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“What the fuck.”
Is all Chuuya could think, on his precious SATURDAY break. A dead-beat sort of a partner filled with bandages and looking like a walking mummy was right in front of him. How the hell did this bitch get in. Not only are the doors secured with three locks after the 57th time Dazai re appeared here. This building is only reserved for the high ranking members. Including the bank which is filled with money that supply world hunger. This building is surrounded by Port Mafia security, ones that had advance right after the former executive left. “As I expected, of course your here to ruin by break? Right blue mackerel?” Dazai stare became more deepened. “Oh how did you know! I just soooo happened to be walking across the whole city to see that your car was in the parking lot, be happy that I did not put another bomb on the bottom of your car — wait was it in your car or the bottom…. Hm whatever!” Chuuya looked at the elder hoping that he is joking, that car was not only over a million bucks in USD but it was also one of the only car that the mafia has bought for him as a gift.
“Dazai, get out right now.” The elder yet the shorter gave a slight nudge to Dazai, meaning he pushed him and shoved him to the floor. “Ahh, cmon!”
He got off the floor, dusting off the part of his arm where Chuuya grabbed him like it was some sort of disease. “I was just joking, either way, would you pleaseeee buy me this new super duper expensive crab that just opened in Tokyo!! It is only a 48 minute drive.. so to you it is about 10 minutes. PLEASEE.”
Chuuya walked away from the kitchen, cleaning his hands because he did not want some Dazai disease or the smell of him. Gosh, when is the last time Dazai took a fucking shower? He smells more like a slug than Chuuya supposedly did. “Oh cmon! You have like a salary of a million.” “Dazai, no.” Chuuya walked away from the so called sadness that Dazai’s face is portraying.
“Do not permeate the room with your rudeness, Cheeewyaaa. I am just as sad as you right now because this so called hatrack is not currently supplying me with crab.”
Dazai was waiting for Chuuya’s response. As while for Chuuya, he is currently doing some paperwork that is due in a few weeks. As he has nothing to do and is currently bored…. “Maybe I can get wasted..” Chuuya thought, well it was his thought but currently the bandaged guy can hear his mind. “Yeah get wasted, WHILE we have crab. MAYBE I can get that one hat that you wanted that is only in Europe as of now, and only has one left in stocked.”
Yeah, that caught Chuuya’s attention. That was one of the hats he wanted to add to his collection but he did not have enough time to get one until his winter break arrives, which is more than just 4 months. Chuuya paused at his desk, his pencil is not gliding against his paper anymore. “I… Just promise, okay?” Dazai face was filled with light, as he just found a new suicide method that would ‘work’. “I got you, my dear partner.”
.
“Does this mean we are dating? We look like we are having a date.” “Dazai, I am currently wear sweatpants and a jacket. Does this look like a date to you?” Dazai took a second, as of this was an idea to have a deep second to think about.
“It does.”
“Dazai, I am going to murder you,” Chuuya deadpanned, his grip tightening around the steering wheel until his leather gloves creaked. “I am actually going to use Corruption to flatten you into a permanent part of this asphalt”
“Eh? But Chuuya, look how beautiful the Tokyo skyline is!” Dazai pressed his face against the passenger window, leaving a faint fog mark on the pristine glass. “And look at you, driving your precious, un-blown-up car, wearing your comfy little sweatpants. If this isn't a date, then I simply don't know what romance is anymore. Should I write a poem? Oh, the hatrack in the fleece pants, driving me to fish—”
“Shut the fuck up!” Chuuya snapped, the car’s engine roaring as he aggressively shifted gears. He had actually let this bandaged lunatic convince him. He was currently speeding down the highway toward Tokyo, on his Saturday, leaving behind his perfectly quiet apartment and his paperwork just for the vague promise of a rare European fedora.
He glanced sideways at Dazai, who was now happily kicking his legs, completely unbothered by the fact that Chuuya could easily drop a localized gravity well on his chest.
“If we get to this restaurant and you don't actually have a way to get that hat, I’m dumping your body in the Tokyo Bay,” Chuuya warned, his voice dangerously low.
“Aw, Chuuya’s trust issues are showing,” Dazai sighed dramatically, resting his cheek in his palm as he looked at the shorter man. “Have I ever lied to you about rare, overpriced headwear?” “Yes! Frequently! You literally stole my last favorite hat and used it as a nest for a stray cat!”
“And the kittens were very comfortable, which is a noble cause,” Dazai countered smoothly. He pointed a bandaged finger toward the upcoming exit. “Oh, look! There’s the sign! ’The Golden Crustacean.’ It looks delightfully expensive and pretentious, perfectly suited for a Port Mafia executive’s black card.”
Chuuya pulled the car into the restaurant’s valet parking with a screech of tires. The valet took one look at Chuuya’s expensive vehicle, then at Chuuya’s baggy sweatpants and oversized jacket, and finally at Dazai, who looked like an escaped psychiatric patient wrapped in gauze. The poor valet looked thoroughly confused.
“Keep the engine warm,” Chuuya muttered to the valet, tossing him a ridiculously large bill before turning to glare at Dazai. “Alright, mummy. Let's get your stupid crab so I can get my hat and go back to ignoring your existence.”
Dazai practically floated out of the car, offering Chuuya his arm with a theatrical bow. “After you, my lovely, underdressed date.”
Chuuya walked right past his arm, deliberately shoving Dazai’s shoulder as he bypassed him. “If you say the word 'date' one more time, I’m making you pay the bill.”
Dazai gasped, clutching his chest in horror. “You wouldn't dare. I am a broke, unemployed agency member, Chuuya! That would be financial abuse!”
“Then shut your mouth and start eating,” Chuuya growled, pulling open the restaurant doors.
.
As they entered the restaurant, Chuuya received multiple looks ,what is he wearing?, “What the fuck are you looking at?”
“Ahh, Chuuya don’t be so rude. Table for two please. Under the name of mackeral ” Chuuya looked at Dazai and paused for a second “Table for three, this fat ass might need multiple chairs.” The waitress laughed “Oh, how I love faggots” The waitress muttered. Soukoku looked at the waitress then to each other, sharing the same look. “What the fuck?”
The restaurant was, unfortunately, exactly what Dazai had promised: suffocatingly high-end, bathed in soft golden lighting, and entirely populated by Tokyo’s wealthy elite in tailored suits and evening gowns. And right in the center of it all stood Nakahara Chuuya, wearing grey sweatpants and a zipped-up jacket, looking ready to either bench-press a car or rob the place.
Dazai, on the other hand, blended in by sheer virtue of looking like he owned the world, despite being wrapped in dirt-cheap bandages and wearing a beige coat that had definitely seen a river or two.
As they were led to a private booth in the back—likely to hide Chuuya from the rest of the high-society clientele—Chuuya leaned in close, hiss-whispering, “Mackerel? You made the reservation under Mackerel?”
“Of course! If I used ‘Dazai,’ you wouldn’t have come, and if I used ‘Chuuya,’ the reservation system would have crashed from the sheer weight of your underground criminal record,” Dazai said lightly, sliding into the plush leather booth.
Chuuya dropped into the opposite side, crossing his arms over his chest. “Just order the damn crab so we can get out of here. And where is the hat? Show me proof, right now, or I’m leaving you here with the bill.”
Dazai held up a finger, wiggling it slightly. “Patience, Chuuya. A businessman never reveals his inventory before the contract is paid.” He picked up the menu, his eyes lighting up. “Oh! They have the premium red king crab boiled in sake! Chuuya, your black card is about to cry tears of joy.”
“My card can handle it. My patience can’t,” Chuuya muttered, though he flagged down a waiter anyway. “Get him whatever the hell he wants. And bring me a bottle of your most expensive red wine. Don’t care what it is, just make sure it’s high proof.”
“Ah, planning to get wasted already? And here I thought you wanted to stay lucid for our romantic evening,” Dazai teased.
Chuuya reached across the table, grabbed Dazai by his tie, and pulled him forward until they were inches apart. “Listen to me, you waste of bandages. I am three seconds away from burying you under this floorboard. Tell me about the hat, or the next thing you taste won’t be crab, it’ll be your own teeth.”
Instead of flinching, Dazai’s smile turned sharp and dark—the old, familiar look of the Demon Prodigy from their Port Mafia days. He pulled a sleek, wax-sealed envelope from his inner coat pocket and tapped it against Chuuya’s knuckles.
“A private auction voucher for the London Millinery Exhibition,” Dazai whispered, his voice dropping its playful edge. “The lot contains the final, unreleased Borsalino fedora from the 1920s revival collection. The auction closes tonight. I already took the liberty of entering your proxy bid using a secured Agency terminal. All it needs is your authorization signature. It’s yours, Chuuya.”
Chuuya stared at the envelope, his grip on Dazai’s tie loosening. His eyes scanned the wax seal—it was authentic. The exact hat he had been tracking for months.
He let go of Dazai, snatching the envelope and sliding it into his jacket. “Fine. You win this round.”
“Wonderful!” Dazai’s cheerful, childish demeanor snapped right back into place as the waiter arrived with a massive, steaming platter of crab. “Now, let the feast begin! Break a leg, Chuuya—literally, crack that crab leg for me, my hands are far too weak.”
Chuuya poured himself a glass of the newly arrived wine and glared. “Do it yourself, or I’ll use your bones as nutcrackers.”
.
Two hours and three empty bottles of Romanée-Conti later, Chuuya was no longer thinking about his precious Saturday break. He was barely thinking at all.
The expensive wine had hit his bloodstream like a freight train. His face was flushed a deep, bright red, and his hands were gesturing wildly in the air, heavily coated in the red glow of his ability. Across the table, the heavy ceramic plates and a small mountain of empty crab shells were floating six inches above the white tablecloth, bobbing up and down like boats on a choppy sea.
“And another thing!” Chuuya slammed his fist onto the table, causing the floating plates to violently jerk upward. The surrounding wealthy Tokyo diners gasped, several of them ducking under their tables. “You think you’re so smart with your stupid bandages and your stupid river-jumping! But you’re just… you’re just a giant, annoying, blue mackerel!”
Dazai was having the time of his life. He was propped up on one elbow, casually catching a floating crab leg out of the air and stripping the meat with his teeth. “Mmh, delicious. Go on, Chuuya. Tell the whole restaurant how much you missed me.”
“I didn’t miss you!” Chuuya roared, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. He pointed a shaking, gloved finger at Dazai’s face. “I hated you! I still hate you! You look like a walking toilet paper roll! But… but the hat…” Chuuya’s anger suddenly deflated, his head dropping forward until his forehead smacked against the mahogany table with a soft thud. “The hat is so pretty, Dazai…”
“I know, hatrack, I know,” Dazai cooed, reaching over to pat Chuuya’s messy orange hair. The moment Dazai’s hand made contact, No Longer Human activated. A flash of blue light rippled across the table, and gravity instantly reclaimed the room.
SMASH.
Dozens of expensive plates, sake cups, and leftover crab parts plummeted to the floor, shattering into a million pieces. The restaurant manager, who had been sweating bullets in the corner for the last hour, finally collapsed into a chair out of pure despair.
Chuuya bolted upright at the sound of the crash, blinking his blurry blue eyes. “Who threw a bomb? Was it you? I’ll kill ‘em…” He tried to stand up, but his knees immediately turned to jelly. He stumbled sideways, completely missing the floor and tumbling right into Dazai’s side of the booth.
Dazai caught him by the waist, letting out a sharp oof as Chuuya’s deadweight slumped against his chest. Chuuya gripped Dazai’s beige coat with both hands, burying his face right into his shoulder.
“You smell like a swamp,” Chuuya mumbled into the fabric, his words completely slurred. “But you got me the hat. So I won't crush you. Tonight.”
“How generous of you,” Dazai laughed softly, wrapping one arm around Chuuya’s shoulders to keep him from sliding under the table. He flagged down the terrified waiter with his free hand. “Check, please! Put it all on the angry little gentleman's black card. And add a 200% tip for the pottery wreckage.”
With Chuuya completely incapacitated and snoring softly against his neck, Dazai deftly fished the black card out of Chuuya’s sweatpants pocket. As he waited for the transaction, he looked down at his partner's peaceful, drunken face.
“See?” Dazai whispered, a genuine, quiet smirk tugging at his lips. “I told you it was a date.”
.
The drive back to Yokohama was nothing short of a miracle. Dazai had somehow managed to steer Chuuya’s million-dollar sports car without crashing it into a guardrail, though he did use the car's high-tech sound system to blast annoying pop music the entire way.
By the time they pulled into the parking lot of Dazai’s apartment building, Chuuya was still completely dead to the world, snoring softly against the passenger window. Dazai sighed, heaving the shorter man out of the seat and draping Chuuya’s arm over his shoulder. Because of Chuuya's short stature, Dazai practically had to drag his feet across the pavement.
“You really need to lay off the expensive wine, Chuuya,” Dazai complained to the unconscious mafioso. “You weigh as much as a boulder when you aren't manipulating your own gravity.”
Dazai dragged him toward the stairs, but just as he reached the first step, two figures stepped out from the shadows of the alleyway.
“Dazai-san!”
Atsushi hurried forward, his face pale with worry. “We’ve been looking for you all evening! Kunikida-san said you skipped out on—huh?” Atsushi froze mid-sentence, his jaw dropping so low it practically hit the concrete. He stared at the orange hair, the signature leather gloves, and the rumpled sweatpants. “N-Nakahara-san?!”
Right behind Atsushi, a dark, menacing aura flared up. Akutagawa stepped into the moonlight, his trench coat rippling dangerously. His gray eyes went wide with absolute shock, seeing his former mentor casually carrying the Port Mafia's most terrifying executive like a sack of potatoes.
“Dazai-san,” Akutagawa rasped, his voice trembling with a mix of confusion and immediate hostility. “Why is Nakahara-san with you? Did he attempt to assassinate you? I will shred him to pieces where he stands—”
“Whoa, whoa, calm down, Akutagawa!” Dazai interrupted, waving a dismissive hand while adjusting his grip on a snoring Chuuya. “No one is assassinating anyone. Chuuya just had a little too much fun at a crab restaurant in Tokyo.”
Atsushi blinked, looking between Dazai’s calm smile and Chuuya's flushed, drooling face. “A... a crab restaurant? In Tokyo? Together?”
“Yes! It was a lovely date,” Dazai declared cheerfully.
At the word 'date,' Akutagawa’s brain seemingly short-circuited. His eyes darted from Dazai to Chuuya, trying to process the concept of the twin dark forces of Yokohama going on a casual Saturday evening stroll for seafood.
“A... date? With the Gravity Manipulator? Dazai-san, this is a mockery of—”
“Mmgh...” Chuuya stirred, the loud voices piercing through his deep wine slumber. He cracked one blue eye open, blinking heavily at the two teenagers standing in front of him. He looked at Atsushi’s silver hair, then at Akutagawa’s black coat. “Hey... look... it’s the... the tiger boy. And the edgy kid.”
“Nakahara-san!” Atsushi squeaked, taking a defensive step back.
Chuuya suddenly lifted his head from Dazai’s shoulder, pointing a sloppy, shaking finger at Akutagawa. “Hey! Akutagawa! Why the fuck are you out so late? Go to bed! And tell the boss... tell him I’m on vacation. With my mackerel.” He let out a loud, drunken giggle, completely uncharacteristic of the fierce Mafia executive, before his head snapped right back down onto Dazai’s chest, fast asleep again.
A deadly, suffocating silence fell over the alleyway.
Atsushi looked like he had just witnessed the end of the world. Akutagawa stood completely frozen, staring at his sleeping superior in sheer, unadulterated horror.
“Well, you heard the man!” Dazai laughed, turning to drag Chuuya up the stairs. “We have a very important European hat to bid on tonight, so we’ll be turning in. Don't stay up too late, boys!”
As Dazai disappeared into the apartment building, Atsushi slowly turned to look at Akutagawa, who was trembling slightly.
“Akutagawa...?” Atsushi whispered. “Are you okay?”
“I saw nothing,” Akutagawa muttered, his voice hollow as he turned around and walked back into the darkness. “If you speak of this to anyone, Tiger... I will kill you.”
.
The next morning, the sun rose over Yokohama with a blinding, merciless glare.
For Chuuya, it felt like someone was driving a rusted stake directly through his temples. He groaned, rolling over on the surprisingly hard floor, only to find himself wrapped in a thin, scratchy futon that smelled faintly of river water and old paper. He bolted upright—a massive mistake that made his vision spin—and realized he was definitely not in his penthouse apartment.
He was in Dazai’s tiny, cluttered Armed Detective Agency dorm room.
And sitting cross-legged at a low table right next to him, sipping a cup of coffee and typing furiously on a laptop, was a very tall man with slicked-back blonde hair, glasses, and a notebook labeled Ideals resting on his knee.
Chuuya froze. Kunikida stopped typing.
The two men stared at each other in an agonizing, dead silence. Chuuya’s orange hair was sticking up in a wild bird's nest, his expensive leather gloves were missing, and he was still wearing his grey sweatpants.
Before Chuuya could even open his mouth to demand what the hell was happening, the front door swung open. Dazai strolled in, holding a fancy box with a British postal stamp on it.
“Good morning, Kunikida-kun! Good morning, Chuuya!” Dazai chirped, tossing the box directly into Chuuya’s lap. “Look what arrived via priority international courier! Your precious 1920s Borsalino fedora. The auction proxy bid went through perfectly at 3:00 AM!”
Kunikida slowly closed his laptop. He took off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and then slammed his fist onto the low table with enough force to crack the wood.
“DAZAI!” Kunikida roared, his voice rattling the thin walls of the apartment. He whipped out his Ideals notebook, flipping pages aggressively. “Explain this immediately! Atsushi came to the office at dawn trembling like a leaf, babbling about a ‘seafood rendezvous’ and the Port Mafia! Why is Nakahara Chuuya—the highest-ranking combatant of our enemy organization—sleeping on your floor?!”
Chuuya grabbed the hat box, his hangover-addled brain finally piecing together the disaster. “Wait. You told the blond guy?”
“I didn't tell him! Atsushi told him,” Dazai said defensively, putting a hand over his heart. “And really, Kunikida-kun, your scheduling obsession is getting out of hand. Is there a rule in your notebook that says I can't invite my lovely date over for the night?”
“DATE?!” Kunikida’s glasses practically flew off his face. He looked at Dazai, then at Chuuya, who was rapidly turning a dangerous shade of crimson—not from the wine this time, but from pure, unadulterated fury.
“Dazai,” Chuuya said, his voice dropping into a dark, guttural growl as the red glow of For the Tainted Sorrow began to flicker around his hands. “I am going to tear this entire apartment building off its foundation and drop it on your head.”
“Oh, look at that! His morning grumpiness is so endearing,” Dazai laughed, stepping closer. The second his foot brushed Chuuya’s futon, the blue light of No Longer Human canceled the gravity aura, leaving Chuuya to flop uselessly back onto the floor.
Kunikida looked like he was about to have a stroke. He began pacing the room, frantically scribbling in his notebook. “A Port Mafia executive... in an Agency-provided dormitory... on a Sunday morning... this violates protocol section 4, section 12, and completely derails my schedule for the entire month! If the President finds out about this—”
“The President already knows,” Dazai interrupted smoothly, taking a seat and pulling a piece of crab meat out of his pocket from the night before, popping it into his mouth. “I texted him last night to ensure there wouldn’t be a jurisdictional incident if Chuuya threw up in the hallway. He said, and I quote, ‘Just make sure he doesn’t break the plumbing.’”
Chuuya pushed himself up, clutching his new hat box like a shield, his head pounding. “I hate both of you. I hate this city. I’m taking my hat, I’m taking my car, and I’m going to kill Dazai on Tuesday when my schedule frees up.”
Kunikida stopped pacing, pointing his pen sharply at Chuuya. “You! Nakahara! Do not think you can just walk out of here without signing a non-disclosure agreement regarding Agency property!”
Chuuya glared up at the blonde idealist, his eyes narrowed. “Shut up, four-eyes, or I’ll make you eat that notebook.”
Chuuya shoved the lid onto his precious new hat box, threw the strap over his shoulder, and stormed toward the front door. He didn't even bother to look for his boots; he just shoved his feet into his socks and grabbed his leather gloves from the entryway floor.
“Chuuya, wait! You’re forgetting your morning kiss!” Dazai called out mockingly, dodging a stray cushion Chuuya hurled blindly backward without looking.
“Go drown in a puddle, mackerel!” Chuuya snarled, ripping the door open and stepping out into the hallway.
His head was still pounding like a bass drum, and the bright morning sunlight flooding through the stairwell windows felt like a personal attack. He just needed to get down to the parking lot, find his car, and drive back to his quiet penthouse where the world made sense.
He took the stairs two at a time, practically radiating a dark, moody aura. But as he rounded the landing to the first floor, he ran smack into a wall of solid fabric.
“Oh my. Look what the river dragged in.”
Chuuya staggered back, blinking his blurry eyes to see Dr. Yosano Akiko standing there. She was holding a bag of groceries, looking at him with a sharp, highly amused smirk. Right next to her was Ranpo Edogawa, who was casually sucking on a lollipop. Ranpo took one look at Chuuya’s rumpled sweatpants, his messy hair, and the British courier box, and let out a loud, delighted cackle.
“I knew it!” Ranpo pointed a sticky lollipop at Chuuya. “I told Yosano you were here! I smelled the high-end Tokyo seafood from down the street, and nobody buys that specific vintage Borsalino line except the Mafia’s resident fashion disaster!”
Chuuya’s soul practically left his body. “You… you people…”
“Well, well,” Yosano purred, stepping closer and eyeing Chuuya from head to toe. Her medical gaze felt entirely too threatening for a Sunday morning. “The great Nakahara Chuuya, looking like he slept in a dumpster. Did Dazai finally manage to annoy you to death, or did you two just have a really wild night?”
“It wasn't a wild night! It wasn't anything!” Chuuya yelled, his voice cracking slightly, which only made his hangover worse. He clutched the hat box tighter. “I was just… we had a business transaction! That’s it!”
“A business transaction in fleece pants?” Yosano laughed, pulling a meat cleaver out of her shopping bag just to tease him. “You know, if you ever want to get revenge on him, my clinic is always open. I’ve been dying to see how a gravity-user reacts to a little dissection.”
Chuuya took a sharp step back, his survival instincts screaming. “Stay the hell away from me.”
“Oh, let him go, Yosano,” Ranpo chuckled, unwrapping a fresh piece of candy. “He has to go home and nurse his ego. Though, Nakahara-kun… you might want to check your car before you drive away. Dazai was the one who drove it back from Tokyo, right?”
Chuuya froze. A cold sweat broke out across his neck. “What did he do to my car?”
“Let’s just say,” Ranpo smirked, adjusting his glasses, “the valet ticket isn't the only thing he left in the glove compartment. And I think he scraped the rims on the curb outside the agency.”
“DAZAI!” Chuuya’s roar echoed through the entire apartment complex. Forget the hangover—pure adrenaline and rage took over. A massive red gravity wave erupted around him, cracking the concrete floor of the stairwell as he flew past Yosano and Ranpo, sprinting straight for the parking lot to check on his million-dollar baby.
Down in the parking lot, his car was thankfully in one piece, but pasted across the rear windshield was a giant, neon-pink bumper sticker that read: “Honk if you think my partner is a tiny hatrack!”
From the third-floor window, Dazai leaned out, waving a white handkerchief. “Drive safely, Chuuya! See you Tuesday!”
.
Meanwhile with Akutagawa…
Inside the pristine, dimly lit corridors of the Port Mafia headquarters, the atmosphere was usually tense, but today it was downright suffocating.
Ryunosuke Akutagawa stood frozen outside the Executive office doors, his hands clenched so tightly inside his pockets that his knuckles turned white. His dark aura was practically vibrating. His throat clicked as he swallowed hard, trying to suppress the absolute crisis occurring inside his brain.
“A lovely date.”
“My mackerel.”
“Tell the boss I’m on vacation.”
Chuuya’s drunken, giggling words from the night before kept looping in Akutagawa's mind like a horrific, inescapable record. His supreme leader—the gravity-wielding god of the Port Mafia—had been carried away like a sack of laundry by the Armed Detective Agency’s most infuriating member.
“Akutagawa-senpai?”
Higuchi stepped up beside him, holding a stack of neatly organized mission reports. She looked at him with intense concern, noticing the way his trench coat was faintly twitching. “Are you alright? You’ve been standing outside Nakahara-san's office for twenty minutes. And... you look remarkably pale. Is your lung ailment acting up?”
“I am fine,” Akutagawa rasped, his voice tighter than a piano wire. “Do not question me, Higuchi.”
“R-Right! My apologies!” Higuchi bowed quickly. “It’s just... Nakahara-san hasn't arrived for his morning briefing yet. It’s highly unusual for him to be late, especially on a Monday. Do you think he was ambushed by the Agency over the weekend?”
Akutagawa’s left eye gave a violent, involuntary twitch. Ambushed? No. Seduced by a hat? Tragically, yes.
“Nakahara-san is... indisposed,” Akutagawa forced the words out of his mouth, each syllable tasting like ash. “He was engaged in a... highly confidential, deep-cover intelligence gathering operation in the Tokyo sector.”
“Oh! A secret mission directly from Mori-san?” Higuchi’s eyes shone with deep respect. “As expected of an Executive! To work through his hard-earned weekend for the sake of the organization!”
Akutagawa looked away, staring blankly at the wall. He wanted to throw up. He was currently committing treason by withholding information from the boss, but the alternative—explaining that Chuuya was currently nursing a hangover in a grey pair of sweatpants at a rival detective's dorm—would undoubtedly cause a gang war or, worse, make Mori ask uncomfortable questions.
Suddenly, the heavy double doors at the end of the hall swung open.
Chuuya walked in.
Higuchi immediately straightened up, bowing deeply. “Good morning, Nakahara-san!”
Akutagawa stiffened, his breath hitching. He looked up, expecting to see Chuuya in his usual perfect attire. Instead, while Chuuya was wearing his pristine black three-piece suit and his wine-red vest, something was entirely different. Atop his head sat a brand-new, incredibly rare, vintage 1920s Borsalino fedora.
And more importantly, Chuuya looked like he wanted to murder the entire universe. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw was clenched, and he radiated a terrifyingly heavy gravity pressure that made the lightbulbs in the ceiling hum dangerously.
Chuuya stopped right in front of Akutagawa. The silence in the hallway became absolute.
Chuuya narrowed his eyes, staring down his former subordinate. He didn't say a word about the tiger, the alleyway, or the fact that he had been completely wasted. He just tilted the brim of his pristine new hat down, shadowing his eyes.
“Akutagawa,” Chuuya said, his voice a low, lethal vibration.
“Yes, Nakahara-san,” Akutagawa replied, his voice flat, his face a perfect mask of mafia stoicism.
“The weather in Yokohama was incredibly foggy over the weekend,” Chuuya murmured blindly, testing him. “Visibility was practically zero. A man could barely see two feet in front of his own face.”
Akutagawa didn't blink. “Indeed, Nakahara-san. The fog was absolute. I could see nothing at all. My vision was entirely compromised.”
Chuuya stared at him for three agonizing seconds longer. Then, the heavy, suffocating pressure in the air suddenly lifted. A small, grim smirk played on Chuuya's lips as he patted Akutagawa’s shoulder with a leather-gloved hand.
“Good lad,” Chuuya muttered, walking past him and ripping open his office door. “Higuchi, bring me a gallon of black coffee and three boxes of aspirin. If anyone calls me from the Armed Detective Agency today, patch them through immediately so I can trace their location and blow up their building.”
As the office door slammed shut, Higuchi blinked, thoroughly confused. “Fog? But... it was completely clear and sunny this weekend...”
Akutagawa let out a long, slow breath, his trench coat finally settling. “The weather in the underground is subject to change, Higuchi. Do not think about it further.”
.
Over at the Armed Detective Agency, Atsushi Nakajima was a walking ball of pure anxiety.
He was supposed to be running a simple errand—picking up a fresh batch of printing paper and medicinal supplies from a local market in downtown Yokohama—but his hands were shaking so badly the paper bags were rattling. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Nakahara Chuuya in grey sweatpants, giggling and calling Dazai "my mackerel.”
"Atsushi-kun? Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Atsushi jumped nearly three feet in the air, dropping a box of bandages. He scrambled to pick it up, coming face-to-face with Kyōka Izumi, who was standing there holding a small bag of crepes, her expression as blank and observant as ever.
"K-Kyōka-chan!" Atsushi squeaked, his voice pitching an octave higher than usual. "I'm fine! Totally fine! Just... thinking about paperwork! And schedules! Kunikida-san's schedules!”
Kyōka tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You are sweating. And your heartbeat is fast. Is there a new enemy tracking the Agency?”
"No! No enemies! Well, I mean, the Port Mafia is always a thing, but not like that!" Atsushi rambled, desperately trying to organize the supplies in his arms. "It’s just... Dazai-san did something incredibly weird this weekend. Like, weirder than trying to eat poisonous mushrooms.”
Kyōka took a quiet bite of her crepe. "What did Dazai-san do?"
"He went to Tokyo! On a Saturday!" Atsushi hissed, leaning in close so no passersby on the busy Yokohama street could hear him. "And he wasn't alone! He was with... with Nakahara-san! From the Mafia!"
Kyōka paused mid-chew. Her dark blue eyes widened just a fraction. As a former member of the Port Mafia, she knew exactly how terrifying Nakahara Chuuya was. "The Gravity Manipulator? Did they fight? Was downtown Tokyo destroyed?”
"No! That's the terrifying part!" Atsushi flailed his arms wildly, completely losing control of his filter. "They went out for crab! Dazai-san literally told me and Akutagawa that they were on a lovely romantic date, and Nakahara-san was completely wasted on expensive wine, wearing sweatpants, and agreeing with him! He called him his mackerel!"
The words echoed loudly down the relatively quiet alleyway they had stepped into.
Atsushi immediately clamped both hands over his mouth, his eyes bugging out in horror. He had said it. He had spoken the forbidden truth out loud in the middle of the city.
Kyōka stood perfectly still, processing the mental image of the fearsome Port Mafia Executive in casual loungewear, drunkenly hanging off the Agency's most annoying detective. A tiny, rare shudder ran down her spine.
"That... sounds like a psychological weapon."
"Please don't tell anyone," Atsushi whimpered, dropping to his knees in despair. "Akutagawa said he would literally shred me into fish bait if I ever spoke about it again. If the Mafia finds out I'm spreading this—"
"Find out about what, exactly?”
A cold, smooth voice cut through the alleyway like ice.
Atsushi froze. Kyōka instantly dropped her crepe, her hand flying straight to her phone to summon Demon Snow.
Stepping out from around the corner of the market building was Ozaki Kōyo, her elegant traditional kimono trailing gracefully behind her. She held her parasol loosely over her shoulder, but her golden eyes were sharp, glinting with a dangerous, deeply curious intensity. She had clearly caught the tail end of Atsushi's loud, panicked outburst.
"Did I just hear you mention my dear subordinate Chuuya..." Kōyo purred, a beautiful yet utterly terrifying smile spreading across her face, "...and that detestable Dazai being on a date?"
Atsushi’s soul officially left his body for the second time that weekend.
.
Back at the Port Mafia headquarters, Chuuya was finally feeling like a human being again. The black coffee and aspirin Higuchi brought had successfully kicked the remaining shards of his hangover. He sat elegantly at his desk, casually checking off logs while admiring how the brim of his new Borsalino fedora cast a perfect, intimidating shadow over his eyes.
Suddenly, his office doors didn't just open—they glided open with an ominous, graceful slowness.
Chuuya looked up, his brow furrowing as Ozaki Kōyo stepped into the room. Her traditional kimono rustled softly against the floor, and her parasol was tucked under her arm. She wore a look of absolute, maternal serenity—which, in the Port Mafia, was the universal warning sign for an impending execution.
"Ane-san?" Chuuya stood up immediately, tipping his hat out of respect. "Is something wrong? If it's about the western territory logistics, I just finished the report—“
"Chuuya," Kōyo interrupted, her voice smoother than silk as she drifted over to his desk. She stopped right in front of him, her golden eyes scanning his face, then dropping down to the vintage fedora resting on his head. "That is an exceptionally lovely hat. Very unique. I don't recall seeing it in your collection last week.”
Chuuya blinked, a tiny bead of sweat forming at his hairline. His survival instincts, honed from years of fighting under her tutelage, suddenly began to ring. "Oh. Uh, thanks. It’s a 1920s Borsalino. Picked it up through an international proxy auction over the weekend.”
"An auction," Kōyo echoed, a sharp, teasing smile spreading across her painted lips. She leaned in closer, tilting her head. "How fascinating. Because a little bird in the downtown market—a rather frantic, silver-haired tiger bird, to be exact—was singing a remarkably different tune."
Chuuya froze. The temperature in the room felt like it dropped to absolute zero.
"He was babbling something entirely nonsensical," Kōyo continued, her smile widening into something genuinely terrifying. "Something about you running around Tokyo on your precious Saturday off. In grey fleece sweatpants. Drunk on vintage wine, eating premium crab, and holding hands with a certain bandaged demon.”
Crash.
Chuuya’s pen snapped completely in half under his gloved fingers. A violent, dark red gravity aura flared up around him, causing his desk calendar and three coffee mugs to instantly levitate and vibrate against the ceiling. His face flushed a deep, furious crimson that rivaled his wine vest.
"The tiger boy," Chuuya hissed, his teeth grinding together so loudly it echoed. "I am going to peel that oversized alley cat like a orange. I am going to drop a literal skyscraper on his head.”
"So it is true," Kōyo gasped softly, placing a delicate hand over her mouth, though her eyes were practically sparkling with endless amusement. "My goodness, Chuuya. If you wanted to go on a romantic seafood holiday, you could have simply asked for proper vacation days. There was no need to sneak across prefectural lines like a pair of truant teenagers.”
"It wasn't a romantic holiday! It wasn't a date!" Chuuya screamed, completely losing his composure as the floating coffee mugs shattered against the ceiling from his spike in gravity. "The bastard stole a secure terminal to bid on this hat for me! I only went because he forced me! I wore sweatpants because I was on my goddamn break!”
"Oh, hush. You don't need to make excuses to your legal guardian," Kōyo chuckled rich with mockery, tapping him playfully on the nose with her closed parasol. "Though I must admit, your taste in men remains utterly disastrous. Dazai, Chuuya? Really?”
Chuuya slumped back into his leather chair, covering his bright red face with both hands, utterly defeated. His pristine new hat tilted precariously on his head. "I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill Dazai, I'm going to kill the tiger, and then I'm going to jump into the ocean.”
"Do keep the hat dry if you do," Kōyo purred, turning gracefully on her heel to leave the office. "It really does suit you. Have a wonderful Monday, dear."
As the doors shut behind her, Chuuya whipped out his phone, dialed Dazai's number, and roared into the receiver the exact second it picked up: "DAZAI, YOU PIECE OF SHIT, YOU TOLD THE WHOLE CITY!"
Dazai didn't just laugh—he laughed so hard Chuuya could hear him literally falling out of his office chair on the other end of the line.
“HAHAHA! Oh my god, Chuuya!” Dazai wheezed, his voice muffled as if he was rolling around on the Agency floor. “Koyo-san found out?! Did she give you the shovel talk? Did she ask if my intentions with her precious executive were honorable? Oh, this is the best Monday of my entire life!”
“I’m going to rip your throat out through your ears!” Chuuya screamed into the phone, his gravity aura flaring so hard the heavy mahogany desk beneath him cracked down the center. “You told that damn tiger boy! He’s running around the city telling everyone we were on a romantic seafood holiday!”
“I didn't tell him, he saw us! And honestly, Chuuya, your loud voice is terrible for my ears,” Dazai cooed, suddenly sounding completely delighted with himself. “But if you’re going to murder Atsushi-kun, you better do it quickly. He’s currently hiding under a desk in the office, crying because Akutagawa sent him a text that just said ’Die.’ Happy hunting, hatrack~”
The line went dead with a cheerful click.
Chuuya didn't even bother hanging up. He slammed the phone onto the desk, stood up, and adjusted his brand-new Borsalino fedora until the brim perfectly shadowed his lethal blue eyes. "Higuchi," he called out over the intercom, his voice dangerously calm. "Get the car. We're going to the Armed Detective Agency."
.
Thirty minutes later, the peace and quiet of the Armed Detective Agency office was shattered into a million pieces.
The heavy wood-and-glass front doors didn't just open—they flew off their hinges, splintering into toothpicks against the back wall. Nakahara Chuuya stepped through the ruined doorway, a brilliant, terrifying crimson glow radiating from his body.
Kunikida slammed his hands on his desk, instantly standing up. "Nakahara! This is a government-sanctioned office! You can't just—“
"Shut up, four-eyes. Where is the cat?" Chuuya snapped, his eyes scanning the room like a heat-seeking missile.
Underneath a desk in the far corner, a silver-haired boy was curled into a tight, trembling ball. Atsushi was clutching his knees, staring at Chuuya’s boots with wide, tear-filled eyes. "N-Nakahara-san... I'm so sorry! I swear it was an accident! I didn't mean to tell Koyo-san! She just appeared out of the shadows like a ghost!”
Chuuya walked over, the sheer pressure of his gravity making the floorboards groan and pop beneath his feet. He stopped right in front of Atsushi’s desk, leaning down until his shadow completely enveloped the terrified boy.
"You've got a really big mouth for a stray cat," Chuuya muttered, reaching down and grabbing Atsushi by the collar of his shirt, effortlessly hoisting him into the air with one hand.
"Dazai-san, help me!" Atsushi wailed, looking desperately toward the couch.
Dazai was lying flat on his back on the office sofa, casually reading a suicide manual. He didn't even look up. He just waved a lazy, bandaged hand in the air. "Goodbye, Atsushi-kun. I'll make sure Kunikida writes a very nice schedule for your funeral.”
"DAZAI!" Kunikida and Atsushi screamed in unison.
Chuuya tilted his new fedora back, glaring down at the dangling tiger boy. "Listen to me closely, kid. If I hear one more word about Tokyo, about crab, or about sweatpants out of your mouth—or anyone else's mouth in this damn city—I am going to use your tiger form as a rug for my living room. Do you understand me?”
"Yes! Yes! I understand! I'll never speak again! I'll become a mute!" Atsushi squeaked, nodding so fast his head blurred.
Chuuya dropped him back to the floor like a piece of trash. He turned on his heel, his long black coat billowing dramatically behind him. As he walked past the sofa, he paused, kicking the edge of the cushions hard enough to send Dazai sliding right onto the floor with a loud thud.
"See you Tuesday, asshole," Chuuya growled, adjusting his beautiful new hat one last time before storming out of the ruined office.
Dazai sat up from the floor, rubbing his lower back with a massive, goofy grin on his face. "My, my... he really does look fantastic in that hat.”
.
Tuesday arrived with the kind of crisp, clear autumn weather that made Yokohama look almost peaceful.
Of course, peace was the last thing on Nakahara Chuuya’s mind.
He stood on the rusted metal roof of an abandoned shipping warehouse by the docks, the wind whipping his long black coat around his ankles. He had adjusted his pristine, vintage 1920s Borsalino fedora at a perfect, lethal angle. His hands were tucked casually into his coat pockets, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the empty crane platforms.
"You're late," Chuuya muttered to the empty air.
"Am I?" A light, infuriatingly familiar voice echoed from the shadows of a massive shipping container. Dazai stepped out into the sunlight, his hands in his beige coat pockets. He wasn't wearing his usual neutral expression—he had a smirk that practically screamed 'I am about to ruin your entire week.' "And here I thought a gentleman never keeps his lovely date waiting.”
"I told you," Chuuya growled, a faint, dangerous red aura beginning to crackle around his black leather boots, "if you said that word again, I’d bury you under this concrete.”
"Oh, come now, Chuuya! After everything we've been through? The crab, the wine, the long romantic drive..." Dazai took a few steps closer, his eyes glinting with malicious glee. "The way you clung to my coat and mumbled about how swampyI smelled? Truly, a tale for the ages. I've already considered writing a short story about it. I'll call it 'The Executive's Soft Spots.'"
Chuuya’s jaw clenched so hard a vein throbbed on his temple. "You wouldn't dare.”
"I might! Ranpo-san said he'd edit it for me. He thinks the part where you threw up in your own mind is a literary masterpiece."
That was the absolute breaking point.
With a deafening CRACK, the concrete beneath Chuuya’s feet shattered into a spiderweb of fissures. He vanished in a blur of pure, gravity-assisted speed, appearing directly in front of Dazai with his leg whipped out in a lethal, bone-shattering kick aimed straight for Dazai's ribs.
Dazai, predicting the exact trajectory based on years of shared muscle memory, sidestepped just a fraction of an inch—but he didn't dodge completely. Instead, he purposely lunged forward, letting Chuuya’s shin make contact with his forearm.
The exact millisecond they touched, a brilliant flash of geometric blue light rippled through the air.
No Longer Human.
The heavy, suffocating weight of Chuuya’s gravity instantly evaporated. The sudden loss of momentum caused Chuuya to stumble slightly forward, his momentum carrying him right into Dazai’s personal space. Dazai smoothly grabbed Chuuya by his leather-gloved wrists, twisting them downward to lock him in place.
"Gotcha," Dazai whispered, his face inches from Chuuya’s, his sharp brown eyes entirely fixed on the shorter man.
"Let go of me, you waste of bandages!" Chuuya snarled, trying to wrench his arms free, but without his ability, he was forced to rely on raw physical strength—and Dazai was holding on with a surprisingly firm, unyielding grip.
"Nope. If I let go, you'll just try to throw a shipping container at me," Dazai chuckled, his voice dropping into a softer, lower register that made Chuuya’s chest tighten in sheer annoyance. Dazai tilted his head, his gaze drifting upward to the pristine fedora. He reached out with one hand, lightly tapping the crisp brim. "Besides, I wanted a closer look at the hat. It really does look good on you, slug.”
Chuuya froze, his breath hitching slightly at the sudden shift in Dazai's tone. He glared up through his orange bangs, his face flushing slightly—though he'd rather die than admit it was from anything other than pure rage.
"I paid for it," Chuuya muttered defensively, his voice dropping its aggressive edge. "So it better look good.”
"Mm, but I found it," Dazai reminded him, a genuine, soft smile playing on his lips as he finally released Chuuya’s wrists, stepping back just enough to give him space. "Consider it a fee for keeping your secret. I won't publish the story. For now.”
Chuuya adjusted his cuffs, pulling his coat straight and tugging the brim of his Borsalino back down to shadow his eyes. "You're an absolute piece of work, Dazai.”
"I know," Dazai chirped, turning on his heel and walking toward the edge of the roof, waving a hand over his shoulder. "Next Saturday, it's your turn to pick the restaurant. I expect something with high-end sake!”
Chuuya watched the coat-tails of his former partner disappear down the fire escape. He let out a long, exhausted sigh, running a hand over his face. He hated him. He absolutely, undeniably hated him.
But as Chuuya looked out over the sparkling Yokohama bay, he lightly tapped the brim of his favorite new hat, a small, involuntary smile finally breaking through his scowl.
.
The heavy double doors of the topmost office in the Port Mafia headquarters slid open with a hushed, expensive click.
Chuuya stepped into the vast, dimly lit room. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping, panoramic view of the Yokohama skyline, but the focus of the room was entirely on the large desk at the far end.
Mori sat behind it, his chin resting comfortably on his laced fingers. His expression was a familiar mask of polite, calculation-driven serenity. On the floor nearby, Elise was busy doodling on a giant sheet of paper with bright red crayons.
"Ah, Chuuya-kun," Mori said, his voice smooth and echoing slightly in the quiet space. "Thank you for coming up so quickly. I wanted to review the security adjustments for the western docks before the evening shipments arrive.”
"Of course, Boss," Chuuya replied smoothly, stepping forward and stopping a respectful distance from the desk. He took off his pristine new 1920s Borsalino fedora, holding it against his chest as he bowed. "The extra patrols have already been stationed. Akutagawa’s black lizard unit is handling the perimeter.”
"Excellent. Always so thorough," Mori purred. He didn't immediately reach for the paperwork Chuuya extended. Instead, his dark eyes locked entirely onto the vintage velvet hat in Chuuya's hand. A highly amused, entirely too sharp glint appeared in his gaze. "My, Chuuya-kun. That is a magnificent piece of headwear. A Borsalino, if I'm not mistaken? From the early revival collection?”
Chuuya’s posture stiffened by a fraction of an inch. A cold sweat threatened to break out at the back of his neck, but he kept his voice completely level. "Yes, Boss. I managed to acquire it over the weekend."
"Fascinating," Mori murmured, leaning back in his leather chair and tapping a finger against his cheek. "The London Millinery Exhibition lot, correct? I happen to recall that particular auction closing late Saturday night. The proxy bidding process required highly specialized, heavily encrypted regional routing tunnels to even access the server from Japan."
Mori paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make Chuuya’s pulse quicken.
"In fact," Mori continued, his smile widening into something deeply knowing, "the only terminal in the entire Kanto region that successfully bypassed those security blocks was traced back to a secure node owned by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs... specifically, one heavily utilized by the Armed Detective Agency.”
Chuuya felt his jaw lock. He wanted to look away, but he forced himself to maintain eye contact with the leader of the underground. That absolute bastard Dazai didn't even bother to scrub his digital footprints, Chuuya thought furiously.
"Rintarou! Look at my drawing!" Elise suddenly interrupted, holding up a paper covered in messy red scribbles of what looked like a giant crab eating a tiny hat.
Mori chuckled softly, waving a hand dismissively at the drawing before looking back up at the executive. "Don't look so tense, Chuuya-kun. I am not scolding you. As I told Dazai-kun via text on Sunday morning... as long as our top combatant returns in one piece and the plumbing in the city remains functional, I have no objections to how you spend your Saturday evenings.”
Chuuya’s soul practically withered inside his chest. Mori knew the whole time.
"I apologize for any jurisdictional overlap, Boss," Chuuya managed to squeeze out through his teeth, his face turning a faint shade of pink from sheer embarrassment. "It was... a strictly transactional matter to secure the asset.”
"And a highly successful transaction at that," Mori smiled, his tone returning to its casual, business-like demeanor as he finally took the dock reports from Chuuya's hand. "It suits you wonderfully. A grand executive deserves a grand hat. You are dismissed, Chuuya-kun.”
"Thank you, Boss," Chuuya mumbled.
He placed the fedora back onto his head, tilted the brim down as far as it would go to hide his burning face, and practically marched out of the room. The second the heavy office doors clicked shut behind him, he whipped out his phone and stared at it, deeply contemplating throwing it out the window.
As he walked out the very tall building, only one thought was formed:
He was never letting Dazai persuade him ever again.