Dazai Osamu || 太宰 治

Even after everything—years of instability, of hollowed-out thoughts and a mind that never quite sat still—Dazai had managed to leave it behind. Or at least, leave him behind. Mori Ougai and that ever-present, knowing smile weren’t supposed to follow him into this life. The Armed Detective Agency was meant to be distance. A clean break.

It would’ve been, if the Port Mafia didn’t still exist in the same city.

And if Mori hadn’t replaced him.

The “new demon prodigy” wasn’t just a rumor—Dazai had seen them, briefly, in passing. Never long enough to understand, just enough to recognize the pattern. Controlled. Kept close. Not paraded the way Dazai had been, but guarded. Deliberately. Like Mori had learned something the first time.

At a glance, it was easy to dismiss. Another gifted one with a dangerous ability, shaped into something sharp and useful. But the more Dazai heard, the less it fit that simple shape. They weren’t just powerful—they were contained.

Mori didn’t want this one slipping through his fingers.

So Dazai didn’t dwell. Not this time.

A mission came through—something small, local, the kind that shouldn’t have meant anything. Until it overlapped. Same location. Same interference. Doppo Kunikida had expected resistance. Dazai had expected cleanup.

Neither of them expected this.

The building was half-collapsed, swallowed by cold and neglect, wind cutting through broken walls like it had a purpose. Inside, it smelled like rust and damp concrete—old blood and new.

Kunikida found you first.

Not hidden well—just… cornered. Sitting against the base of a crumbling wall where the structure dipped inward, like you’d ended up there more by circumstance than choice. The knife wasn’t subtle. Lodged clean through your midsection, the kind of wound that didn’t leave much room for optimism.

“Kunikida-kun,” Dazai’s voice carried lightly as he stepped inside, hands in his coat pockets like this was any other stop along the way. “You sound unusually tense.”

“Dazai,” Kunikida snapped, not looking away from you. “We’ve got a situation.”

Dazai followed his line of sight.

And paused.

Recognition came easy, even like this. Even bloodied, even half-slumped and barely holding yourself upright—you matched the outline he’d already built in his head.

“…Well,” he murmured, quieter now. “That’s inconvenient.”

You weren’t unconscious. Not yet. Still trying, in that stubborn, ingrained way—posture tight, gaze sharp even if it didn’t quite focus right. There was an attempt at distance, at threat, at pushing them back without the strength to enforce it.

Kunikida took a step closer anyway, controlled but firm. “Don’t move,” he said, already assessing the injury, tone clipped. “You’re making it worse.”

The response he got—whatever it was—didn’t stop him.

Behind him, Dazai approached slower. Not cautious. Just… observing.

“Amazing,” he said lightly, stopping a few steps off, head tilting as he took in the full picture. “You’re about five minutes from bleeding out and still trying to act intimidating. Mori really does pick them carefully.”

Kunikida shot him a look. “This isn’t the time—”

“I know,” Dazai cut in easily, though his eyes hadn’t left you. “I’m just confirming.”

A brief pause.

Then, softer—almost thoughtful.

“You’re the one he’s been keeping close.”

The cold pressed in through the broken structure, biting and constant. Outside, there was nothing. No backup. No footsteps. No sign that anyone from the Mafia was coming to retrieve what they’d left behind.

Kunikida exhaled sharply, already reaching for what he needed. “We don’t have time to stand around. If we don’t stabilize them now, they’re not making it out of here.”

Dazai hummed faintly at that, gaze flicking once to the knife, then back to your face—watching, measuring, something unreadable settling behind the usual ease.

“…Well,” he said after a moment, tone light again, like the situation wasn’t balanced on a knife’s edge. “That would be a waste.”

Another step closer.

“Try not to die just yet,” he added, almost absentmindedly. “I’d hate for our first proper conversation to be this short.”

Even after everything—years of instability, of hollowed-out thoughts and a mind that never quite sat still—Dazai had managed to leave it behind. Or at least, leave him behind. Mori Ougai and that ever-present, knowing smile weren’t supposed to follow him into this life. The Armed Detective Agency was meant to be distance. A clean break.

It would’ve been, if the Port Mafia didn’t still exist in the same city.

And if Mori hadn’t replaced him.

The “new demon prodigy” wasn’t just a rumor—Dazai had seen them, briefly, in passing. Never long enough to understand, just enough to recognize the pattern. Controlled. Kept close. Not paraded the way Dazai had been, but guarded. Deliberately. Like Mori had learned something the first time.

At a glance, it was easy to dismiss. Another gifted one with a dangerous ability, shaped into something sharp and useful. But the more Dazai heard, the less it fit that simple shape. They weren’t just powerful—they were contained.

Mori didn’t want this one slipping through his fingers.

So Dazai didn’t dwell. Not this time.

A mission came through—something small, local, the kind that shouldn’t have meant anything. Until it overlapped. Same location. Same interference. Doppo Kunikida had expected resistance. Dazai had expected cleanup.

Neither of them expected this.

The building was half-collapsed, swallowed by cold and neglect, wind cutting through broken walls like it had a purpose. Inside, it smelled like rust and damp concrete—old blood and new.

Kunikida found you first.

Not hidden well—just… cornered. Sitting against the base of a crumbling wall where the structure dipped inward, like you’d ended up there more by circumstance than choice. The knife wasn’t subtle. Lodged clean through your midsection, the kind of wound that didn’t leave much room for optimism.

“Kunikida-kun,” Dazai’s voice carried lightly as he stepped inside, hands in his coat pockets like this was any other stop along the way. “You sound unusually tense.”

“Dazai,” Kunikida snapped, not looking away from you. “We’ve got a situation.”

Dazai followed his line of sight.

And paused.

Recognition came easy, even like this. Even bloodied, even half-slumped and barely holding yourself upright—you matched the outline he’d already built in his head.

“…Well,” he murmured, quieter now. “That’s inconvenient.”

Even after everything—years of instability, of hollowed-out thoughts and a mind that never quite sat still—Dazai had managed to leave it behind. Or at least, leave him behind. Mori Ougai and that ever-present, knowing smile weren’t supposed to follow him into this life. The Armed Detective Agency was meant to be distance. A clean break.

It would’ve been, if the Port Mafia didn’t still exist in the same city.

And if Mori hadn’t replaced him.

The “new demon prodigy” wasn’t just a rumor—Dazai had seen them, briefly, in passing. Never long enough to understand, just enough to recognize the pattern. Controlled. Kept close. Not paraded the way Dazai had been, but guarded. Deliberately. Like Mori had learned something the first time.

At a glance, it was easy to dismiss. Another gifted one with a dangerous ability, shaped into something sharp and useful. But the more Dazai heard, the less it fit that simple shape. They weren’t just powerful—they were contained.

Mori didn’t want this one slipping through his fingers.

So Dazai didn’t dwell. Not this time.

A mission came through—something small, local, the kind that shouldn’t have meant anything. Until it overlapped. Same location. Same interference. Doppo Kunikida had expected resistance. Dazai had expected cleanup.

Neither of them expected this.

The building was half-collapsed, swallowed by cold and neglect, wind cutting through broken walls like it had a purpose. Inside, it smelled like rust and damp concrete—old blood and new.

You were not hidden well—just… cornered. Sitting against the base of a crumbling wall where the structure dipped inward, like you’d ended up there more by circumstance than choice. The knife wasn’t subtle. Lodged clean through your midsection, the kind of wound that didn’t leave much room for optimism.