Archive of Our Own

The city breathed around him as though nothing had happened. Neon lights painted rain-slick streets in reds and blues. Taxi horns cut through the evening. Somewhere, a couple laughed while sharing an umbrella, blissfully ignorant that an entire world had ended only days ago.

Chuuya leaned against the cold metal railing overlooking the harbor.

The sea was black. He'd always hated looking at it after sunset because it reminded him too much of the laboratories. His gloved hand tightened around the brim of his hat until the leather creaked.

The wind should have been cold.

He couldn't feel it. He hadn't felt much of anything lately. Not since—

"...Chuuya." Lipmann's voice rang clear in his memory. The name he borrowed had never sounded mocking coming from the Flags. It had sounded fond. Like family teasing the youngest among them because they knew he'd pretend to hate it.

He shut his eyes. That only made it worse. Five voices. Gone. The government had erased them with the efficiency of balancing a ledger. Something about assets, liabilities and casualties. Words used by people who had never met them.

Then came Verlaine. The memory arrived without warning. The smell of smoke and concrete collapsing beneath impossible force made him nauseous. It had been an operation planned so meticulously that it had never truly been a fight.

Only an execution.

Still— His brother. Not because blood said so. Neither of them had the luxury of believing blood meant family when they had been crafted in a lab.

He missed hearing the typical "You're eating dinner with us whether you like it or not" coming from Lipmann, and later on Verlaine.

"Live!" His brother's final order. Not a request. An order. Chuuya had hated it. He'd wanted to stay. To fight. To die if necessary.

Instead... He watched.

The government dismantled Verlaine piece by piece because they wanted proof that no one was beyond their reach. Nothing escaped a nation once it decided something had to disappear.

Chuuya had never felt smaller. Not in the laboratory. Not during Arahabaki. Not when Dazai nullified Corruption. Never.

The realization came quietly as he accepted Paul Verlaine's death. "I'm next," settled underneath his skin. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually. The Flags had laughed together only days ago. Verlaine had stood against the impossible.

The government hadn't cared who they were. It hadn't cared that they laughed, argued, celebrated birthdays, or called each other family. It had erased them because it could.

One sixteen-year-old lab rat ability user wasn't going to change that. No matter how strong Corruption was.

For the first time since joining the Port Mafia a year ago... Chuuya wondered whether there was anywhere in the world that could truly protect the people he loved. The answer terrified him. There wasn't.

By the time he returned to Mafia headquarters, dusk had settled over Yokohama. The corridors were quieter than he'd ever heard them. People spoke in whispers. Those who passed him lowered their eyes. Whether out of respect or grief, Chuuya couldn't tell.

He barely noticed.

His boots carried him through familiar hallways on instinct alone.

When he reached the corridor leading to the Boss's office, he slowed. The heavy wooden door stood closed. Light spilled beneath it. Mori was inside. There would be reports to organize, damage to assess and orders to give.

The Port Mafia never stopped moving, no matter how many people it lost.

Chuuya stood before the door for several long moments. His hand rose. Hovered over the brass handle.

Then fell back to his side. He couldn't do it today. Without another thought, he continued down the hallway.

"Chuuyaaaa!" A small weight crashed into him. He caught Elise automatically before she hit the floor.

"There you are!" She wrapped her arms around his neck with all the confidence in the world. "You disappeared!"

"...Sorry."

"You were gone forever."

"It wasn't that long."

"It was." She crossed her arms with an exaggerated pout before narrowing her eyes at him.

"...You're sad." Children noticed everything.

"I'm just tired."

"Liar." The word wasn't cruel like her usual tone was. She reached up and poked his cheek. "You smile wrong."

Before he could answer, another head peeked around the corner. Q. They disappeared the instant Chuuya looked over. A second later they leaned out again. "...Hi."

"Hey."

"You look awful, Mr Chuuya."

"...Thanks."

"I mean it."

"I know," That earned the faintest smile from them. Footsteps approached from farther down the hall.

Gin stopped a respectful distance away. She offered him a quiet nod. No words. She rarely needed them.

Ryūnosuke appeared a moment later, arms folded tightly across his chest. "I heard you returned."

"Looks like you heard right."

Silence settled between them. Normally Chuuya would've ruffled his hair just to annoy him. "...Your stance."

Ryūnosuke frowned. "What about it?"

"It's drifting again. When did you last practice?"

"...Yesterday."

"It shows."

A flicker of indignation crossed the younger boy's face. "My form is acceptable."

"It'll get you knocked on your ass."

For a little while... The grief eased. Chuuya found himself smiling despite everything. Maybe things could stay like this, perhaps the Port Mafia could still be home. Then Verlaine's face  accompanied with the flags crossed his mind.

The smile disappeared.

It was well past midnight when Chuuya unlocked the door to his apartment. The silence felt heavier than before. He set his hat on the table. Hung his coat. Walked to the cabinet where he kept his wine.

A dusty bottle rested near the back. The one the Flags had insisted on buying him. His fingers lingered on the bottle. Beneath it lay a photograph.

All six of them.

Albatross was making bunny ears behind Pianoman while Lipmann looked as though he'd been caught halfway through a dramatic speech. Doc wore the expression of a man questioning every life choice that had brought him there, Iceman's smile was so faint most people would've missed it and Verlaine stood near the edge of the frame. Watching them. Watching Chuuya.

His throat tightened.

"...You idiots..." His voice cracked. "You couldn't even look at the damn camera..."

His knees gave out. He sank onto the floor, the photograph trembling in his hands.

The apartment blurred. He didn't know how long he stayed there. Eventually, he wiped at his face with the heel of his hand. The decision settled over him with unbearable clarity.

One day Elise would be standing over his photograph. Q would stop pretending not to cry. Gin would lower her head and quietly mourn another person she'd lost. Ryūnosuke would bury himself in training because he wouldn't know what else to do.

The thought was unbearable.

He couldn't save everyone. He couldn't bring back the Flags. He couldn't save Verlaine. But maybe... He could keep four children from watching another older brother die.

He stood. Retrieved an old duffel bag from the wardrobe and placed inside of it three shirts, two pairs of trousers, the bottle of wine, and lastly, the photograph.

Nothing else mattered. Furniture and clothes could be replaced. The people in that photograph never would be.

Just before dawn, Nakahara Chuuya locked the apartment door behind him. He didn't leave a letter. Didn't ask for permission. Didn't say goodbye. Because if he looked back— He wasn't sure he'd have the strength to keep walking.

As the first light of morning crept over Yokohama, a sixteen-year-old boy disappeared of his own will.

The first few days passed more easily than Chuuya thought they would.

Perhaps that should have frightened him, but after everything that had happened, sleeping beneath the open sky felt insignificant compared to the weight that still pressed against his chest. The streets of Yokohama had once been his home long before the Port Mafia had found him, and slipping back into old habits came with an unsettling familiarity.

He knew which abandoned buildings offered shelter from the rain, which rooftops remained undisturbed throughout the night, and which convenience stores threw away food that was still edible if one arrived before the garbage trucks did.

It was almost embarrassing how naturally his body remembered how to survive.

During the day he wandered the city with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, never lingering in the same district for too long. At night he slept wherever he could, his hat pulled low over his eyes and one hand resting near the knife hidden beneath his coat. Old instincts refused to fade simply because he no longer belonged to the Port Mafia.

He still had the money he'd taken from his apartment, enough to buy food and replace clothes whenever they became too worn, but every purchase reminded him that the small pile of cash was shrinking. Eventually, it would disappear entirely, and he had no idea what he would do when that happened.

The thought lingered in the back of his mind, though he tried not to dwell on it.

Every morning he woke expecting to hear Albatross complaining about the weather or Lipmann rehearsing another ridiculous monologue before breakfast. Sometimes, just for the briefest instant between sleep and wakefulness, he almost believed he would find Verlaine sitting nearby with a cup of coffee, watching the sunrise in silence.

Reality always returned before hope could settle. The mornings became the hardest part of the day.

By the second week, Yokohama had begun to feel unfamiliar. Not because the streets had changed, but because Chuuya no longer knew where he belonged within them.

The city continued as though nothing had happened. Shops opened at the same hour every morning. Children hurried to school carrying oversized backpacks. Couples argued over trivial things outside train stations. Somewhere, musicians played for loose change, and tourists admired a skyline that had become little more than another collection of buildings to him.

Life had continued without anyone he loved.

He found himself drifting toward Port Mafia territory more often than he cared to admit. The first time, he noticed the familiar street before he reached it and immediately turned around, irritated with himself for letting his feet choose the path instead of his head.

The second time, he wandered close enough to recognize a café where Albatross had once insisted on buying everyone lunch because he'd "accidentally" won far too much money gambling. Chuuya stood outside for several minutes, staring at the empty table by the window where they had sat together, before quietly walking away.

The third time... He made it as far as the river overlooking Mafia headquarters. The black building rose above the skyline exactly as it always had, indifferent to the grief carried by the people inside it.

For one reckless moment, he considered walking through the front doors. No one had seen him leave. Perhaps no one had even realized he was gone yet.

He could simply... Go back. The thought lingered longer than he cared to admit. If he returned, sooner or later there would be another mission, another battle, another impossible enemy. Sooner or later, Elise, Q, Gin, and Ryūnosuke would stand exactly where he was now, wondering why another person they loved had disappeared.

He turned away before the temptation could root itself any deeper. Leaving had hurt. Returning would only postpone that pain.

By the third week, hunger had become impossible to ignore.

His money was dwindling far faster than he had expected. Convenience store meals became smaller, then less frequent, until he found himself skipping them altogether whenever he could convince himself he wasn't hungry.

One rainy afternoon, he ducked beneath the awning of a small ramen shop to escape the weather. The elderly owner glanced toward him through the doorway before setting a steaming cup of tea outside without saying a word.

Chuuya frowned. "I didn't order anything."

"You looked cold."

"I can't pay for it."

"I wasn't asking you to."

There was something strangely disarming about the old man's smile. It wasn't pity, nor was it curiosity. It was simply kindness, offered without expectation. After a moment's hesitation, Chuuya accepted the cup.

The warmth seeped into his hands almost immediately. Another customer settled onto the stool nearest the entrance, shaking rainwater from his umbrella before ordering lunch.

"I heard the Detective Agency solved another case this morning," the man remarked while waiting for his meal.

"The kidnapping?" the owner asked.

"The very same. My sister won't stop talking about them. Says they're the sort of people who'll help anyone."

The owner chuckled softly. "They've built quite the reputation."

"I still don't know how they manage it."

"Neither do I."

The businessman shrugged. "Apparently they don't care much about where people come from."

"They care more about where they're going."

The conversation drifted elsewhere, but Chuuya scarcely heard another word. He turned the paper cup slowly between his hands.

Over the next few days, he found himself asking quiet questions whenever the opportunity arose. A newspaper vendor pointed him toward the Armed Detective Agency without hesitation. A police officer spoke of them with reluctant respect. A woman whose lost purse had been returned smiled warmly as she described them.

Each answer was different. Every conclusion was the same: If there was anyone in Yokohama willing to give people a second chance, it was them.

By the end of the month, Chuuya stood across the street from an unremarkable office building, wondering why it looked so... ordinary. People walked in and out as though it were any other workplace.

Nothing about the building resembled the organizations that had shaped Chuuya's life. For the first time since leaving the Port Mafia, he found himself hesitating not because he was afraid of what waited beyond the door, but because he wasn't sure he deserved to step through it.

His fingers slipped into his coat pocket, brushing against the worn edges of the photograph he carried everywhere.

"What would you all tell me?" he murmured quietly.

He could almost imagine Albatross shoving him toward the entrance with a grin, while Lipmann insisted the moment deserved a far more dramatic speech. Pianoman would have reminded him that indecision was still a decision, Doc would have pointed out that sleeping in abandoned warehouses was objectively unsustainable, and Verlaine...

Live.

Chuuya closed his eyes for a brief moment before releasing a slow breath. When he opened them again, he crossed the street, climbed the narrow staircase, and raised his hand to knock.

Third time had to be a charm.

The first thing Chuuya noticed about the Armed Detective Agency was that nobody looked afraid of him. It was strange enough that, for a moment, he wondered if they simply did not recognize him.

That was impossible.

The Port Mafia and the Armed Detective Agency had never been allies. They existed in the same city, operated in the same shadows, and had crossed paths enough times that anyone involved in Yokohama's underworld knew the name Nakahara Chuuya. Or at least, they knew the name of the boy who had once fought alongside the Port Mafia.

But the people inside the office did not reach for weapons. They did not tense when he entered. They did not look at him as though they were calculating how dangerous he was.

The office itself was almost painfully normal.

A stack of paperwork sat on one desk, organized so neatly that it bordered on obsessive. A young man with silver hair was sweeping near the entrance, pausing only briefly to look over. A woman with auburn hair sat nearby reading a medical journal, her expression far too amused for someone who had just watched a stranger walk in.

And behind everything... A man stood quietly, observing. Chuuya recognized him immediately. Fukuzawa Yukichi.

"You wish to speak with me, I presume?" Fukuzawa's voice was calm.

Chuuya straightened slightly. "Yeah." The answer came out rougher than he intended.

The blond man with glasses looked up from his paperwork. "You should know that the Agency does not accept applicants without a proper evaluation."

Chuuya glanced toward him. "I figured."

"And yet you came anyway?"

"Yeah."

The man's expression shifted slightly. "Why?"

That question was harder. Chuuya had spent weeks trying to answer it. He couldn't say because every person he'd loved was either dead or still trapped in a place he no longer believed could protect them.

"Because I need somewhere I won't be used as a weapon."

The room became quiet.

"You believe the Port Mafia used you?"

Chuuya's jaw tightened. "I believe everyone uses what they can." A pause. "Abilities. People. Loyalty. Whatever is available."

His hand unconsciously moved toward his coat pocket.

Fukuzawa's expression did not change but something in his eyes softened. "You are sixteen, Ex-Sheep King Nakahara Chuuya."

Chuuya looked away. "Yeah."

"And you have already decided the world only sees you as a weapon."

A bitter laugh escaped him. "Isn't that obvious?"

Everyone in that room knew something about being defined by an ability.

Finally, Fukuzawa spoke, "The Agency does not take people because they are useful. We take people because they choose what to do with their strength."

The words were simple. Too simple.

Chuuya had spent years hearing complicated explanations for why people needed him, why his power mattered, why Arahabaki made him valuable and why Corruption was necessary. Nobody had ever asked what he wanted his strength to mean.

The interview lasted longer than Chuuya expected. Where had he lived before? Who had taught him to fight? Why had he left the Port Mafia? What did he want?

That last question bothered him.

"I don't know." It was the first honest answer he'd given.

Fukuzawa accepted it. "Then the entrance exam will determine whether this is the correct place for you."

Chuuya frowned. "Entrance exam?"

The blond man adjusted his glasses. "The Agency requires every member to prove themselves."

"Against who?"

"Yourself."

Chuuya stared. "...That's annoyingly vague."

The woman laughed quietly. "I think you'll fit in better than you expect." Chuuya wasn't sure if that was a compliment.

The exam took place the following morning. Chuuya arrived expecting a fight. Instead, Fukuzawa handed him a simple assignment.

A missing person case.

A young ability user had disappeared after becoming involved with a group attempting to exploit their power. Chuuya read through the information carefully.

"So I'm supposed to find them."

"Yes."

"Bring them back?"

"Yes."

"Kill anyone who gets in the way?" The silence that followed answered him. Chuuya looked away.
Right. Different organization, different rules.

The case itself was not difficult. Finding people had always been easier than understanding them.

He tracked the kidnappers within hours, a child, younger than him was hiding behind a stack of broken crates while the criminals argued nearby.

For a moment, Chuuya saw himself. His fingers curled. Then relaxed. Perhaps, there was a reason he didn't use overwhelming force besides knowing that Dazai wasn't there to catch and save him. He didn't make himself into something terrifying.

When the child stared at him in fear, Chuuya crouched down.

"Hey." The child flinched. Chuuya sighed.

"Relax. I'm not here to hurt you." A pause. "You're coming back with me."

"Why?" The question caught him off guard. Because nobody had ever asked him that before.

Chuuya looked away. "...Because someone should have done it for me."

The child didn't understand. Maybe they weren't supposed to. But they nodded.

When Chuuya returned to the Agency, Fukuzawa was waiting.

"You completed the exam."

"Yeah."

"You did not use unnecessary force."

Chuuya shrugged. "Didn't need to."

"You could have."

"Yeah." Another pause. "That was the point, wasn't it?"

Fukuzawa looked at him. "Welcome to the Armed Detective Agency."

The words should not have meant as much as they did. But they did. Because Chuuya had spent weeks believing he had nowhere left to go. He had prepared himself for suspicion. For rejection. For someone to look at him and see only the Port Mafia, only his ability, only a weapon that could be pointed at their enemies.

"...You're serious?"

Fukuzawa nodded. "Yes."

That single word broke through the walls Chuuya had spent years building. Before he realized it, his vision blurred. He quickly looked away, raising a hand to hide his face.

"I'm fine."

No one believed him. But no one called him weak either. The silence was gentle. And somehow, that hurt more. A tear slipped down his cheek, followed by another. He had held everything together since the Flags died, since Verlaine was taken from him, since he left the only home he had known.

He had convinced himself he didn't need anyone.

Chuuya had expected many things after joining the Armed Detective Agency: Difficult missions, suspicion from people who knew where he came from, having to prove himself over and over again. What he did not expect was to be dragged through half of Yokohama by a detective wearing a cape-like coat and an expression that suggested he had already decided everything.

"Stop looking like you're about to fight the clothing store."

Chuuya glanced sideways. "I am not."

Ranpo continued walking without looking back. "You are."

"I'm literally just walking."

"You walk like you're expecting an ambush."

Chuuya frowned. "...You noticed that?"

Ranpo finally looked over his shoulder, his green eyes sharp with amusement. "I'm Ranpo Edogawa. Of course I noticed."

Chuuya had heard about him during his first days at the Agency. The world's greatest detective. A man who could solve cases without knowing he lacked an ability.

At first, Chuuya had assumed it was exaggerated. Then Ranpo had correctly guessed what Chuuya had eaten that morning, where he had slept before joining the Agency, and how long he had been carrying the same pair of gloves without him saying a word.

It was impressive irritating.

"You need new clothes," Ranpo told him at one point.

Chuuya stopped. "...Excuse me?"

Ranpo looked at him as if he had just stated the obvious. "You heard me."

"I have clothes."

"You have Mafia clothes."

Chuuya glanced down at himself. A dark coat. Black clothing. Practical boots. Everything designed for movement, intimidation, and combat.

Ranpo tilted his head. "You look like you're about to threaten someone in an alley."

"I am not."

"You look like you are."

Chuuya opened his mouth. Closed it. "...That's not exactly helpful."

"It is. You're welcome."

The younger detective continued toward the clothing district. Chuuya followed mostly because he was curious and partly because he had learned very quickly that arguing with Ranpo rarely changed anything.

The first store was overwhelming: The employees smiled, asked if he needed help and complimented his hair. Chuuya stood there awkwardly, unsure how to respond.

Ranpo, meanwhile, moved through the store with complete confidence.

"That."

He pointed toward a gray suit.

"No." Chuuya immediately rejected it.

Ranpo ignored him. "And that."

"No."

"And this."

"Absolutely not."

"You haven't even looked."

"I don't need to."

Ranpo sighed dramatically. "You have terrible fashion instincts."

"I survived fine before."

"Surviving isn't the same as looking good."

Chuuya stared. "Did you drag me shopping because you think I dress badly?"

"Yes."

The honesty caught him off guard. Eventually, they settled on something that still felt like Chuuya. A tailored gray suit. A dark vest. A blue tie. A long coat that carried the same elegance as his old one but without the weight of the Port Mafia attached to it.

When Chuuya stepped out of the changing room, Ranpo nodded approvingly. "Better."

Chuuya adjusted the sleeves. "It feels weird."

"Because it's different."

"Yeah."

Ranpo looked at him carefully. "You're not wearing the Mafia anymore."

Chuuya looked away. "I know."

Ranpo's expression softened. "You don't have to forget where you came from and ya just don't have to keep proving you survived it."

Chuuya went quiet. He moved to the cash register, ready to leave the store. Once outside, Ranpo handed him a bag of snacks. Eventually, Ranpo spoke.

"You're Nakahara Chuuya, right?"

The question made him glance over.

"Yeah."

"I'm Ranpo Edogawa."

"You never introduced yourself?"

"I assumed you knew."

"I did."

"Then there was no reason."

Chuuya stared. "...That's the dumbest logic I've ever heard."

"It's correct logic."

When they returned to the Agency, the others noticed immediately.

Kunikida looked up from his paperwork.

Chuuya raised an eyebrow while retorting a simple "What?"

Kunikida adjusted his glasses. "You look significantly less like a criminal."

"Thanks?"

"I meant that as a compliment."

Yosano smiled from her desk. "It suits you, Chuuya-kun!"

Chuuya touched the edge of his coat. It still felt unfamiliar. Ranpo walked past him, looking entirely satisfied with himself. "You're welcome."

Chuuya rolled his eyes. "You did this because you wanted to brag about your fashion sense."

"Yes." At least he was honest.

That made Chuuya laugh again. He adjusted his new coat, looked around the room, and realized something strange.

A year passed more quietly than Chuuya ever expected. At first, he counted the days. Every morning he wondered if the Port Mafia had finally found him. Every unfamiliar face on the street made his shoulders tense. Every pair of footsteps lingering behind him earned a cautious glance over his shoulder. He never slept deeply, never allowed himself to settle completely, and instinctively memorized every exit whenever he entered a room.

Nothing ever happened.

Slowly, those habits began to dull around the edges. The Armed Detective Agency had a way of changing people without asking permission.

Kunikida still complained about Chuuya's tendency to leave coffee cups on his desk. Yosano had long since declared he was "chronically sleep deprived" and took every opportunity to lecture him about taking care of himself. Kenji adored him from the moment they met, blissfully unaware that Chuuya had once belonged to the Port Mafia. Ranpo simply accepted him.

There were days Chuuya caught himself laughing before realizing he had done it. There were mornings he arrived at the office carrying breakfast for everyone without thinking twice. There were evenings spent arguing with Kunikida over paperwork while Ranpo stole snacks from both of them.

But the grief no longer felt like it was swallowing him whole.

Across Yokohama... Another man had spent that same year doing the opposite.

"...Again." The voice was calm. The young man standing before the desk swallowed.

"We searched the eastern warehouses, Boss."

"And?"

"Nothing."

"The ports?"

"Nothing."

"The old Sheep territory?"

"...Nothing."

Silence settled over the office. No one dared disturb it. Dazai Osamu rested his cheek against one gloved hand, absently turning a fountain pen between his fingers as reports lay scattered across his desk.

Each one ended the same way. Three hundred and sixty-five days. An entire city turned upside down. Still nothing. "...You're dismissed."

The subordinate bowed so quickly he nearly stumbled over himself before hurrying from the office. The door clicked shut. Only then did Dazai reach for the folder resting beneath the others. It was worn from how often he'd opened it. Inside were photographs of him, mission reports, addresses, favorite restaurants, known associates.

Every page had been read so many times the corners had begun to curl. His thumb brushed over a photograph taken years ago. "...Where'd you wander off to, slug?"

The office offered no answer. A knock interrupted the silence.

"Enter." The door opened.

Kouyou Ozaki stepped inside. She studied the scattered reports before looking toward Dazai. "You've called for me."

"I have." He slid a photograph across the desk.

Kouyou's expression shifted almost imperceptibly. "...Chuuya."

"I found him."

The room fell silent. "...Where?"

"The Armed Detective Agency." For the first time since entering, Kouyou's composure cracked.

"...The Agency?"

"He joined shortly after leaving."

Her gaze lingered on the photograph. Alive. Healthy. Dressed in a gray suit instead of black. "...I see."

Dazai watched her carefully. "You knew he wouldn't come back."

"I hoped he would."

"But you knew."

Kouyou closed her eyes briefly. "...Yes."

Dazai leaned back in his chair. "I want eyes on him."

Kouyou looked up. "...Only observation? It's unlike you."

"Exactly." His smile was small. "I just want to know my dog is behaving himself."

Kouyou's expression hardened almost imperceptibly. "He is not a dog."

"No? Bummer."

"He never was."

Dazai smiled again. "I know."

By the end of the week, the orders spread quietly through Yokohama. A bartender memorized Chuuya's face, while a newspaper vendor learned which streets he preferred. Taxi drivers. Street musicians. Dock workers. Cashiers. Low-ranking Mafia members.

None of them knew the full story. Only that if they happened to see Nakahara Chuuya, the Boss wished to know where he was. Nothing more, nothing less.

That evening, Chuuya left the Agency with a paper bag tucked beneath one arm because Ranpo had insisted he try a new bakery. He still wasn't convinced sweet bean bread counted as dinner.

As he rounded the corner, he paused. Someone had been standing across the street. Watching. A man in a brown coat. The instant their eyes met but the stranger turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Chuuya frowned. "...Weird."

After a moment, he continued walking. He didn't notice the woman sweeping outside a flower shop glance up from her work. Or the taxi driver parked at the corner quietly speaking into a radio. Or the newspaper boy folding away the extra edition he had been pretending to read.

High above the city, lights flickered on inside the Port Mafia headquarters. A telephone rang. One sentence was spoken. "We found him." And for the first time in a year, Dazai smiled.

The reports arrived every evening at precisely seven o'clock. The first informant had simply chosen the hour, and everyone else had followed suit until it became routine. A stack of envelopes rested neatly on the corner of his desk by the time the sun disappeared behind Yokohama's skyline.

Dazai quietly stacked them into neat piles. He wasn't looking for patterns. He only wanted the certainty that Chuuya was alive.

Kouyou stood near the office window, watching the lights of the city below. "You've assigned far too many people."

Dazai didn't look up. "There are twenty-three reports tonight. There were twelve yesterday. And there will be more tomorrow."

Kouyou turned to face him. "He left. He has not attempted to interfere with the Mafia."

"No."

"He has not endangered our operations."

"No."

She folded her sleeves neatly. "Then why?"

Dazai finally raised his eyes from the reports. "What if he disappears again?"

Kouyou studied him for several moments. "...You truly believe he'll come back."

"He wandered off from the Sheep to come to the Mafia once." Dazai's tone was matter-of-fact, as though discussing the weather. "I'll simply make sure he can't wander off where I can't reach him."

Kouyou's expression darkened. "You speak as though he belongs to you."

Dazai smiled faintly. "He belongs in Yokohama."

"That is not what I asked."

The following morning, Chuuya arrived at the Agency balancing two paper bags in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

"I brought breakfast."

Kenji looked up immediately. "For everyone?"

"For whoever gets here before Ranpo."

Too late. Ranpo appeared from nowhere, already reaching into the nearest bag. "I heard that."

"I know."

"You still bought enough for me." Ranpo grinned.

Kunikida looked up from his notebook. "I don't remember authorizing unnecessary spending."

"It's breakfast."

"It's financially irresponsible."

"It's breakfast."

Yosano accepted a pastry with a smile. "You'll never win that argument."

"I've noticed." Chuuya settled into his chair with a quiet sigh. It had taken months before bringing food for everyone had stopped feeling strange.

Outside, a florist swept the pavement in front of her shop. She glanced toward the second-floor windows of the Agency. At precisely eight-thirty, she wrote a single line in a small notebook. Subject arrived at work.

A postman paused across the street while sorting letters. Subject appears healthy.

And a taxi driver waiting for passengers looked up briefly. No injuries observed on the subject.

None of them knew they were part of something larger. Each believed they were doing a small favor for the Port Mafia. A harmless request. After all, no one had been instructed to frighten Chuuya.

Weeks passed. The reports became routine. Dazai learned that Chuuya preferred coffee over tea. That he visited the same bakery every Tuesday morning because the owner gave Kenji extra melon bread. That he argued with Kunikida almost daily and never seemed genuinely upset afterward. That he still visited the cemetery once a month.

Those reports always stopped there. No one followed him beyond the gates. Even Dazai had written that instruction himself. Some places belonged only to Chuuya.

One rainy evening, Dazai found himself lingering over a photograph tucked into the latest report.

Chuuya stood outside the Agency holding an umbrella over Kenji while the younger detective enthusiastically spoke about farming.

He looked... Different. The sharpness around his eyes had softened. His shoulders no longer carried the same rigid tension they once had. He was smiling.

Dazai traced the edge of the photograph with one gloved finger. "...You've gotten comfortable."

It should have irritated him. Instead, it made him strangely relieved. At least someone was taking care of Chuuya. He'll learn so he can eventually take over and bring him back. After all, Dazai had killed Mori to have the last word.

Across the city, Chuuya paused halfway home. He frowned slightly. The feeling of being watched.

He slowly turned.

The street behind him was ordinary. A mother walking her daughter home, a pair of university students laughing over shared notes, even an elderly man feeding pigeons.

Nothing unusual.

"...Getting paranoid." He adjusted his hat and continued toward his apartment. Behind him, the elderly man scattered another handful of birdseed.

Only after Chuuya disappeared around the corner did he quietly fold the small scrap of paper hidden in his sleeve. By nightfall, the note rested on Dazai's desk alongside dozens of others.

Spring arrived quietly.

The cherry blossoms lining Yokohama's streets bloomed almost overnight, turning familiar sidewalks into rivers of pale pink. Petals drifted through open windows and gathered on the Agency's fire escape, where Kenji insisted they looked like snow.

Chuuya wasn't convinced. "They're flowers."

"They're flower snow," Kenji replied cheerfully.

"There is no such thing as flower snow."

"There is now."

"...You're impossible." By the time Chuuya had been with the Armed Detective Agency for over a year, he had settled into a routine that felt almost embarrassingly domestic.

He arrived before most of the others, usually with coffee in one hand and a paper bag of breakfast in the other. Kunikida would complain that he was encouraging Ranpo's unhealthy eating habits, Ranpo would steal two pastries anyway, and Yosano would quietly rescue the last one before Kenji noticed it was still there.

"You know," Yosano remarked one afternoon while sorting through patient files, "you smile more than you used to."

"I do not."

"You do."

"I don't."

Ranpo looked up from the pile of snacks on his desk. "She's right."

"You don't count."

"I count more than anyone."

"You literally make up your own rules."

"And they're usually correct."

Chuuya groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'm surrounded by lunatics."

"You've BEEN one of us now for some time," Ranpo replied without missing a beat.

The words were tossed out so casually that no one else seemed to think much of them. Chuuya did. He looked down at the report in front of him, pretending to reread the same sentence three times.

"...Yeah," he muttered. "I guess I am."

Outside, a man selling roasted sweet potatoes adjusted the brim of his cap as Chuuya left the Agency later that afternoon. He waited until the red-haired detective disappeared around the corner before folding up his cart. The note he slipped beneath the false bottom was brief. Subject departed at 5:18 p.m. and appeared in good spirits.

The report reached the Port Mafia before sunset. Dazai barely glanced at it. He already knew Chuuya smiled more. Three different reports had mentioned it that week. The consistency amused him. It seemed even strangers noticed the change.

Back at the Agency, Chuuya had stayed later than usual to help Kunikida finish paperwork. "You realize this isn't actually your responsibility."

Kunikida didn't look up from his notebook. "You were staying anyway."

"I was."

"So you're helping."

"I am."

"Then stop complaining."

"I'm not complaining."

"You've sighed seven times in the last ten minutes."

"...You've been counting?"

"I count everything."

"...That's terrifying."

"It keeps the office functioning."

"It explains a lot."

By the time they finally left, the streets had emptied.The city was quieter than usual, the distant hum of traffic replacing the bustle of the afternoon. Chuuya pulled his coat a little tighter against the evening breeze.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

Kunikida nodded once. "Don't oversleep."

"I've literally never overslept."

"You were late twice last month."

"By three minutes!"

"Late."

"You are impossible." They parted at the next intersection.

Chuuya took the longer route home because the weather was pleasant. He passed the same bookstore he visited every few weeks, nodded to the elderly owner sweeping the front step, and continued toward the river.

The city felt peaceful. For a brief moment, he thought about the Flags. The memories still hurt but they no longer stole the breath from his lungs.

As he crossed the bridge, a familiar sensation settled over him. The unmistakable feeling that someone was watching. His steps slowed, just enough to listen. The sound of footsteps echoed somewhere behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder. No one stuck out to him.

Chuuya frowned. He knew that feeling. He'd lived with it for years in the Mafia. The certainty that unseen eyes were measuring every move.

For a long moment, he stood perfectly still. Nothing happened.

"...You're getting jumpy," he muttered to himself. He exhaled slowly and continued home.

That night, Osamu Dazai ordered to Rotate observers more frequently. If Chuuya was beginning to notice familiar faces...

The next morning, Chuuya arrived at the Agency with coffee for Kunikida and sweet bean buns for Ranpo. Ranpo accepted the bag with a grin. "You almost caught someone yesterday."

Chuuya blinked. "...What?"

"The man on the bridge."

For the first time in over a year, the smile slipped from Chuuya's face. "What man?"

Ranpo popped a bun into his mouth. "The one watching you." Silence settled over the office, it made Ranpo frown. "I thought you already knew."

He said it so casually that Chuuya couldn't tell if he was joking which made the comment linger in his mind long after. Ranpo had said it with such certainty that it was difficult to dismiss outright, yet when Chuuya searched his memory, he found nothing beyond that familiar, unpleasant feeling of being watched. There had been a businessman, an elderly woman carrying groceries, and a young couple arguing over which train to take home.

The Agency was unusually quiet that afternoon. Kunikida had taken Kenji to meet a client outside the city, Yosano was attending to a patient in the infirmary, and Tanizaki and Naomi had been sent to investigate a series of thefts near the harbor.

For once, only Chuuya and Ranpo remained in the office. Ranpo lay sprawled across the sofa, one leg hanging over the armrest while a detective novel rested upside down on his chest. He hadn't turned a page in nearly twenty minutes.

"You aren't reading."

"I already know who did it."

"...Then why keep reading?"

"I'm waiting for the detective to catch up."

Chuuya snorted quietly and returned to his paperwork. "I'll never understand you."

"I know."

"...You're still thinking about yesterday. Aren't you?"

Chuuya didn't bother pretending otherwise. "You really saw someone?"

Ranpo nodded. "Mhm."

"What did they look like?"

"Average."

"...Average?"

"That's why he was there."

Chuuya frowned. "I don't follow."

Ranpo finally sat upright, removing the book from his chest.

"If you're trying not to be noticed, you don't wear a bright suit or carry a giant sign saying, 'I'm suspicious.' You become someone nobody remembers."

"So you think someone was following me?"

"I know they were."

The certainty in Ranpo's voice made something twist in Chuuya's stomach. "...Why?"

Ranpo blinked. "I assumed you knew."

Chuuya looked down at the report in front of him, though the words blurred together before his eyes. "...No. So I figured you were talking about..." He hesitated, searching for the right words. "...Something else."

Ranpo's expression changed. He looked genuinely puzzled. "...Something else?"

Chuuya let out a slow breath. "I've had... experiences." He hated talking about it. Hated the careful way people looked at him afterward. "The feeling that someone's watching me."

"A voice when nobody's there?"

"Things in my peripheral vision. They're not..." He rubbed at his temple. "...They're not always real."

Ranpo stared at him for several long moments. "...Oh."

It was the quietest Chuuya had ever heard him.

"I see."

Chuuya forced a crooked smile. "So if I tell you I think someone's following me..."

"You assume it's one of those experiences," Ranpo finished.

"Yeah."

Ranpo wasn't looking at Chuuya anymore. He was looking out the window. Toward the street below. People drifted past in the afternoon sunlight. A woman walking her dog, a mail carrier, a pair of university students. Perfectly ordinary. Too ordinary.

"...Ranpo?"

"Hm?"

"You think someone was there? Out of them?"

Chuuya laughed softly, though there was very little humor in it.

"I appreciate the vote of confidence."

"It's not confidence." Ranpo's voice remained fixed on the window. "It's observation."

Before Chuuya could respond, the office door opened. Kenji burst inside, arms full of vegetables someone had insisted they take after finishing a case and the office filled up quickly.

That evening, after everyone else had gone home, Ranpo lingered in Fukuzawa's office. The President looked up from the documents spread across his desk.

"You wished to speak with me?"

Ranpo closed the door behind him. "...I made a mistake."

Fukuzawa raised an eyebrow. It was not a sentence he heard often.

"I thought Chuuya knew."

"Knew what?"

"That someone keeps watching him." Ranpo slipped his hands into his pockets. "He doesn't."

Fukuzawa studied him carefully. "And you are certain?"

Ranpo nodded once. "He thinks it's part of..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "...His illness."

The President's expression grew thoughtful. "Do you believe he is correct?"

Ranpo walked to the window overlooking the evening streets. People moved below like pieces on a game board. Most were exactly what they appeared to be.

"No," Ranpo said quietly. "I think someone really is watching him."

Far below, across the street from the Agency, a man folded his newspaper and stood. He glanced once toward the second-floor windows before disappearing into the crowd. Ranpo watched him leave. He wondered who else had been watching Chuuya. For some reason, it made him believe the Port Mafia wasn't done with their gravity man.

By then, it had been nearly two years since Chuuya first walked through the Agency's doors.

Long enough for his desk to become cluttered with paperwork, for Kunikida to stop introducing him as "our newest employee" and for Ranpo to begin stealing food from Chuuya's lunch without asking.

The morning began like every other. Kunikida lectured Kenji about expense reports. Ranpo was asleep despite insisting he was "thinking." Yosano drank coffee while reading medical journals. And Chuuya had barely finished organizing a case file when someone knocked on the office door.

"I'll get it," he called. He opened the door. And forgot how to breathe. Standing on the landing was a girl dressed in black. Long dark hair. Quiet grey eyes. Hands folded neatly in front of her.

She looked older. Taller. But there was no mistaking her. For a long moment neither of them spoke.

"Gin..."

"...Hello, Chuuya."

His throat tightened. "You..."

A hundred questions rushed through his mind. Why are you here? Are you hurt? Did the Mafia find me? Is Ryūnosuke alright?

Instead, what came out was— "...You've gotten taller."

Gin blinked. Then smiled. "...So have you."

Behind Chuuya, Ranpo opened one eye. "Oh." He sat up. "So this is the little sister."

Fukuzawa invited Gin into his office. The rest of the Agency quietly gave them privacy. Chuuya sat across from her, unable to stop staring. She looked healthy. Healthier than when he'd left. But tired.

"...How did you find me?"

"I asked."

"...Who?"

"Kouyou."

That answer surprised him. "She told you?"

"Eventually."

Gin lowered her gaze. "She said..." Her voice softened. "...that if I truly wanted to know, she'd rather I hear it from you than from rumors."

Chuuya let out a slow breath. That sounded like Kouyou. "...Is she okay?"

Gin nodded. "She misses you."

His chest ached. "...Everyone does." Gin reached into her coat and placed something on Fukuzawa's desk. A folded application. "I would like to join the Armed Detective Agency."

The room went completely still. Even Chuuya stared. "...Gin?"

She looked at him. Determined. "I've thought about it for months."

"What about Ryūnosuke?"

"He doesn't know I'm here... He wouldn't understand."

Fukuzawa regarded her quietly. "You understand what this decision means."

"I do."

"You may never return to your former life."

"I know."

"You will almost certainly be viewed as a traitor."

"I know." She never looked away. "...I still wish to join."

The President folded his hands.

"May I ask why?"

Gin was silent for several moments. Then... "When Chuuya disappeared..." Her voice trembled for the first time. "...I thought he was dead."

Chuuya felt something twist painfully inside his chest. "I looked everywhere." She continued quietly. "I waited outside his apartment. Nothing. I asked Kouyou. Nothing. No one would tell me." She looked toward Chuuya. "I spent months wondering what I had done wrong."

"...Gin."

"You promised you'd teach me how to shoot, that you'd help Ryūnosuke learn to stop rushing into fights and that we'd all go to the summer festival." Each promise struck harder than the last. "I waited. You never came."

Chuuya lowered his head. "...I'm sorry."

"I know."

"I really am."

"I know."

Neither of them noticed Yosano quietly close the office door a little farther to give them privacy.

"I was angry." Gin admitted it so softly Chuuya almost missed it. "I hated you."

He nodded once. "...I know."

"But..." She looked around the Agency. "When Kouyou finally told me where you were, she said you'd smiled again."

Chuuya blinked. "...What?"

"She said," Gin smiled faintly. "...that this place gave my brother back."

The word hung in the air. Brother.

"So..." Gin took a slow breath. "I'd like to know the people who made you smile again."

Ranpo's voice drifted in from the hallway. "I like her."

Kunikida sighed. "You've been eavesdropping."

"I've been waiting."

"There's a difference?"

"There is to me."

Even Fukuzawa allowed the faintest hint of a smile. He looked back to Gin. "As with every applicant..." He slid a familiar form across the desk. "There will be an entrance examination."

Gin accepted it without hesitation. "Thank you."

Following her exam, Gin settled into the Armed Detective Agency more quietly than Chuuya had expected. She didn't have Ranpo's confidence, Kenji's enthusiasm, or Yosano's sharp wit.

Instead, she slipped into the rhythm of the office almost unnoticed, helping Kunikida organize case files before he asked, making tea whenever someone looked particularly exhausted, and disappearing on errands with the same silent efficiency she'd once shown in the Port Mafia.

Within a week, it felt as though she'd always been there. Within two, Chuuya caught himself looking toward the door every morning, expecting her to arrive.

"You worry too much." Gin set a cup of coffee beside him before taking her own seat.

"I do not."

"You've asked if I slept well every day."

"...Have I?"

"You have."

"...Huh."

She smiled faintly. "It's nice."

Chuuya rubbed the back of his neck. "I guess I'm still getting used to seeing you here."

"I know but you don't have to take care of me."

"I know. But I'm probably going to anyway."

Gin laughed quietly into her tea. It was a soft sound. One Chuuya realized he'd almost forgotten. That afternoon, the two of them were sent to deliver documents to a government office across the city. The assignment itself was uneventful.

The walk there... less so. They wandered through Yokohama's shopping district, passing cafés and bookstores, neither of them feeling any need to fill the silence. Eventually, Gin spoke.

"Ryūnosuke is taller now."

Chuuya smiled.

"I figured."

"He's taller than you."

"...Seriously?"

She nodded. "He hates that you're still stronger."

"I'd be disappointed if he didn't."

Another quiet laugh. Then... "He's become an executive candidate."

Chuuya's footsteps slowed. "...Already?"

"Boss promoted him quickly."

The warmth faded from Chuuya's expression. "He's too young."

"I know."

"He shouldn't be carrying that."

"I know."

There was nothing either of them could do about it. So they kept walking. After a while, Chuuya asked the question he'd been avoiding. "...How is Elise?"

Gin looked ahead. "She's dead."

His chest tightened.  "And Q?"

"They're quieter."

"...Quieter?"

"They don't play as much anymore." Every answer hurt in a different way. He'd convinced himself they'd move on. They stopped at a crosswalk while the pedestrian signal remained red.

Without warning, Gin asked, "Can I ask you something?"

"Always."

"Why didn't you tell us?" The question was gentle. Which somehow made it harder.

Chuuya stared across the street as people passed in front of them. "I wanted to, I packed three times." He laughed bitterly. "Every time I tried to write a letter, I ended up tearing it apart."

"...Why?"

"Because if Mori knew where I was going..." He shook his head. "I couldn't risk anyone following me."

Gin was silent.

"I thought..." He struggled to find the words. "I thought it'd be easier if you hated me."

She looked at him with quiet sadness. "It wasn't."

The light changed. Gin didn't feel ready to tell more. "You were wrong."

"I know." He smiled weakly. "I've been wrong about a lot of things."

By the time they returned to the Agency, the office was unusually lively. Kenji was excitedly explaining something involving cows. Kunikida looked exhausted. Ranpo was pretending not to listen while listening to every word.

As Chuuya and Gin stepped inside, Ranpo looked up. "There you are."

"What happened?"

"Kunikida lost an argument."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"I was outnumbered."

"You were loud."

Kunikida sighed. "...Why do I bother?"

Chuuya couldn't help it. He laughed.

Gin watched him for a moment before smiling to herself. Kouyou had been right.This place had given Chuuya something the Port Mafia never could. Peace.

Across the city, another report found its way to the Port Mafia. The report remained on Dazai's desk long after sunset. A slow smile crossed his face.

"So..." He leaned back in his chair. "Even Gin found him."

His fingers tapped thoughtfully against the report. Two people had now walked away from the Port Mafia and found the same destination. Coincidence was not something Dazai believed in. He reached for a blank sheet of paper and wrote a single name.

Then he rang the bell on his desk. A subordinate entered almost immediately. "Boss?"

Dazai folded the paper once before handing it over. "Tell Akutagawa-kun to report to my office." The subordinate bowed. As the door closed again, Dazai looked out over Yokohama. The game board had shifted.

Birthdays had never meant much to Chuuya.

As a child in the Sheep, they had been forgotten more often than remembered. Sometimes one of the older kids would find a small pastry, or someone would pat him on the shoulder and jokingly add another year to his age, but survival always came before celebration.

The Port Mafia wasn't much different.

The Flags had tried. Albatross had insisted birthdays were legally required excuses to waste money, Lipmann always claimed he deserved a standing ovation for remembering everyone's age, and Pianoman somehow managed to organize dinners without anyone realizing he had planned them weeks in advance. Verlaine had simply spent the day with him.

Which was why, on the morning of his twentieth birthday, Chuuya walked into the Agency expecting an ordinary day. He balanced two bags of breakfast in one hand while pushing the office door open with his shoulder.

"I'm back. Ranpo, don't eat everything before—"

"Surprise!"

The room exploded with voices. Colorful streamers stretched across the ceiling. Balloons had somehow been tied to Kunikida's bookshelves without interfering with his meticulous organization, and a large banner hung across the far wall in carefully painted letters.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHUUYA!

Chuuya froze. His eyes moved slowly around the room. "...You started without me," Chuuya muttered automatically.

"I was hungry."

"You knew this was happening."

"Obviously."

"You still made me buy breakfast."

"Also obviously."

Chuuya looked toward Gin. She stood near the window with her hands clasped behind her back, looking just a little nervous. "...You told them."

She nodded once. "I'm sorry."

He blinked. "...Why are you apologizing?"

"I wasn't sure if you'd want anyone to know."

"No." He shook his head. "...I'm glad you did."

The tension left Gin's shoulders almost instantly.

"I object to one thing." Everyone turned toward Kunikida. "The banner."

Kenji tilted his head. "What's wrong with it?"

"It is crooked."

"It is not."

"It is exactly three degrees off-center."

Ranpo looked up from the pastry he'd already stolen. "You measured it?"

"I didn't have to."

"You absolutely measured it."

"...Perhaps."

Yosano laughed. "I told you he'd notice."

"I was hoping he wouldn't."

Chuuya rubbed a hand over his face, smiling despite himself. "You people are unbelievable." The cake appeared a few minutes later. It wasn't elaborate. Just a simple chocolate cake with a neat layer of frosting and twenty small candles.

Kenji proudly carried it to the table. "We almost dropped it."

"We?" Chuuya echoed.

Ranpo raised a hand. "It wasn't my fault."

"It absolutely was."

"I merely suggested we take the stairs faster."

"You ran."

"I walked enthusiastically."

As everyone gathered around the table, Chuuya found himself staring at the candles. Twenty. It felt... Older than he'd expected.

"Go on," Yosano encouraged gently. "Make a wish."

Chuuya looked at the flickering flames. He wasn't sure what to wish for.

Five years ago, he would have wished for the Flags to survive. He looked around the room. A strange thought crossed his mind. For the first time in years... He didn't need to wish for anything. He already had more than he'd ever expected.

He closed his eyes anyway. Not because he wanted something. But because he wanted to protect what he already had. Then he leaned forward and blew out the candles.

Applause immediately filled the office. Ranpo had already cut himself the largest slice.

"Ranpo!"

"What?"

"We haven't even served it yet!"

"I'm helping."

"You're stealing."

"Semantics."

Later that afternoon, after the cake had been eaten and the decorations had begun to come down, Chuuya quietly slipped onto the Agency's balcony with a cup of coffee. The city stretched beneath him, bathed in the warm light of the setting sun. The balcony door slid open behind him.

Gin stepped outside. "I thought I'd find you here."

Chuuya smiled faintly. "I just needed a minute."

She joined him at the railing. "...Did we do too much?"

He looked at her in surprise. "No."

"You seemed overwhelmed."

"I was." He laughed softly. "I've just..." His fingers tightened slightly around the warm mug. "I've never had this before."

Gin turned toward him. "The Flags celebrated."

"They did."

"So did Verlaine."

"They did. But..." He looked back toward the office, where he could hear Kenji arguing that leftover cake counted as dinner. "...This is the first birthday I've had where I didn't spend the whole day wondering if someone wasn't going to make it home. I think..." Chuuya said quietly, "...this is the first birthday that's ever felt peaceful."

Gin smiled. "I'm glad."

He looked through the window once more. Ranpo was chasing Kunikida around the office after stealing another slice of cake, while Yosano laughed so hard she nearly spilled her tea. It was chaotic. Entirely unprofessional.

And somehow... It felt exactly like home. It had happened so gradually that Chuuya hadn't even noticed. Until someone else pointed it out a few weeks later.

"You've gotten popular."

Chuuya looked up from the paperwork spread across his desk. "...Excuse me?"

Ranpo didn't bother opening his eyes. "People ask for you."

"They ask everyone."

"No."

Ranpo pointed vaguely toward the reception area.

"They specifically ask for you."

As if summoned by the conversation, the front door opened. A young police officer stepped inside, nervously clutching a folder. "Um... excuse me?"

Kunikida looked up. "Can we help you?"

The officer hesitated before answering. "I was wondering if Detective Nakahara was available."

Chuuya blinked. "...Me?"

The officer nodded. "My captain said..." He cleared his throat. "...if there's anyone who can talk frightened witnesses into cooperating without making them feel cornered, it's Detective Nakahara."

The case itself wasn't particularly difficult. A convenience store owner had witnessed a murder but refused to speak to the police. Every detective who questioned him only seemed to make him retreat further into himself.

When Chuuya entered the interview room, the elderly man wouldn't even look up. He sat quietly across from him. Neither spoke.

A full minute passed. Then two. Finally... Chuuya reached into his pocket.

"...You smoke?"

The old man blinked. "...Used to."

"So did my old boss." That wasn't entirely true. He'd simply seen enough people smoke to know the habit. "He quit."

"...Good for him."

"He hated it."

"...Most people do."

Chuuya leaned back in his chair. "I'm not here to force you. I just want to know what scared you."

The old man's shoulders sagged. For the next hour... He told Chuuya everything.

"You have a strange gift." Kunikida closed the witness statement after they returned.

"What gift?"

"People trust you."

Chuuya laughed. "I seriously doubt that."

"They do."

"You punched me through a wall when we first met."

"I had my reasons."

"You also apologized."

"...Eventually."

Kunikida adjusted his glasses. "My point stands."

That evening, Chuuya and Gin stopped by a small grocery store on the way home. Kenji had somehow convinced them they needed ingredients for a group dinner the following night. Chuuya examined a shelf of canned tomatoes while Gin searched for spices.

"You've changed."

He looked over. "...That's random."

"It is." She smiled slightly. "But it's true."

"I'd hope so."

"When I first found you..." She carefully placed another item into the basket. "...you still looked over your shoulder every few minutes."

He thought about it. She wasn't wrong. "I did."

"You don't anymore."

Without realizing it, Chuuya glanced toward the store's front windows. He caught himself and laughed softly. "...Guess I still do."

"Sometimes."

Gin met his eyes. "But not because you're afraid."

He tilted his head. "...Then why?"

"Because you want to make sure everyone else is alright."

The answer caught him off guard. He replayed the last few minutes in his mind. Checking whether Kenji had wandered off. Looking to see if the cashier needed help lifting a box. Making sure Gin hadn't disappeared into another aisle.

On the walk back to the Agency apartments, the evening air was pleasantly cool. Streetlights flickered to life one by one. Gin carried the grocery bag while Chuuya balanced two paper sacks under one arm.

"You know..." he said after a while. "I never thought I'd make it to twenty."

Gin looked at him quietly. "I know."

"I definitely didn't think I'd become a detective."

"You've become a good one."

He smiled. "I still can't believe people ask for me by name."

"You earned that."

They continued walking. Neither noticed the man sitting on a bench across the street. He lowered the evening newspaper just enough to watch them pass before folding it neatly under his arm. He did not follow. He didn't need to. He already knew where Detective Nakahara lived.

By morning, a report would arrive on the Port Mafia Boss's desk. It would be short. The content of it proved that Chuuya had always been good at protecting people, and that the only difference now was that Yokohama had finally begun to recognize it.

Dazai felt proud.

There were rules in the Armed Detective Agency. Some were written. Some weren't. Chuuya had learned both.

Don't falsify evidence, protect civilians first, trust your partner. And above all else... Bring people back alive. Simple rules. Reasonable rules. Rules Chuuya agreed with. Rules that became much harder to follow once someone pointed a gun at Gin.

The call came just after noon. An armed robbery had escalated into a hostage situation near Yokohama's shipping district. Three suspects. Automatic weapons. Eight civilians trapped inside.

Kunikida shut his notebook with a snap. "Nakahara. Gin. You're with me." Neither hesitated.

The warehouse smelled of saltwater and machine oil. One frightened dockworker stumbled through the entrance as officers pulled him behind cover.

"There are still people inside!"

"How many?"

"Seven... no... eight..."

The man shook violently. "They'll kill us..."

Chuuya glanced toward the loading doors. His expression changed. The relaxed detective vanished. His shoulders straightened. His breathing slowed. His eyes became cold. Gin noticed immediately. It wasn't the Chuuya she'd been living with for the past two years.

Kunikida unfolded the building plans. "Three entrances."

He pointed to the blueprint. "They've barricaded the front."

"The roof?" Chuuya asked.

"Too exposed."

"The windows?"

"Bulletproof loading glass."

"I'll go through the wall."

Kunikida looked up. "...Can you?"

"I don't need a door." The operation began seconds later.

Kunikida coordinated the police evacuation. Gin slipped around the eastern side of the warehouse, disappearing into the shadows. Chuuya walked straight toward the concrete wall. One of the gunmen spotted him.

"HEY!"

Gunfire erupted.Bullets tore across the pavement. Chuuya didn't slow down. Crimson light bloomed around his body. The ground cracked beneath his feet.

He drove one fist into the warehouse wall. Concrete exploded inward. The entire building shook. Panic erupted inside.

"What the hell?!"

"It's him!"

"SHOOT HIM!"

Gunfire filled the air. Chuuya moved. One weapon bent beneath gravity before its owner realized what had happened. Another man found himself slammed into the ceiling hard enough to lose consciousness.

The third... Raised his rifle. Directly at Gin. Time slowed.

Chuuya saw the man's finger tighten on the trigger. Saw Gin pivot. Too late. His body moved before his mind did. Gravity crushed downward. The gunman hit the floor with enough force to shatter the concrete beneath him. His scream stopped instantly.

Silence.

The rifle clattered away. Chuuya was already standing over him. One hand outstretched. Gravity still swirling around his fingers. The man coughed weakly. Alive. Barely.

His eyes widened in terror. "P-please..."

Chuuya didn't hear him. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. Finish it. The thought arrived so naturally it frightened him. One more push. Just one. Increase the gravity. Another few hundred kilograms. The spine would snap. Quick. Clean. No chance he'd ever threaten anyone again.

Exactly how the Mafia had taught him.

His fingers twitched. The crimson glow brightened.

"Chuuya." Gin's voice.

He didn't move. The man beneath him whimpered. Another centimeter. That's all it would take.

"Nakahara!" Kunikida. Closer now. "Stand down!"

The words barely reached him. His breathing had become ragged. His vision narrowed. He remembered missions. Blood on concrete. Mori's orders. "Don't hesitate."

The Flags laughing after battles. "Dead enemies don't come back."

Years of instinct screamed at him despite the fact they'd been dormant for almost 5 years now. Kill. Kill. Kill.

Then... A small hand wrapped around his wrist. Gin. She didn't try to pull him away. She simply held on. "...He's beaten."

Chuuya stared at the unconscious gunman. His hand shook violently. "...I know."

"He can't hurt anyone."

"...I know."

"You don't have to."

The red glow around Chuuya flickered. Then, slowly, it disappeared. The crushing pressure lifted. Air rushed back into the warehouse. The gunman gasped. Alive.

No one spoke until the police had secured the building. The hostages were escorted outside. Paramedics rushed past with stretchers. The three suspects survived. All three would stand trial.

Exactly as the Agency intended.

Chuuya sat alone on the Agency rooftop. His gloves rested beside him. His hands still hadn't stopped shaking. The rooftop door opened quietly. He didn't turn around.

"I almost did it."

Gin sat beside him. "I know."

"I wanted to."

"I know."

"I wasn't angry." His voice sounded hollow. "I wasn't protecting anyone anymore... I just wanted him dead." The admission tasted bitter.

"I know."

Silence stretched between them. Finally, Gin spoke. "...Do you remember something you told Ryūnosuke and me?"

Chuuya frowned. "...What?"

"'The difference between a professional and a monster isn't whether they can kill.'" His eyes widened slightly. She continued. "'It's whether they can stop.'"

He had said that. Years ago. After Ryūnosuke had nearly killed someone during training.

"I never understood it back then," Gin admitted. "I do now." She looked at him. "You stopped."

"...Barely."

"But you did."

Chuuya lowered his head into his hands. For the first time since joining the Agency... He cried. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just silent tears slipping between trembling fingers. After four years of peace... He had learned something terrifying. The part of him the Mafia had forged was still there. It always would be.

That frightened him.

The Agency gave Chuuya three days off. Officially, it was because he'd spent nearly twelve consecutive hours writing reports after the warehouse incident. Unofficially, Yosano had taken one look at him and informed Fukuzawa that if Detective Nakahara came into work the following morning, she would personally throw him back out the front door.

No one argued.

The apartment was unusually quiet. Gin had left early for work. The kettle whistled softly from the kitchen. Chuuya sat on the balcony with a cup of coffee growing colder in his hands. His thoughts refused to settle. Every time he closed his eyes— He remembered the weight of gravity pressing downward. "...Tch." He rubbed at his eyes. "Get over yourself."

The words sounded empty.

Across the street, Someone watched from the rooftop of a neighboring building. Dazai Osamu stood with one gloved hand tucked into his coat pocket. The morning breeze tugged lazily at the bandages wrapped around his neck. His gaze never left the small balcony. "...You look awful."

The reports hadn't captured it.

They'd described Chuuya as exhausted. Distracted. Withdrawn even. None of those words explained the dark circles beneath his eyes. Or the way he stared into nothing. Or how his coffee had gone untouched for nearly twenty minutes.

Dazai frowned slightly. "...You can actually feel guilty." For a long moment, he simply watched. Just as he always had. But today... Watching didn't feel like enough.

Chuuya finally stood. "I need groceries..." His voice was rough. "...Or something." Anything to stop thinking. He grabbed his wallet and keys before leaving the apartment.

The moment the front door closed, Dazai moved. He crossed the rooftop in complete silence before dropping effortlessly onto the neighboring fire escape. One floor. Two. Three. A window. Unlocked. "...Still careless."

He slipped inside. The apartment was exactly as the reports described. Small. Neat. Books stacked carefully on the shelves. A vase of fresh flowers that Gin had probably insisted on buying. Two coffee mugs drying beside the sink. Dazai's eyes wandered slowly across the room.

Nothing here belonged to the Mafia anymore. It belonged to Chuuya. That realization settled strangely in his chest. He stopped in front of the kitchen table. There was no reason to touch anything. No reason to disturb the apartment. He wasn't here to search. Only... To reassure himself. That Chuuya was really living here. His gaze landed on a small notepad near the telephone.

For several seconds... He simply stared at it. Then he reached for the pen.

By the time Chuuya returned twenty minutes later, the apartment looked exactly as he'd left it. Almost. Still, he unpacked the groceries, put away the milk, started the kettle again, only then did he notice it. A folded sheet of paper. Sitting in the middle of the kitchen table.

His apartment door had been locked. His windows closed. Very slowly... He unfolded the page. There were only six words written in elegant handwriting. 'Did you make the right choice?' Nothing else. No signature. No explanation. No threat...

Chuuya read them again. And again. His pulse quickened.

Someone had been here and entered his apartment. Someone who knew... About the warehouse. About the choice he'd made.

His fingers trembled. "...No." He laughed quietly. "No..." His therapist years ago had warned him about moments like this. Finding meaning where there wasn't any. Believing someone had entered when no one had. Hallucinations often felt real. Delusions felt real. He knew that. He knew it. "...I'm tired." That had to be it.

He folded the paper carefully. Placed it in the trash.

From the rooftop opposite the apartment, Dazai watched Chuuya through the kitchen window. He saw the confusion and how Chuuya shook his head. As if dismissing his own instincts.

Dazai's expression slowly faded. For years... He had assumed Chuuya knew that he was being watched, that someone always kept an eye on him. Watching Chuuya deny what had actually happened... Made something uncomfortable settle in his chest. "...So that's what you think."

His gaze lingered on the apartment a little longer. Then he quietly disappeared across the rooftops before anyone noticed he'd ever been there. Inside the apartment, Chuuya stood alone in the kitchen. The note was gone. The kettle began to whistle. And despite everything he told himself... He couldn't shake the feeling that someone had just looked after him. Ranpo had never been wrong. Never. Yet Chuuya had begged he was.