.
Ranpo sat surrounded by papers, snacks, and a growing sense of fascination.
“He doesn’t stay one person,” he muttered to himself. “That’s not normal lying. That’s… active erasure.”
He tilted his head, eyes half-lidded in thought.
“Or active rewriting.”
Day 2: Kunikida caught him at it.
“You’ve been researching him all day,” Kunikida said flatly, looking at the scattered notes.
“I have to,” Ranpo replied, mouth full of sweets.
“You don’t ‘have to’ do anything.”
Ranpo smiled innocently. “But I want to.”
That made Kunikida sigh sharply. “At least be productive while you do it.”
“I am being productive,” Ranpo said. “I’ve already ruled out five versions of him.”
Kunikida froze. “Five… versions?”
“Mm,” Ranpo nodded. “Different histories. Different behaviours. Same name. Same face in descriptions. Slight variations in personality depending on who’s remembering him.”
He tapped the paper lightly.
“But none of them agree on anything real.”
Kunikida rubbed his temple. “This is ridiculous.”
Ranpo’s tone turned almost cheerful. “Isn’t it interesting?”
“No.”
“It is,” Ranpo insisted. “Because someone like that shouldn’t exist.”
Day 3: Yosano got involved without meaning to.
She passed by Ranpo’s desk, glanced at the notes, and paused.
“That’s the new guy?”
“Mhm.”
She picked up one sheet, scanned it, then put it down again. “Bandages?”
Ranpo nodded. “Constantly mentioned. Never explained.”
Yosano hummed thoughtfully. “That’s either medical, or theatrical.”
“Or both,” Ranpo said.
She gave him a sideways look. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I am,” he admitted easily.
Yosano smiled slightly. “Careful. People like that tend to be annoying in person.”
Ranpo’s eyes lit up. “Good.”
That made her pause.
“…You’re hopeless,” she muttered, walking away.
Ranpo watched her go, then quietly added, “Or very interesting.”
Day 4: Kunikida tried to prepare paperwork for a man who technically didn’t exist.
It went poorly.
“There’s no stable identity to assign him a file,” Kunikida said, voice strained.
Ranpo, lounging nearby, replied without looking up, “Then don’t assign one.”
“That’s not how employment works.”
“It is for him.”
Kunikida’s pen snapped in half.
Ranpo smiled at that.
“Relax,” he said. “You’ll meet him soon enough. Then you can get angry properly.”
“I am already angry,” Kunikida snapped.
“No,” Ranpo corrected softly. “You’re anxious.”
That shut him up.
Day 5: Ranpo stopped calling him “Dazai Osamu” in his notes.
He simply wrote:
The liar who believes his own lies sometimes.
He stared at that line for a long time.
“…No,” he muttered, crossing it out. “That’s not quite right.”
He wrote again:
The man who edits reality by speaking it incorrectly.
He paused.
Then grinned slightly.
“That’s closer.”
Day 6: Fukuzawa noticed Ranpo was quieter than usual.
“You have confirmed something,” Fukuzawa said.
Ranpo didn’t look up. “He’s coming tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
Ranpo finally met his gaze.
“He’s not just hiding,” Ranpo said. “He’s choosing what people are allowed to see.”
Fukuzawa studied him. “And what do you see?”
Ranpo smiled.
“Everything.”
A pause.
Then, softer:
“And nothing stable.”
Day 7: Arrival
The Agency felt too normal that morning.
Too calm.
That was the first wrong thing.
Kunikida noticed it immediately, of course. The way his schedule felt slightly off, like a page had been replaced in a book without anyone admitting it. Yosano noticed too, though she said nothing. Fukuzawa remained composed as ever, though his stillness carried weight.
Ranpo was already waiting.
He sat on the desk near the entrance, legs swinging gently, expression unreadable in a way that didn’t suit him.
Kunikida glanced at him. “You’re early.”
Ranpo nodded. “He’s early too.”
“No one said he would be early.”
Ranpo smiled faintly. “I didn’t need them to.”
Now, the problem with everyone’s idea of Dazai Osamu was simple.
None of them matched.
In files that barely held together, in rumours that contradicted each other, and in half-truth reports that seemed rewritten the moment they were read, Dazai had become something inconsistent—an outline that refused to settle into one shape.
Kunikida had expected someone severe. Dangerous. Cold-eyed and practical.
Yosano had expected someone worn down by violence. Quiet. Possibly older than his file suggested.
Fukuzawa had expected… nothing specific, but certainly not this uncertainty.
Ranpo, however, had expected the opposite of clarity—and still found himself surprised by how wrong everyone else had been.
Because when the door finally opened, the man who walked in did not look like a mystery trying to hide.
He looked like someone who had carefully decided what he wanted to be seen as—and then worn it like clothing.
No dramatic entrance. No hesitation. Just a smooth, effortless step into the room, as though he had already mapped every reaction they might have.
Osamu Dazai was tall and slim, his presence almost unnervingly composed. Bandages wrapped around his body in deliberate layers, leaving only his face, hands, and feet uncovered. They weren’t chaotic or careless—they were constant, intentional, like part of a uniform rather than an injury.
His face was striking in a way that didn’t match any of the Agency’s imagined versions. He was beautiful, undeniably so. Mildly wavy, short dark brown hair framed his features neatly, slightly tousled but controlled, with bangs that fell across his forehead and gathered loosely at the centre. Narrow dark brown eyes swept the room with a softness that didn’t quite reach the intelligence behind them.
Everything about him looked… curated.
He wore a long sand-coloured trench coat, the belt left loosely untied so it hung without structure as he moved. Beneath it, a black vest sat sharply over a light blue striped dress shirt, pressed and clean in a way that suggested he cared very little—and yet clearly did. A bolo tie rested at his collar, held by a brown ribbon and anchored by a small turquoise pendant that caught the light when he turned his head. Beige trousers fell neatly over dark brown shoes, polished but not flashy.
It was the kind of outfit that should have looked mismatched.
On him, it looked intentional.
Like a persona built piece by piece until it became convincing enough to wear outside.
And yet, the most unsettling part wasn’t his appearance.
It was the ease.
The way he smiled as if it belonged to him and didn’t belong to him at the same time.
“Hello~” Dazai said brightly, voice light, almost teasing. “I’m Dazai Osamu. I hope we get along wonderfully.”
Kunikida stepped forward at once, posture rigid, already pulling the moment into order the way he always tried to.
“State your credentials,” he demanded.
Dazai blinked slowly, as if the word itself was unfamiliar in this context.
“Credentials?” he repeated, light and curious, like he was testing how the sound felt in his mouth.
A quiet laugh slipped from Ranpo off to the side.
That was enough to make everyone’s attention flick toward him for a second—sharp, confused, slightly irritated.
Dazai’s gaze followed immediately, smooth and unhurried, settling on Ranpo as if he had already decided he was worth remembering.
But before anything could stretch further, Fukuzawa stepped forward.
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Not louder. Not more forceful.
Just heavier.
“I am Fukuzawa Yukichi,” he said evenly. “President of the Armed Detective Agency.”
There was no need for emphasis beyond that. The room acknowledged it without question.
Dazai’s expression stayed polite, but something in his attention refined itself—like he had just confirmed a key detail on a map.
“Ah,” he said softly. “So you’re the boss.”
Fukuzawa gave a single calm nod.
Kunikida, still visibly tense, followed quickly. “Doppo Kunikida. Executive member of the Agency.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “And I will be your partner once your trial period begins. So you will follow instructions exactly as given.”
Dazai’s face brightened immediately.
“Oh, partner?” he echoed, almost delighted. “That sounds fun.”
Kunikida did not relax. “It is not meant to be fun.”
Yosano stepped in next, voice smooth but edged with quiet authority. “Yosano Akiko. Doctor here. Don’t get injured expecting sympathy—you won’t receive it.”
Dazai turned to her with an easy smile.
“Nice to meet you too,” he said brightly, as if her warning had been a greeting instead of a threat.
Yosano’s expression didn’t change much, though her eyes sharpened slightly. “We’ll see how long that enthusiasm lasts.”
Ranpo, still perched nearby, hummed under his breath as if amused by all of it.
Dazai finally turned his attention fully back across the group, eyes moving lightly from face to face like he was matching names to impressions already forming in his mind.
“Fukuzawa-san,” he said politely, then added without missing a beat, “Kunikida-kun, Yosano-san… nice to meet all of you.”
Kunikida stiffened at the casual honorific. “Don’t use familiar tone with me.”
Dazai tilted his head. “But we’re going to be partners, aren’t we?”
“Temporarily,” Kunikida corrected sharply. “And only under supervision.”
Dazai smiled wider at that, as if it amused him more than it should have.
Ranpo finally spoke again, voice light but precise.
“I already know who you are,” he said simply.
Dazai’s gaze shifted back to him.
Slowly.
Curiously.
And this time, it didn’t move away right away.
“Oh,” Dazai said softly. “You must be the clever one.”
Ranpo tilted his head.
“And you must be the impossible one.”
A silence fell between them.
Not awkward.
Measuring.
Ranpo’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I found contradictions.”
Dazai’s smile widened a fraction. “That sounds like me.”
“No,” Ranpo said simply. “That sounds like what you want people to think you are.”
For a moment, Dazai didn’t respond.
Then he laughed lightly, almost pleasantly.
“That’s a very rude thing to say the first time we meet.”
“I know,” Ranpo said. “That’s why I said it.”
Kunikida looked between them, confused. “What is happening right now?”
Yosano sighed softly. “Two weird people recognising each other, apparently.”
Dazai finally took a step further inside.
The air seemed to shift with him, like the room was adjusting to a variable it couldn’t stabilise.
Ranpo didn’t move.
Dazai stopped a few feet away.
They stared at each other.
Not challengers.
Not allies.
Not strangers either.
Something in-between that didn’t have a name yet.
Ranpo spoke first.
“You’re real,” he said.
Dazai tilted his head slightly. “Of course I am.”
“No,” Ranpo corrected. “You’re real in front of me. That’s different.”
That made Dazai go quiet again.
For the first time, his expression didn’t have a ready-made answer.
Ranpo leaned forward slightly, voice soft but sharp underneath.
“I figured you out,” he said. “At least the shape of you.”
Dazai’s eyes flickered.
“And what shape is that?”
Ranpo smiled.
“I’ll tell you when you stop changing it.”
A long pause.
Then Dazai smiled again—smaller this time. More careful.
“That might be difficult.”
Ranpo nodded once.
“I know.”
They stood there, staring.
Neither of them looking away.
Not yet.