Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Death should be the end, except it wasn't.

Death.

The end of the journey, so to speak. The end of all things and all meanings, the Void. Death sank its unforgiving claws on you once your heart stopped beating and your body was so weakened, broken and battered that it failed to support your basic functions any longer, everything ended here. You as a person and your consciousness were no more, you were dead meat, you were reduced to zero.

The Ultimate Void, you fell into it and never came back, no one was supposed to ever come back from this point, that was how people usually would expect when they talk about and try to understand the concept of death, except in the case of Akutagawa, it wasn't exactly what had taken place.

Looked like there really were stranger things between Heaven and Earth than the general weirdness of the Abilities and their users, after all.

Let’s start from the end…or, the beginning part of the story. Akutagawa never expected to ever wake up again when Fukuchi Ōchi sliced his throat open with his accursed Sword.

Akutagawa’s world began to dark as a great amount of blood rushed out of him, and the Weretiger’s screams still rang piercingly in his ears.

They could not win against Fukuchi, so he had told…ordered the idiotic tiger boy to escape. He could only wish the idiot didn't try to return and attempt to save him.

No matter, that was nothing more Akutagawa could do at that point.

He lost so much blood, far too much, he knew no one could physically survive this kind of blood loss.

That was it, he remembered thinking in the last moment, that was how he met his end, before everything went horribly dark.

For a very long time afterward, nothing.

Akutagawa didn't have any thoughts, he didn't have any consciousness or awareness of his own existence, there was only infinite darkness, and the void.

Then it all changed, pain and the other senses were rushing back through the core of his being, and the eternal, unchanging, almost comforting darkness was replaced rapidly by the bleeding colors of deep crimson.

Too bright, too richly crimson, too much like blood running out of a cut-open vein, the color of those multi-layer shades of deep red blossoming savagely across his vision.

So thick, so bloody red that it hurt, his eyes hurt. Should he open his eyes or should he keep them shut against such discomfort…?

He realized something was wrong.

Wrong.

No.

No, he wasn't supposed to open his eyes, he wasn't supposed to wake up, he wasn’t supposed to be able to do anything at all! Dead things should stay dead, everyone would agree.

However, it was as if some power from the higher-up was laughing at him, despite the impossibility of the notion, with every passing second Akutagwa felt himself aching all over, but how could it be possible when he was no longer alive? Why would he still feel pain? He should have been beyond pain at this point, having the eternal rest so to speak, so why was he—

In the next second his eyes snapped open, his vision was (almost unsurprisingly) filled with the unnatural bright redness, as his body woke up to a world of pain.

As his vision became slightly more focused, all he could see were roses, crimson red roses blooming all across his field of vision.

Akutagawa couldn’t help himself, he gasped and coughed as cold oxygen suddenly shook back into his lungs, when he started breathing again it was just as painful as everything else he was experiencing.

Why was this happening? It shouldn’t be possible–

As he inhaled, a strong and unexpected new scent mercilessly invaded his senses.

At first, Akutagawa could not recognize what this scent was, so it took him a moment to associate this sweet, suffocating scent with a thousand blooming roses.

Out of the blue, a pair of strong arms took hold of his weakened body from behind, holding him down like a heavy set of shackles.

Akutagawa never liked being trapped, but at the moment he could do nothing but gasp and shiver like a sick puppy. Whatever thing that had its grip on him wasn’t letting him go.

“ Are you okay?”

Someone was speaking to him…the person who had him in his grip was talking to him, although Akutagawa could barely understand what those words meant. The strong scent of roses was still there, filling up the space…it was too strong, making it difficult to think clearly...

“Akutagawa!”

The unknown person was calling out a name, his name.

Like a shock to his system, every memory, sensation, and emotion rushed back to him instantly, that was how Akutagawa Ryuunosuke woke up to his strange new existence.

At the same moment, he recognized the voice and its owner, it was the Weretiger, Nakajima Atsushi, his arch enemy and somewhat (unwilling) partner of combat in many battles.

To say Nakajima Atsushi was the last person he ever expected to wake up to, would be an understatement. Yet, these unthinkable turns of events had something to do with the Weretiger, it always had.

“You woke up, Akutagawa!”

The Weretiger exclaimed like it was some kind of great wonder.

Or perhaps it really was.

Something wet landed on his cheeks, tiny droplets of cool liquid, was the idiot crying? Crying over Akutagawa? But it couldn’t be, it was just so wrong.

Everything was wrong. Akutagawa could sense it in his guts, more clearly than anything else.

“I’m so happy you’re okay now.”

No, he was not okay.

“Akutagawa, ”

He felt weak and light-headed, and he could do nothing as he was gathered in Nakajima’s arms, unable to move a muscle and with too many unanswered questions whirling madly in his mind as he once again slipped back to unconsciousness.

“I’m not letting you go.”

In the darkness that surrounded the two youths, courtless crimson roses continued to blossom silently under the night sky, filling the cold air with their sickeningly sweet scent, everywhere and inescapable.

Chapter Text

For the longest time, Akutagawa was drifting in and out of consciousness. As reluctant as he was to admit any weaknesses, at the beginning he was too weakened to make sense of much of anything, sometimes he floated back to the surface and managed to open his eyes but soon exhaustion overwhelmed him and he was put under again.

He remembered having nightmares. Although to Akutagawa nightmares were nothing new, yet the nightmares he now had felt very different from before.

Fragments of those nightmares sept into his mind when he was trapped in semi-consciousness.

In those dark dreams, he saw strange things he had not seen before, strange memories sept into his mind, he had a vague impression of something that got a firm, unforgiving hold of his mind, trapping him as he lost control of his own body.

Were those memories or were those only dreams?

For a few times, Akutagawa woke up and found himself lying on what appeared to be a bed. He could feel the bedsheets underneath him and someone had put a blanket over him to keep warm. Above him, there was a spotless white ceiling supported by four white walls, it almost looked like he was in a hospital ward.

Except a normal hospital ward would not be so reeking of the scent of roses. The too-sweet scent of the roses was still so thick in the air…it clouded his brain and it always made him feel so, so sleepy.

A normal ward also wouldn't include one Nakajima Atsushi playing nurse.

Nakajima Atsushi.

His arch enemy.

Akutagawa still had no idea where he actually was, all he knew was that the Weretiger was always there, the silver-haired youth’s face always lingering at the corners of his eyes, he could even feel the touch of his hands lingering upon him.

It took him a long time to realize the reason why the Weretiger was here.

Horrifyingly, he realized the Weretiger was here to tend to his needs when he was barely able to move.

Impossible, the Weretiger had no reason to do that.

However, as time passed it became harder for Akutagawa to deny Nakajima Atsushi’s presence, and the latter was always too caring, and too gentle when he tended to him. it was simply unreal.

What seemed to also be unreal was the fact that whenever he looked at the only window in the room, it was always nighttime. The same dark, infinite nightfall, the cool night air filled with the heavy, wet scent of roses.

The sun never seemed to rise in this place.

Akutagawa concluded that wherever he was, it wasn’t Yokohama.

In here, whenever he was, time didn't seem to exist, nothing seemed to change.

He was being held to sit up on the bed, with his back pressed against the white iron headboard, as the Weretiger attempted to spoon-feed him some porridge.

That warm, rich fragrance of the porridge came as a welcoming change against the unchanging smell of roses, yet Akutagawa had no appetite.

“Akutagawa,” The Weretiger mouthed his name with a frown, “You need to eat.”

“ I don't need your help.” All the black-haired mafioso could do was to turn his head away stubbornly.

The Weretiger put the bowl down with a small sigh, but then the youth chuckled unexpectedly. “ Of course you do, silly!”

“No.”

“Yo’know, the sooner you come around, the better.” The younger one’s voice was annoyingly full of optimism and cheerfulness.

An out-of-place kind of cheerfulness that, if Akugawa was honest with himself, was making him uneasy.

“Better for who?!” Akutagawa countered, his tone filled with sarcasm.

There was no reply. Just when Akutagawa silently congratulated himself for shutting the Weretiger up, the tiger boy spoke up again,

“Things would be so much better for you, Akutagawa.”

The easy, almost carefree smile on the Weretiger’s face only made Akutagawa feel even more restless.

Something is wrong.

It was the same feeling of wrongness ever since he woke up, something had been twisted, gone out of focus, becoming unnatural and there was nothing anyone could do to fix this wrongness again, and for some unknown reason, Nakajima Atsushi was at the center of all these.

Chapter Text

No matter how Akutagawa looked at it, the current situation he found himself in was just abnormal.

Firstly, he shouldn't even be here or anywhere else because the memory of his death was still vivid in his mind.

Even thinking about this felt wrong because supposedly no one should have the memory of their own death in their mind, but even death couldn't erase the memory of Fukuchi’s Sword slicing his throat.

It wasn't a piece of memory that he wished to revisit, but he knew the sensation of the cold iron mercilessly cutting into his flesh would haunt him for the rest of his days, just like the thick horizontal scar he could feel now seared to the fragile flesh of his neck. The proof that his throat had once been sliced open, and then healed, even when such a fatal wound wasn't even supposed to heal.

It should have been impossible but here he was, still alive and breathing even when from time to time, every breath he took was a struggle.

The large scar and the bad memory proved that it wasn't a dream, it was real.

Furthermore, nothing was making any sense even since he ‘woke up’.

He still had no idea what had happened to him afterward, after the deadly battle with Fukuchi. Or where he was, why he was lying here so significantly weakened, his body barely able to move, let alone defend himself.

If he was in need of recovery, normally he would have been taken to the Port Mafia’s private infirmary instead of this…this strange unknown place. Despite its harsh rules and regulations, the Port Mafia still took great effort to look after their own agents. Plus he clearly couldn't be in a normal hospital because there would be no hospital or institution in Yokohama that would harbor an infamous wanted criminal like him.

Where was anyone else? Where were the Black Lizard, Chuuya-san, and his sister…?

Was she okay? Was she safe?

Akutagawa’s heart sank, quietly searching his memory once again, nothing came up, he couldn't recall anything beyond the desperate battle against Fukuchi.

He needed to know what had happened after the incident on the ship. He needed to know what had happened to his sister and the Port Mafia. He recalled at that time, the Armed Detective Agency was accused as a terrorist group, so…what had happened to them?

Akutagawa quickly reminded himself he didn't care what might happen to the Agency, but in his weakened and confused state, every piece of information, every knowledge was power. Currently, there was only one person who might be able to answer his questions.

The Weretiger.

For so long, the silver-haired member of the Agency was the only living soul he could see. No doctor or other medical staff had ever come in and checked on him. There was also no visitor. He could not even feel the presence of any living soul nearby.

Unlike the last time he was hospitalized (again, thanks to the Weretiger), this time in this strange place, there was not even someone who hated him enough to kick down the door and try to kill him then and there.

There was no one else. Only the Weretiger, and the inescapable scent of roses thick in the air in his every waking moment.

Therefore, when the Weretiger once again stepped into the ward with rolls of fresh bandage and a medical supplies kit in his arms, Akutagawa decided to ask some questions.

“Why are you here, Weretiger?”

The youth paused, probably caught off guard by hearing Akutagawa actually speaking to him; and for a moment he looked again like the old, awkward, easy-to-read youth whom Akutagawa was familiar with.

Then this illusion was gone and the silver-haired youth let out a chuckle. “Someone has to look after you, right?”

Akutagawa was pissed at the very notion that he needed looking after, especially from the likes of his arch enemy.

“I don't need your help.“

Without any comment, the Weretiger casually sat down on a chair next to the bed, facing Akutagawa with a calmness that the older man had never seen from him before. “You can keep telling yourself that, I don't really mind.”

Akutagawa shut his eyes, willing up the patience he didn't have before he made himself try again.

“ Weretiger.”

“... yes?”

“ What happened after the ship?”

From the younger one’s expression, he knew exactly which ship and what incidents Akutagawa was talking about.

At the mention of the incident that took place on that ship and Fukuchi, the Weretiger visibly flinched.

Surprisingly, the sign of his enemy’s display of weakness didn't bring Akutagawa any satisfaction.

“ Maybe you should rest—”

Now the Weretiger even clumsily tried to change the subject, but Akutagawa wouldn't let him.

“ Stop that!” Akutagawa tried really hard to control his temper, but he failed anyway. “ Tell me what happened!”

“ You really want to know?” The Weretiger averted his eyes with something almost like
guilt, his voice now barely a whisper.

Akutagawa continued to stare at him dead on. “ I deserve to know. You can start by telling me what you have done to my Ability.”

Finally, he said this out loud, the one thing that was too horrifying he previously couldn't bring himself to think about or acknowledge when he was lying there, too weak to move.

As soon as he woke up, he could no longer feel Rashoumon’s presence. It was deeply unsettling, horrifying and it only confirmed his suspension that something had gone terribly wrong.

This place was the very incarnation of wrongness, unnatural. He just knew it had something to do with the disappearance of his Ability.

“ I suppose you do need some answers.” Surprisingly this time the Weretigher was in agreement with him.

After what Akutagawa had done to save his life, the lengths he had gone above and beyond to fulfill Dazai's request and enable the ex-mafia-turned-detective’s plan of saving the day, the mafioso did deserve some answers.

So the silver-haired youth finally started talking.

***

Turned out, there was a lot to take in.

Akutagawa learned that apparently a huge battle had been fought across Yokohama, involving the Armed Detective Agency, the Port Mafia, the government, the army and even some of the ex-members of the Guild when he was out, a global war was nearly unleashed as a result, the world itself had literally changed when he was…dead.

‘Dead’ wasn’t even the accurate word, he was…he was…

His pale fingers unconsciously moved up to his neck, once again he traced the large scar across his throat with the tips of his fingers. This was the very reminder of what he had gone through.

Apparently after his death under Fukuchi’s hands, he was turned into a vampire by a being called Bram Stoker and put under mind control by Stoker’s vampiric Ability. The Port Mafia was hit the hardest by the vampire outbreak due to Akutagawa being the first to be infected by vampirism and under the influence of Stoker’s mind control, he spread the infection among the rank of Port Mafia and then the rest of Yokohama.

“It’s not your fault, you know? Bram Stoker set the mind control upon you, you had no control over your own actions, and Stoker’s hand was forced due to Fukuchi’s order. ” Atsushi whispered, stroking his hair.

Akutagawa did not know what had occurred to land him to his current position, he must have nodded off or something. Now the Weretiger was sitting at the edge of the bed, being so close, watching him with his violet and gold eyes, his fingers carding through Akutagawa’s hair like a mother would to her sick child.

Up close, Akutagawa could smell the scent of roses coming off from the Weretiger's body. It was weird to smell this from the younger boy. Rose wasn't the scent that he would associate the boy within his memory, but now the scent seemed to cling to the boy like a second skin.

Down beneath the sweet flowery scent, Akutagawa could sense there was something else underneath, but he could not pinpoint what this undertone was at the moment.

Plus he did not understand why the Weretiger, of all people, was comforting him. People still winded up dead because of him, nonetheless. Not that the black-haired mafioso had too many issues with people dying, casualties were part of the nature of his job; but the thought of such a large-scale mayhem was unleashed when he was being used like a mindless weapon, it still felt utterly wrong.

Since the Port Mafia was hit the hardest, many lives were lost, it begged the question: what happened to his sister?

“Well, Gin-san is fine.” The Weretiger replied calmly.

Did Akutagawa mention Gin’s name out loud? His head arched too much, he couldn't even recall whether he had spoken up or not. No, it wasn't like him, he must stay alert!

Annoyed by his own weakness, he tried to shake the Weretiger’s hand off, but to no avail.

“ Your words alone mean nothing to me, Weretiger.” He snapped.

“ As suspicious as always ne! Still, this time you'll have to take what I said as proof.” There was a note of finality in the silver-haired youth’s voice like it was something undebatable. “ Gin-san is fine, you must believe that.”

Like hell he would just take someone else’s words and believe his sister was alright without seeing any evidence, years of living on the edge taught him better than this. Yet, Akutagawa also knew better than to try pressing the issue, since it was obvious that the Weretiger wouldn't reveal more information.

So he cut to the important, most pressing question. “Where the hell am I?”

There was a pause and when the Weretiger spoke again his voice seemed to waver. “Don’t worry yourself over—”

“Where. Am. I?”

The silver-haired youth sighed in a way one would when they were dealing with a stubborn child.

“We are in a pocket space created by an Ability.”

What Ability?

Akutagawa knew some Ability users could create pocket spaces that could entrap people, like that red-haired girl from the Guild, but he could not match this Ability-created realm with any of the Ability users in Yokohama that he knew of.

“It's created by the Ability of a user named Mishima Yukio, he works for the Army.”

The name Mishima meant nothing to the black-haired mafioso, he was more interested in knowing how to break up this Ability-created pocket space and get himself the hell out of here. Pocket-spaces usually requested certain conditions for them to be activated, if only he could break those conditions…

“ Mishima-san’s Ability is called Punishment by Roses. With this Ability, Mishima-san can create a…space where the people inside can't get out and they can’t use their Abilities when they are being……punished.”

“ Then I’m in prison.”

Despite the Weretiger's attempt to sugarcoat the matter, it was still clear that where he was, it was in fact a fucking prison, maintained and secured by an unknown Ability.

“A prison? You can say so...” The Weretiger agreed, without showing any sign of shame or discomfort, which was also unlike him.

People could not use their Abilities in this pocket space, that explained why Akutagawa couldn't sense Rashoumon ever since he woke up. At that realization, the black-haired youth shivered unconsciously.

“ Don't look so worried ne! Unlike the other space-based Abilities, Punishment By Roses is quite mild. You won't suffer as long as you stay put and behave yourself. Just think of it as a vacation, you had fought hard enough, hadn't you? And we won! Peace and order has finally been restored…”

He had fought hard enough…right? He was so worn and tired, he had even fucking died, hadn’t he? There was no need to struggle anymore….. A small, traitorous voice at the back of his mind whispered to him.

Could he really stop fighting now? What else should he do next? Many questions once again welled up from the depth of his mind.

“ The Agency has cleaned its name too…”

Then the silver-haired youth kept going on about how everything was fine and how peace had been restored in Yokohama and the rest of the world.

Not having the interest to listen to the younger one’s mumblings, Akutagawa closed his eyes, refusing to reply. Those words from the Weretiger only made him believe something was off and he should escape before the damn Weretiger drove him insane.

Chapter Text

Akutagawa was trapped in a prison created by an unknown Ability no less, with seemingly no way to escape. Many people would say he deserved this, in fact many would say he deserved much, much worse for his many crimes in the past.

Many would say he had escaped laws and punishment for far too long, many would also be glad that Akutagawa, the infamous Port Mafia’s Rabid Dog, was now being contained and unable to roam the streets of Yokohama any longer.

Out of sight, out of mind, many people— law-abiding civilians and underground criminals alike, would be glad that Akutagawa was currently out of commission.

However, what would his sister think of his disappearance? Was she trying to find him? How were Chuuya-san and the rest of his crew doing during his absence?

Did they even care?

Realistically speaking, not many people would miss him, most of his subordinates obeyed him out of fear of his Ability, Mori-san valued him—but he knew the Boss’s concern for him only went as far as his usefulness went. Higuchi might care enough to look for him, so might his sister, and Chuuya-san…

Chuuya-san.

The Port Mafia’s Executive had always been kind to him throughout the years he knew the older man, Chuuya-san even went out of his way to look out for him in Dazai’s absence. Therefore, if the ginger-haired man was aware of his situation, it was unlikely that Chuuya-san would just let him be trapped without saying anything.

Unless something happened, forcing Chuuya-san to stay put.

Akutagawa noticed that during the Weretige’s speech about how peace and order had been restored and everyone was fine, he didn't say anything about Chuuya-san.

What could this possibly mean?

In this prison realm, things were relatively…uneventful. There was no mission, no need to report to Mori-san or anyone else, no subordinate to order around, no combat. Nothing. For the first time in his life, Akutagawa had nothing to do, too much free time in his hands which he couldn't do anything other than think.

The Weretiger even insisted that it was for the best, that Akutagawa should stay here, sit back, stay here and enjoy the peacefulness.

If this place was what peace really looked like, then it didn't take long for Akutagawa to know he wasn’t made for it, so escape was still the only logical conclusion he could come up with.

The challenge he faced was the total lack of information, and the unfamiliarity of this Ability-created space and how things were supposed to work in this realm.

The Weretiger had described this Ability-created pocket-space as ‘mild’, to be honest, nothing much seemed to happen in this realm, unlike with the other Ability-created pocket-spaces, like the ones created by those members of the Guild, Akutagawa didn't have to fight with a gigantic Doll or a bunch of fictional murderers. In this space, there was only this spacious but strangely empty white Western-style building he was in, the endless night sky above head and the boundaryless sea of red roses.

Abilities were usually the reflection of the users’ will, interests and traits, the extension of their personality, which made Akutagawa wonder about who this Mishima Yukio was. What did this endless sea of roses mean to the Ability user who created it? The roses must have a significant meaning to Mishima, otherwise they wouldn't even be here. Was the unknown man such a boring person that even his Ability-created space turned out to be so mind-numbingly uneventful?

Whoever this Mishima was, his Ability was strong enough to contain Akutagawa and neutralize Rashoumon, and Mishima himself seemingly didn't need to be presented within this pocket space to activate his own Ability, which made defeating the unknown man difficult.

Did anyone even know he was trapped here in this place?

Did Chuuya-san….did Dazai…

Dazai-san.

It was impossible that Dazai-san didn’t know. Supposedly this Ability user, Mishima Yukio, worked for the Army, then someone must have contacted some people from the higher-ups in the Army to ‘borrow’ an Ability user from them and use his power. It would be foolish to think such an arrangement didn’t involve the high-ranking members of both the Port Mafia and the Armed Detective Agency.

Then Dazai-san must be aware of the fact he was trapped here, which meant Chuuya-san must also know since the ginger-haired gravity manipulator was one of the Mafia’s Executives.

But…

None of them showed up, neither man had ever shown their faces, there were also no verbal explanations of his situation. It felt very much like they merely left him here in this place to rot.

Even a prisoner would have the chance to hear his sentence before he was sent off to do time, but no one seemed to bother doing that much for Akutagawa’s sake.

Was he really too insignificant so both Chuuya-san and Dazai-san no longer cared what had become of him?

Was he abandoned?

Akutagawa could feel the deep-rooted insecurity welling up from his being, the same old fear of abandonment which he thought he had hidden so well, was now rearing its ugly head once again.

He couldn't let himself panic, he would not show such weakness in front of his enemy when the Agency’s Weretiger was right there in front of him.

Despite his effort at self-control, the Weretiger must still have sensed something. He reached up a hand to him, frowning in concern.“ Hey, Aku–”

Akutagawa shrugged off the outreaching hand in anger, it was easier to lash out instead of admitting his fear. “ Don’t touch me! Why are you here!? Tell me the real reason why you're here! What's your deal!?”

If it were somebody else, like Dazai-san, or even that brown-haired detective with his pair of glasses or that female doctor from the Armed Detective Agency showing up in front of him, he would have understood, but the Weretiger? The younger man despised him and usually didn't want to have anything to do with him.

In the face of Akutagawa’s outburst of aggression, the Weretiger, surprisingly enough, was remaining calm. “ I am packed to look after you, happy now?”

Was the Weretigher thought Akutagawa no longer a threat when he could not activate Rashoumon? The silver-haired youth should not be talking to him so boldly, the old Weretiger he knew would long be flinching whenever someone else so much as raised their voice. He…also should not be looking at him like this, with such…tenderness, and some emotions that Akutagawa couldn't even start to identify and name.

“ I don't believe you! What's the plan beyond all this? What are you hiding?”

“ Nothing. I won't hide anything from you, Akutagawa.”

The Weretiger had never been much of a capable lair, and what Akutagawa was hearing now must be the most bold-faced lie he had heard ever from the younger man.

“ Did Dazai-san send you here!?”

That was the most logical explanation. Dazai-san must be planning something.

The Weretiger had the nerve to scoff at his conjecture. “ Dazai-san this, Dazai-san that. Not everything has to be about him, yo’know?”

“ Don't get smart with me, damn you!”

“ Alright, if you must get into all these unimportant details!” The Weretiger threw his hands up into the air dismissively. “ Both the Agency and the Port Mafia have decided you, Akutagawa Ryuunosuke, should be contained and stay out of the public's view, indefinitely.”

“...what?”

“ After a series of lengthy discussions, in the end everyone agreed it's for the best.”

“ You are still lying, Boss… Chuuya-san would not–”

“It’s either that or hand you over to the government. The Boss and Chuuya-san have made their choice.”

“Ridiculous, why would they do that–”

The local law enforcement definitely would want to get their hands on him, but the high and mighty people from the government were another story...or so it should be…

The Weretiger got to his feet. “ You just don't know how valuable you are, don't you? Especially after the vampirism stuff.”

“ Why—” Even when the question was leaving his mouth, something, an awful realization started to wash over Akutagawa.

“ Still don't get it? You’re the first to be influenced by Stoker’s vampiric Ability, and the only one who has recovered from it after literally being dead for a while. Of course, the government would want to use you as their lab rat, so do plenty of foreign governments and their agents if they know you are still alive.”

Neither the Armed Detective Agency nor the Port Mafia could afford to go against the government, yet neither of them was willing to see Akutagawa being handed over to the authority. No one wanted to give the government so much power over all of the Ability users. Both Fukuzawa and Mori, and many of their peers had seen first-hand what could happen if the government got a chance to possess an Ability as fearsome as Bram Stoker’s, or at least a fragment of Stoker's power.

A fragment of Stoker's power that many now believe resided in Akutagawa.

So the two organizations made another deal in secret.

They were not going to hand Akutagawa over to the government, they decided to keep Akutagawa’s revival and his recovery from vampirism a secret.

The other victims of Stoker's vampirism had returned to normal and their bodies and minds were once again functioning as a normal human should, the government had examined many of the victims to make sure of that, and the result had all been the same: those living humans who had been infected by Stoker’s Ability during the vampire outbreak, were now all restored after Stoker renounced his control over them.

However, the case of Akutagawa Ryuunosuke was another story altogether.

He was already dead when Fukuchi ordered Stoker to use his vampiric Ability to reanimate him, at that time Akutagawa— or at least his physical form, continued to exist and was capable of functioning solely due to the power of Stoker’s command. Therefore, it was only logical that once Stoker withdrew his Ability, Akutagawa should have once again dropped dead and reduced into a corpse.

Yet again, against everyone’s expectations and conjectures, even after Stoker released everyone from his control, Akutagawa didn't lose his life, instead the black-haired mafioso stubbornly clung to life once Stoker released him from the mind control.

Once Stoker renounced his command, Akutagawa did in fact lose consciousness and fall into a coma, yet he still lived, his lungs continued to draw breaths as he was rushed to an infirmary (a secured one that would not draw any attention from the outside world) and those gathered around him debated what should be done next.

Examinations had been performed by experts from both the Agency and the Port Mafia, it was eventually concluded that part of Stoker’s Ability must still be clinging to Akutagawa and it was more or less the only thing keeping him alive.

Technically speaking Akutagawa was no longer a vampire, yet with some of Stoker’s influence remaining in him, he was no longer fully human.

Bram Stoker was an ancient and powerful being, so the governments had little hope of containing him and using him. As of now, no one had seen the vampiric Ability user again after the battle at the airport. He simply vanished before anyone could get a hold on him.

Still, if the government or the agents of other organizations ever caught wind that Akutagawa, the only living person who still carried the influence of Stoker’s vampirism, was still alive and was now vulnerable… chaos would once again befall Yokohama.

Neither the Agency nor the Port Mafia would allow the fragile new-found peace in Yokohama to be shattered again.

Then both parties concluded: to achieve their common goal of protecting the city, Akutagawa must stay dead for everyone’s peace of mind. They had decided that Akutagawa should stay out of the government’s radar. The best way to manage this was to let the Port Mafia’s infamous Rabid Dog stay dead, at least on the public record.

As a result, a bargain had been made between the Armed Detective Agency, the Port Mafia, and the Army. The Army was more or less forced to compromise because, after the huge battle, they needed to hide the fact that Fukuchi, their famed war hero and the captain of the Hunting Dogs, was in fact a terrorist from the general public, so they chose to make a deal to keep the inconvenient truth from being unearthed.

The Army allowed them to ‘borrow’ one of their Ability users: Mishima Yukio, with the help of the man’s Ability, Punishment by Roses, they successfully hid Akutagawa away.

It was for everyone’s sake…

Chapter Text

After hearing all of the so-called ‘unimportant details’ about the deal made between the Port Mafia and the Armed Detective Agency over his fate, Akutagawa paused for a long moment before he asked the one critical question.

“ Does my sister know?”

He could very well choose to ignore what others might think about him regarding his supposed death, but his sister…..

Sadness flashed through Weretiger's eyes before he shook his head slowly. “ No, unfortunately we can't tell Gin-san anything, it's to keep her safe.”

“ You bastard!“

White hot rage overtook Akutagawa as he launched himself at the Weretiger. Even though he knew without Rashoumon his chance of winning a hand-to-hand combat against the Weretiger would be slim, still he wasn't as weak as he looked…he wouldn't allow himself to sink so low.

The notion of anyone doing anything for his or his sister's sake set Akutagawa off instantly. What did the Weretiger ever know about either of them? About how he and his sibling leaned onto each other so desperately to survive through the years?

He couldn't even guess any of these.

The Weretiger was still a hypocrite, talking like he only had the greater good in mind when he was doing things for his own gains and motivations, just like everyone else. He swore he would tear the silver-haired youth’s facade apart, he would expose the latter’s selfishness.

The Weretiger’s back hit the floor as Akutagawa dropped on top of him, pinning the younger man down with his own weight. For a moment the silver-haired youth seemed surprised, but his expression changed as the black-haired one wrapped his hands around his neck and squeezed.

“ Please calm down, Akutagawa!” Despite his windpipe being squeezed hard, the Weretiger managed to call out, his own hands took hold of Akutagawa’s wrists, trying to pry them off his neck.

“ How dare you do that to my sister!”

The Weretiger, despite Akutagawa’s attack, his appearance was still human and the mafioso couldn't sense the superhuman strength beyond his touch. So it was true, within this pocket-space, even the Weretiger could not activate his Ability.

“ Please! I know you're upset but it's for the best!”

“ Fucking nonsense!”

“ But it's not nonsense, Akutagawa,” With much effort, the Weretiger slowly pried Akutagawa's fingers loose from his neck. “ If she knew you’re still alive, Gin-san would be in danger!”

It might very well be true, although not many people knew their true relation as siblings, still there could be chances for Gin to be used against him.

Despite the reasoning, Akutagawa continued to fight the Weretiger out of spite, even when the Weretiger managed to take hold of his wrists.

“It’s true! At first your sister wouldn't believe you are dead, she wouldn’t believe anything we told her, until she saw what was supposed to be your ashes. Ashes that contain your DNA.”

These words didn't calm Akutagawa down, instead, they were making him even more outraged. How dare the Agency and the Port Mafia both trick his sister and put her through the ordeal of believing her own brother was dead? They even showed her a pile of ashes as ‘evidence’?

Gin was a well-trained assassin in her own right but it didn't mean she could withstand this kind of blow, or that she didn't need protection.

He must go to see his sibling, to tell her the truth—

“You’re just confused and upset, I know that! Soon you will understand–”

“Shut up, Ability or not I’m going to kill—”

He was far from having a full recovery, and he still had no access to Rashoumon, but at the moment anger and adrenaline still fueled his strength.

Yet anger could only get him so far, in the next second the Weretiger reversed their positions so the silver-haired youth was now straddling him.

“I really don't want to do this, Akutagawa–”

At the corner of his eye, Akutagawa saw some moments from the Weretiger's hand, when he realized something was off it was already too late. He felt something pricking the side of his neck. Something tiny, thin but sharp, the point of a needle.

He roared in outrage as he felt the pain coming from the side of his neck, the damn Weretiger had injected him with something.

Akutagawa didn't expect the Weretiger would do that. The Weretiger he knew in the past wasn't capable of such deception, but maybe he had thought wrong.

The Weretiger’s face hovered above him, the depth of his golden-violet eyes glowed with something like concern, but even this image began to waver as the sedation took effect in Akutagawa’s system.

Then his world sank into darkness again.

Chapter Text

Akutagawa hated nothing more than being helpless.

Weakness was something you must hide and be ashamed of, if you show any weakness to others then you were simply putting yourself in harm’s way. The experience of surviving the slum and being Dazai’s mentee had respectively taken turns hammering this belief into the black-haired youth’s brain.

Yet there he was, helplessly drifting in and out of sleep, barely conscious enough to be aware of his own surroundings, with some drugs still poisoning his system, numbing his senses.

All thanks to the damn Weretiger.

He wasn’t sure how long he had become semi-conscious again, he only became vaguely aware of himself lying on some soft smooth surface, had he been moved back to his bed in that mind-numbing white ward again? Akutagawa didn’t even know. He would have opened his eyes but he simply couldn't. He was immobile, still weighted down by the influence of the sedation, keeping him trapped in his own body.

The scent of roses seemed to grow even thicker, perhaps somewhere nearby, a window to the outside had been open, letting the fragrance seep indoors.

Akutagawa frowned, he could swear the heavy scent of roses was choking him, but then his thoughts were interrupted by something else.

There was a weight dipped onto the bed, followed by the presence of another person, someone else had crawled to the spot next to him and made themself comfortable by laying there, uninvited.

If Akutagawa still had the strength he would have jumped away to a safe distance and lashed out at whoever dared to snake behind him like that. Unfortunately, he didn't have the strength.

The scent of roses once again thickened in the air around him as the unknown person seemingly carried the scent with them and brought it right there next to him.

He tensed up when a warm body pressed up to him from behind, an arm came to wrap itself around his midsection, resting there like a chain locking him in place.

“ Akutagawa, are you awake?”

The voice murmuring next to his ear confirmed it wasn't just ‘someone’, but the damn Weretiger himself, pressing himself up against him from behind, invading his personal space unapologetically.

Speaking of the devil, then the very devil himself showed up.

Akutagawa couldn't reply, he very well wished to speak and give the Weretiger a piece of his mind but his tongue felt too thick and heavy in his mouth.

“ ‘Guess you’re still out...”

The Weretiger thought he was still unconscious and out cold, but he was wrong. Although Akutagawa couldn't move, couldn't open his eyes, or even raise a hand to strike the damn Weretiger when he was so close, he could still hear things rather clearly.

Was the younger man testing him? To see if he was still capable of fighting back? Was this the reason why the Weretiger was getting so close?

Once again fingers gently combed through the locks of his hair and lingered there.

“ You must be exhausted… I don't think I have ever seen you resting like this peacefully…before we got you back.”

In his mind, Akutagawa scoffed at those words, he had been drugged and put under. Who was the Weretiger trying to fool here?

Why was the person who was responsible of drugging him now treating him with the lightest of touches, like he was something precious and made of glass?

“ Can I tell you something, Akutagawa?”

It was almost a certainty that the silver-haired youth didn't expect any reply from him. The younger man’s voice was the softest he had ever heard like he had a confession to make or a dear secret to reveal.

“Regardless of whether you’d admit it or not, you saved my life…on that darn ship.”

There Akutagawa was, being drawn to the memory of his own death by the Weretiger’s simple few words.

The desperation, their bitter defeat.

The sensation of the cold steel cutting deep into his flesh.

The blood loss.

The pain and disbelief he felt when he knew he was dying.

The Weretiger's screams echoing nonstop in his ears.

All of these were things that he didn't really want to recall, but of course the Weretiger had to bring their battle on the ship up.

“ You saved me at the expense of your own life. It changed things, yo’know?”

Stupid Weretiger. If Akutagawa still had the strength he would have yelled at the younger man and told him to shut up.

This…wasn't supposed to change things between them.

“To this day I still don't know why you did what you did. Will you give me an answer when you wake up?”

Akutagawa would have answered that he made the decision because of Dazai's request, and because the Weretiger had a better chance to survive than him. It was about making a choice to facilitate the best possible outcome.

It wasn't about the Weretiger himself.

His decision wasn't supposed to change anything, they were still in two different rivalrous organizations, the Weretiger was still supposed to be his enemy. They were still supposed to fight to the death when the six months passed.

Yet Akutagawa was still immobile, trapped in his own mind, and the more he thought about what had come down and the six months' promise to fight to the death, given his current situation, it didn't seem so important anymore.

“ I used to hate you, fear you; but now everything has changed. I can't lose you, I just can't.”

Was he really hearing those words, or was he hallucinating…?

The arms wrapped around his waist tightened considerably. It felt like being in the grip of a big cat, it was squeezy but……warm.

“ You can’t hear me, but I still need to say that…I’ll keep you safe this time, I won't allow anyone to harm you again.”

Akutagawa’s heart skipped a beat.

These were words he desperately wanted to hear when he was weak and struggling to protect himself and his sister, with no one bothered to help or even care. He had long stopped believing there would be another person willing to protect him.

So why now….?

Why must his enemy be the one to say those words? Was the foolish Weretiger making such a promise out of guilt and pity?

Disgusting, Akutagawa didn't need anyone’s pity!

“ I wonder how you would react if you heard all these, but I guess I’ll never know.”

Long fingers came to rest on his forehead, stroking his hair, then the Weretiger pressed himself even closer, resting his chin atop Akutagawa’s head, and unexpectedly, the younger man started chuckling to himself.

“ Back then you were right to say I’m a coward, I can only say all these when you can't hear me...”

Chapter Text

Akutagawa had a dream.

He was put under the control of this invisible force again. He had no control over his body and action, like the fine-tuned deadly weapon that he had always been, he could only obey the order given by the Voice that commanded him. Chased, hunted, bite, tore into the flesh of his prey until he drew blood, destroyed everything that got in the way until there was nothing left.

He struck, shredded and tore through every single opponent who dared to stand in front of him, he saw Rashoumon extended from the unfamiliar coat that he now wore, surging forward in midair to slice through the bodies of many people, too many of them he lost count, but everything about it felt alien to him, he could not even sense Rashoumon at all even when it was in action, it was as if even his own Ability had been cut off from him. Yet Rashoumon continued to strike and cut through everything, the Ability no longer felt like it was part of him.

Akutagawa had been cut off from everything, he was left alone in the dark. His body no longer listened to the command of his will, he could still vaguely see things, blurry images of objects, shades and movements drifting in and out of his vision, too fast to track down and make sense of. Sounds of screaming and shouting, words of begging, pleas, fear and confusion filled his ears but none of those sounds made any sense to him.

All he knew was the force that took control of him, and the smell and taste of fresh warm blood from the living humans, and the deep, overwhelming hunger that wormed its way into the core of his being. A hunger that didn’t belong to him but now lived inside him like a greedy parasite.

There was a terrible joy when he tore through the flesh of a living being without mercy before sinking his newly grown fangs into the flesh of his victims, only the running blood from a living body could satisfy this deep-set hunger that ruled him now. He needed blood, it was the thick copper liquid that fueled him and he went feral in the need of it.

The ungodly thirst was the only sensation he was allowed to feel, and it was overpowering and addictive.

Attack.

The same Voice of command again. Like thunder, the same cold unforgiving Voice roared in his mind, drowning out all the other noises and his own pitiful protests against it. He could not resist the command.

So he launched forward like the well-trained weapon that he was, ready to strike down anyone who tried to stop him.

Although he didn’t understand why he must keep fighting. Even if there was once a reason to fight, to obey the orders and the Voice, Akutagawa could no longer remember.

“ Akutagawa!”

Someone was calling a name, but the name did not mean anything to him.

“ You're still there, right?”

All the shouting, and this particular voice…only made the pain worse. He needed to make it stop!

Rashoumon was activated again, forming an inescapable formation of sharp blades and spears to attack this silver-haired opponent.

“Wake up!”

“You…saved me on that ship! I know you’re still there, Akutagawa!”

Strangely enough, no matter how many times he struck the other male down, or how many times he pierced the other’s limbs with his Ability, the silver-haired youth kept standing right back up and kept fighting, even the pain seemed to have done nothing to slow him down.

No…it seemed more like the other was fighting his way to get to Akutagawa instead of fighting with him.

Akutagawa……wanted it to stop, he didn’t want to fight, it wasn’t how things were supposed to be, not between them, somehow it was the most certain thing, but again neither his own body nor the tendrils of Rashoumon were listening to his will.

Soon, the other male was restrained by Rashoumon’s unbreakable grip and he was hung in midair.

“You didn’t harm the little girl…you kept your promise!”

His…promise? Something stirred in his memory, the image of a frightened little girl standing before him flashed through his mind momentarily. He was ordered to maim the girl, but something stopped him from dealing the killing blow.

But the more he tried to think, the more pain he was in. He wanted to recall, he needed the ability to think again, but the pain was drilling right through his skull, making the forming of any coherent thought impossible.

Through the haze of the pain, he watched Rashoumon tightening around the boy’s torso and limbs to the point that the sound of bones breaking could be heard echoing in the air around them, yet the fire in the boy’s sunset eyes were still there, and he was still not giving up.

The shouting from the silver-haired boy in his grip only worsened the pain hammering against Akutagawa's skull.

“Fight it—”

“ Wake up! I know you can!”

He…could not.

He wasn’t as strong as the other assumed him to be.

Finish it now! What are you waiting for!?

Once again the command thundered through his mind, and despite his struggle, Akutagawa was put under again.

Once more his body and Rashoumon acted seemingly all on their own, with just a hand gesture Rashoumon was set into motion again, the deadly tendrils tearing two of the boy’s limbs right off with zero hesitation.

Blood spilled everywhere.

The part of Akutagawa’s brain that was controlled by his new found vampiric instrict, went feral at the sight, the scent and the taste of such rich blood running freely, falling down on him like crimson rain.

Blood of the Weretigter.

The Weretigter?

Where did this thought come from? Why did this name sound so familiar?

That was the name, Nakajima Atsushi, the Weretiger.

Now his silver-haired opponent hung motionless in front of him by Rashoumon, losing one leg and one arm like a broken rag doll. Used up, beaten, defeated, worthless. It was hard to tell whether the younger man was still conscious at this point.

Yet, the pitiful sight of his rival in front of Akutagawa gave him no satisfaction.

Turn him.

The command came again, and once again Akutagawa had no choice but to obey, moving forward, his hands grasping his prey by his shoulders, his fangs extended, ready to sink into the tender flesh of the pale neck just millimeters away from him—-

****

Akutagawa woke up with a start.

For a moment he didn't know where he was, in one second he was trapped in his own mind, commanded to fight like a mindless monster, with no control of his actions and Rashoumon, everywhere he went chaos and screams of panic followed. Then in the next second he was here, surrounded by the cool darkness, with the now too-familiar scent of roses lingering under his nose, and everything was quiet.

The black haired male allowed himself to exhale and inhale slowly. Calm down, he was…himself again. The Voice wasn’t in his mind now, it was just a dream.

He was only dreaming about memories from the time when he was a vampire, it didn’t matter, it shouldn’t matter. Akutagawa kept telling himself that even though he knew too well it wasn’t true.

He didn't want to think about those resurfaced memories, at least not now.

Akutagawa’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dim surrounding, and he slowly became aware of the warm surface his head was resting on, which was in fact the Weretiger’s clad chest.

In the middle of the night they somehow shifted their positions. Now Akutagawa was lying on his side, facing the slim form of his arch rival, as the latter went on to sleep soundly. A blanket was wrapped around them to keep them warm at night.

Blinking, Akutagawa’s gaze fell on the Weretigter shaded form in front of him. In the eternal night of this realm, Akutagawa could only make out the vague outlines of the Weretigher, still there was no mistaking that the other was here, living and breathing. Unlike what happened to him in the dreams, currently the younger man’s limbs were still attached. The younger man was sound asleep, he seemed to be so unbelievably unguarded and…innocent.

A facade of innocence that Akutagawa knew too well he should distrust.

Although it shouldn’t be surprising to see the younger man unharmed, his old wounds all healed without a trace, hadn’t he managed to come out of many battles unscathed thanks to his regeneration ability? Still, for some reason, Akutagawa was relieved.

The Weretiger still had his arms circled around Akutagawa, the latter should hate it but surprisingly he could find no resentment within himself. Instead, the embrace gave him the delusion of being cherished.

If the dream he had was in fact an actual memory, then it meant the Weretiger had put his faith in him, even when Akutagawa was no better than a bloodthirsty monster.

The black-haired youth didn’t know what to think, all these confusing thoughts were making him so drained and sleepy.

With the sound of the younger man’s steady heartbeat reaching Akutagawa’s ears through his clothes, soon the mafioso was lured back to the arms of slumber once more.

Chapter Text

When Akutagawa woke up again surrounded by the ever-lingering heavy scent of roses, the room was still shrouded in the semi-darkness of the night, there was no way to tell whether it was daytime or nighttime in the real world outside, but the fact was, Akutagawa was alone. The Weretiger was nowhere in sight and there was no sound or movement that he could sense to indicate the presence of somebody else.

The younger man was gone, but to where and to do what? The mafioso felt it was something he needed to investigate later. Did the Weretiger go back to those do-gooders from the Armed Detective Agency? Was he with them now?

It didn't matter, in the Weretiger’s absence, Akutagawa planned to explore this prison, hoping to gather as much information as possible.

Although the task was a bit ‘easier said than done’ with his current physical condition limiting his capability.

After struggling to his feet, he managed to get himself out of his ward for the first time—surprisingly the door was unlocked, allowing him access to an empty hallway. He could see there were plenty of doors lining up on one side of the walls. Needless to say, the walls, the floor, the ceiling, and the doors were painted in pure white.

On the opposite side of the wall was a column of wide glass windows, revealing an endless starless night sky overhead and a sea of roses outside of the building. The scent of rose seemed to be even stronger in the hallway.

It was surprising that the door was also unlocked as if the Weretiger didn't bother to lock the doors, knowing that he couldn't escape from this realm.

Akutagawa cursed under his breath at the thought. He swore he would make the damn Weretiger pay for such arrogance.

Slowly he made his way to the closed door next to his ward, he gripped the door handle and twisted it experimentally and again, he found the door to be unlocked. Peering through the gap between the door and the doorframe, Akutagawa found a wardrobe in this room, along with a few pieces of plain wooden furniture. Unsurprisingly, all the furniture was also painted white.

The double doors of the wardrobe were closed, Akutagawa looked down at the wrinkled hospital gown and pants he wore, thinking it was worth trying to find some new clothes.

Turned out, there were a handful of clothes hanging there in the wardrobe, eventually, he picked a white shirt and a pair of black trousers. The shirt was similar in design to those he tended to wear in the past but with a much simpler design.

There was no overcoat or jacket available. Nothing that could be made into an effective and useful weapon once he had Rashoumon back.

Clenching his teeth, Akutagawa removed the thin hospital-style gown he currently wore and changed into a fresh white shirt and a pair of black trousers. It was far from what he was used to but he had no other choice.

Perhaps the Weretiger wasn't entirely stupid, he knew better than to leave valuable items that had the potential to be used as a weapon in where Akutagawa could find them.

The younger man’s tactic worked. Much to Akutagawa’s annoyance, he noticed without his old trusty black coat, it was difficult to feel safe and certain.

Where was that coat right now? Dazai gave it to him in a past best left unmentioned, then he passed it to the Weretiger on that fatal day on the ship. Akutagawa had no idea what happened afterward.

Coat or no coat, Rashoumon was lost to him in this realm, he must rely on his own strength and wits, and if Rashoumon was sealed off here, then what about his ‘other’ Ability?

Bram Stoker’s Ability.

From his limited knowledge, the bits and pieces the Weretiger had revealed to him, Stoker’s vampirism was an Ability-based mutation. This Ability was a bit similar to Q’s Dogra Magra, but Stoker’s gift and his control over his victims was far more powerful than the psychological attack of Q’s mind control.

And people believed some of the Vampire Lord’s power resided in Akutagawa now, that was how all his troubles began.

Akutagawa didn't know how to feel about Stoker, whether to thank the man or to curse him.

Without Stoker’s Ability he would certainly still be dead, remaining as a corpse on the deck of this forsaken ship. On the other hand, he knew nothing about the man who had changed his life so rapidly.

At least he knew Dazai, he had spent a few years being the older man’s mentee, unlike Bram Stoker who was a complete unknown to him.

The Dazai in the past, the Demon Prodigy, in his twisted and merciless way, did what he could to teach Akutagawa how to use his Ability, how to save his own skin in the harsh Yokohama underworld they both lived in.

On the other hand, Akutagawa had never interacted with Stoker, the Vampire Lord didn't teach him anything, not a word about the breadth and depth of the vampiric power he now supposedly had, nor any knowledge about the nature of their own kind. The Vampire Lord of the North probably hadn’t thought about Akutagawa’s existence for more than a few seconds. The vampire just turned up, turned Akutagawa’s existence upside down, and then simply left.

If Mishima Yukio’s Ability could restrain Rashoumon and Beast Underneath the Moonlight, could it also restrain a mutant Ability such as Stoker’s?

Was it too much to hope he could somehow make use of Stoker’s Ability, or learn to use it?

Akutagawa knew how unlikely this could come true. For starters, he had felt rather…normal after he woke up. If some of Stoker’s vampiric Ability really did rub off on him, like the others believed, it simply hasn't made it be known. Akutagawa simply couldn’t feel its presence.

So it was going back to Plan A for the raven-haired youth, he must find a way back to the outside world with his own capability.

Ever since the Weretiger revealed the truth about the agreement between the Port Mafia and the Armed Detective Agency to him, Akutagawa had been plotting his escape.

Yes, he was still feeling dizzy and drained, but it wasn’t going to stop him from trying to find his way out.

No one could deny Akutagawa was a stubborn bastard.

Time wouldn't wait for him, he must act before the Weretiger showed up again.

His gaze fell on one of the glass windows, he made his way to the said window and experimentally gave it a push.

Akutagawa was astonished that the window actually opened, again, like the doors, the window was unlocked.

****

After checking the rest of the building and finding it to be boringly plain and…empty, it wasn’t too difficult for Akutagawa to slip out of the white Westernized building through the unlocked window, within seconds he was out in the open, inside what appeared to be a rose garden.

Calling it a ‘garden’ was a bit of an overstatement, there was seemingly no planning and no basic facilities that would be required for a garden, just a lot of roses blooming everywhere that the eye could see under the unchanging night sky, blooming unplanned and wild.

There were some barely visible lanes whirling through the sea of roses, but there was no recognizable pattern and direction with those lanes, the more he followed the lanes, the more it seemed like they were leading him to run in circles.

Was this field of roses the manifestation of Mishima Yukio’s Ability? But if that was the case, how did it relate to Mishima's power and how did it affect the function of this Ability-based pocket space?

This was yet another unknown he didn’t know how to uncover, Akutagawa could feel a headache building up in his skull.

Mishima Yukio, whoever he was, had the power to create a pocket space that could neutralize Rashoumon and contain him, one of Yokohama’s top Ability users, then escaping from the unknown man’s Ability was never going to be easy.

This could very well explain why the Weretiger would just leave him unsupervised because the younger man thought he wouldn’t be able to figure out how to escape.

But Akutagawa would have to try anyway.

Outside of the two-stores white building, from where he stood, a maze formed by tangling branches and thorns of roses expanded in all directions, seemingly reaching to the end of the horizon.

The night air was cool but not to the point of chilling, which suited Akutagawa just fine, he never liked the cold, and chilling weather only made his lung disease get worse anyway.

Talking about his lung disease, it was only now that Akutagawa had the time to realize he hadn't been choking up blood ever since he woke up.

Could he dare to hope……?

Akutagawa shook his head, it was yet another question for later.

Chapter Text

Atsushi Nakajima looked up at the massive rectangular gray building before him. He was waiting for the prison guards to open the steel gates. Once they walked past the gates and reached the reception, everyone would be thoroughly searched for weapons and registered before they were allowed to go any further into this high-security military prison.

One of Ango Sakaguchi’s most trusted assistants from the Division of Special Powers stood beside Atsushi. The woman would accompany him to get inside this highly secured prison.

Kyouka–being the loyal friend that she always was, sat inside an unmarked SUV arranged by the Division of Special Powers. The SUV was parked down a block outside of the gray prison, but she had refused to leave the car. Atsushi understood why. Kyouka was ill at ease with what Atsushi was about to do and she despised Akutagawa— that didn't seem to change much and with good reason, Atsushi didn't blame her. Kyouka didn't have to come here at all but Atsushi knew the girl came all the way out of concern for him when she didn't have to.

Soon, their little group of two were admitted inside the prison. Just as predicted, they were questioned and searched carefully, IDs were scanned and documents were exchanged before they were led to one of the meeting rooms provided by the prison authority. The meeting with a certain prisoner had been arranged to take place there.

It also went without saying that the meeting would be recorded by the monitors and CCTVs planted inside the room.

After the lengthy meetings, the Armed Detective Agency and the Port Mafia had between them regarding what decision should be made concerning the fate of Akutagawa, after the Army also got involved, after Atsushi had made his decision known to all after everything was said and done. Atsushi was guided to a fenced, massive rectangular gray building to meet with a prisoner.

After being led through a series of electric steel gates and a labyrinth of corridors and hallways, the pair was finally led to the meeting room. They were told that the prisoner had already been brought in and was now waiting for their arrival.

The steel door was unlocked and the pair was allowed in, and it was when Atsushi beheld the prisoner for the first time. It was a man in his late twenties or early thirties.

Weeks later, when Atsushi told Akutagawa that Mishima Yukio worked for the Army, it wasn't entirely a lie.

Lieutenant Mishima Yukio—currently former Lieutenant Mishima, and currently a prisoner serving a life sentence for murder with his Ability— a rare and dangerous Ability named Punishment by Roses which enabled him to trap people in an enclosed space of his own design, and people were known to die within Mishima's realm.

He was tried by the military court and received a life sentence for his crime, and was now serving his sentence in this top-secret military prison.

It was because of his special Ability that the Ability user was hidden from the public, his records in the government system had long been deleted, and he was placed in a military prison after a closed-door murder trial, his existence long forgotten by the general public. The Army would rather keep such a strong Ability user close by than give him up to the legal system and a general prison from the outside world.

Like the truth about Fukuchi, Mishima was one of the Army’s dirty little secrets, but unlike Fukuchi the latter was kept hidden and alive for his usefulness.

Atsushi first caught sight of the ex-military man in that gray meeting room, sitting behind the only table in the room. He didn't seem surprised when Atsushi and his companies entered. Previously Mishima had been briefed about the purpose of this visit by his warden and what to expect from this unusual meeting.

Accompanied by the representative of the Division of Special Powers and a high-ranking prison warden, Atsushi was here to meet Mishima and ‘borrow’ his Ability. The requirement to borrow from the prisoner was authorized and backed by the secret agreement made among the Agency, the Mafia, and the Army.

Mishima Yukio himself was a lean middle-height man with a well-toned body, his hair was shaved close to his skull. Atsushi could easily imagine the same man wearing an army uniform with a look befitting a seasoned and dignified military lieutenant.

The prisoner’s expression was calm and neutral—peaceful almost, if the man felt any bitterness and hatred for being trapped in a prison cell for almost certainly the rest of his life, he hid his emotions well, calmness seemed to fix on the man’s face like a smooth, cool mask.

During the meeting, the prisoner watched Atsushi for a long moment before he finally spoke.

“ Are you from the famed Armed Detective Agency, or…the Port Mafia? Both organizations have dealings with the Army, I heard.”

Atsushi swallowed a lump in his throat, his mouth opened for a moment but no sound came out. In the past, he could answer a question of this nature in a heartbeat, but now…he hesitated.

On the other hand, the prisoner who sat at the opposite side of the table was in no hurry, he merely sat there, eyeing Atsushi with a sense of dark curiosity, acting like he had all the time in the world to play this mind game. He talked like he was in this room only because he had time to kill.

However, Atsushi knew it wasn't true, surely the tiger-Ability user was in the position of asking for the older man’s aid, but on the other hand, the Army had made a bargain with Mishima in exchange for his collaboration, promising to grant him a wish, almost anything was within reach, anything that was within the Army’s power–except his freedom.

For Atsushi, there were many things hanging on a fragile bargain, but Mishima Yukio was not in an easy position either.

At long last, Mishima replied dryly. “ I’ll assist you, this one time and I’ll give you the thing you asked for. ”

A chill shocked down Atsushi’s spine as his heart raced. How long had it been since the last time he was granted his heart’s desire —things that he really wanted instead of being denied immediately and mercilessly?

The man raised an eyebrow, peering up at Atsushi with his sharp eyes. He must have noticed Atsushi’s relief.

Mishima sat back, but his eyes never left the silver-haired one’s face. “ Are you aware of the fact that my Ability…is a punishment to both its prisoner and its wielder, are you prepared for this consequence?”

Atsushi nodded. Like Mishima had been debriefed, he was also made aware of what Mishima’s Ability could do, and its limitations.

Mishima met the younger man’s gaze steadily, when he spoke again there was something close to pity in his tone. “ Are you prepared for what Punishment can do, and you’re still willing to stay to the very end, boy?”

“ I'm prepared.” This time the reply came with no hesitation.

“ Good luck then, Nakajima-san.”

Slowly, the older man fished something from his pocket and then opened his hand and placed something wet and scarlet on the table between him and his visitors.

Mishima gave him a seedling and of course, it wasn't an ordinary flower seed, it was the seedling of Punishment by Roses, and according to the record about Mishima and his Ability, Mishima could choose to share the power of Punishment by Roses with a third party, like he was now agreeing to do.

From this tiny seedling, roses and sin would soon bloom.

Chapter Text

On the surface, Mishima Yukio seemed to be a calm, reliable military man, but underneath this mask of decency, something darker had always been lurking under the surface. Unbeknown to others, he was an Ability user, and for the longest time, this fact had gone undetected by neither the Army nor the Division of Special Powers.

His Ability was named by him as Punishment by Roses, it was an Ability that could manifest in the form of a rose seedling, and sometimes, Mishima would agree to share his Ability with a third party, though he was picky when it came to who he chose to share his gift with. That was part of the reason why his crime had gone undetected for so long.

The then-lieutenant didn't seem to really care about the consequence caused by his deadly Ability. Crime had been committed by those ‘borrowers’, and once this fact was discovered, Mishima was eventually also punished for enabling those crimes.

Furthermore, people—even those ‘borrowers’ themselves, many of them were also known to wind up dead using Mishima’s Ability.

Still, all of them ended up thanking Mishima and his ‘help’.

In the long line of victims who lost their lives due to Punishment, there was only one known victim who had died within the rosy prison created and activated by Mishima himself.

In other words, this particular victim was the only one who died by Mishima’s own hands, using the power of Punishment by Roses.

This particular victim was also the only person who Mishima claimed was the love of his life.

****

After wandering for what felt like hours, there was still no end in sight with this crimson rose garden, though Akutagawa could not say he was surprised by this. A prison-space that was created by a strong Ability user couldn't possibly be easy to break through, even Chuuya-san, as overwhelmingly powerful as the older man was, had once been trapped for days by a certain American novelist’s Ability.

Though understanding alĺ these didn't reduce Akutagawa’s frustration. He originally thought he would find the seams of Mishima Yukio's Ability that could enable his escape, but so far he had come up with nothing.

Everywhere he went, a maze formed by roses spread and twisted to all directions, with no end in sight. In most parts, the crimson flowers clung to every rock surface, staircase, bridges, and half-broken brick walls in this enormous and complicated rose garden. In some parts the red roses had grown so tall they formed various rose tunnels, with all the twists and turns that led you to walk in circles.

It didn't take long for Akutagawa to notice that aside from the inescapable roses, there were other pieces and……decorations in this labyrinth. On the brick walls, random framed paintings hang in different parts, some of them were even hung high overhead. Elegantly framed paintings that you would expect to see in museums. Paintings with mazes or labyrinths of some sort as the main themes. One of them showed two comely, longhaired maidens dressed in fine clothes of medieval nobility, the pair was sitting casually, almost pleasantly, in front of a labyrinth, and both women were facing the audience, smiling. In the background, an armored knight was engaged in a deadly fight with a black monster at the heart of the same labyrinth.

Was it light playing tricks to his eyes, or was there a faint hint of mockery at the corners of the maidens’ upturned lips? The mafioso couldn't really tell.

Not very far away, there was a larger surreal painting depicting a gloomy scenery of a dark maze with a massive geometric shape…creature levitating over the heart of it, the creature was seemingly spinning in the air. The scene could only be described as ‘hellish’, a landscape that seemed to come from an otherworldly dimension.

In another part of the maze, there hung a painting depicting a massive Western-style building roofed by a set of impossibly angled, never-ending staircases, with two lines of identically dressed male figures in black business suits, one line ascending while the other descends on this strange staircase endlessly.

Akutagawa vaguely recalled seeing a similar framed painting in one of the high-end apartment buildings owned by the Port Mafia. The painting was created by some famous European artist who liked to create visual illustrations.

Akutagawa stood before this particular painting and looked at the two lines of men in the painting, forever walking in circles but never having a chance to go somewhere else. Those impossible staircases entrapped them so mathematically that there was simply no escape.

Could it be a hint that those who were trapped in this maze of roses also had no hope to escape?

Akutagawa looked away and continued his search.

There were other paintings and statues along the way, all of them showed some mythical beasts lurking inside a great labyrinth.

Akutagawa didn't believe the Weretiger had much personal interest in labyrinths and the myths beyond them, so like those red roses, these maze-related features must be Mishima Yukio’s own interest.

Roses and labyrinths, an unlikely combination, but combining together, a labyrinth covered with roses could also be dangerous.

Many times, Akutagawa thought about tearing through the thorns and roses to get himself out of this unending maze, but logic reminded him that without the protection of Rashomon, he would be the one who got torn through by the thorns.

Died by a thousand cuts, by something as simple as some plants, some thorns.

Long ago, he had told the Weretiger he wasn't afraid of death, but after his recent…. encounter with the Grim Reaper, Akutagawa would rather choose not to repeat the same experience so soon. There were still too many things—

Too many loose ends.

For example, his sister…

The Weretiger claimed, without much remorse, that Gin had been misled into believing that he was dead.

Something twitched in his chest at the thought, especially when he recalled the Weretiger also admitted Gin was devastated when she received the news…

Long ago, the Akutagawa siblings had discussed in great lengths about the possibility of death, given the nature of their trade, neither of them had ever expected themselves to reach middle age. Realistically speaking, not everyone in the Port Mafia could have the good fortune to grow old in style like Hirotsu.

Even when facing the possibility of losing one another in the future, both of them had eventually agreed that even when one of them perished, the surviving sibling should still carry on living, making the most out of their lives, both of them had promised each other not to give up.

When Akutagawa first learned about his lung disease and how hopeless his health condition was from the doctors, he took the small comfort from that promise Gin made him, taking comfort from the fact that his sister had promised him to be strong and carry on even without him.

Therefore, Akutagawa must trust Gin would keep her promise, she was still holding on despite the heavy blow of his supposed ‘death’.

In return, he would find a way to escape from this prison created by a godforsaken Ability.

Before everything that happened, before what he had experienced on that ship, the mafioso always believed he could manage to leave this world without any regret — except perhaps the regret of his failure to gain Dazai's acknowledgment before it was too late, but now……

He could feel the regret sitting heavily in his chest like a weighing iron. Too many loose ends…

Perhaps he should have come clean with Gin about his illness ages ago, he should have said a proper ‘Goodbye’ to her before going to that forsaken ship, instead of leaving her behind and diving into one dangerous mission to the next without a word, like he had done too many times in the past.

As with most things related to regret, it was too late and there was nothing Akutagawa could do now.

Clenching his teeth in bitterness, Akutagawa forced himself to put the thoughts about Gin from his mind for the time being, instead he let his steel gray eyes follow the lines on a nearby brick wall until his gaze came to rest on a particular framed painting hanging on the wall.

He had come across the same painting a few times as he tried to navigate his way through the maze. At first, the painting didn't capture his attention much, until he came across it for the third time, and took time to look at the details more closely.

The painting showed a young man, the upper part of his pale torso bare, with only a piece of loincloth covering his lower body. The man stood in a forest, and he was being bound against a tree trunk.

The young man’s elegant face was upturned, his hands were bound tightly together over his head.

A closer look revealed that the young man’s body was pierced through by arrows.

It was like a scene of execution from ancient times. Someone had pierced the man’s torso mercilessly with wooden crafted arrows.

Akutagawa had never seen this painting before, and he didn't know the meaning beyond it. From his limited knowledge of paintings and art history, he could only guess that it was a medieval painting about some saints or martyrs who were executed for their religious beliefs.

Neither saints nor religions meant much to Akutagawa, but there was one single thing about this painting he couldn't overlook.

It was a cruel but highly sensual painting, and it was the only painting that Akutagawa had found in this prison-space that was unrelated to roses and labyrinths.

It wasn't related to roses or labyrinths, but it was placed here, at a corner of this twisted labyrinth created by roses and a man’s fierce obsession.

This could only mean one thing.

Chapter Text

In this prison, where days and nights blended into one, with no clock or watch marking the passage of time, only the scent of roses seemed to grow denser within every second.

Akutagawa did his best to ignore the suffocating scent of roses surrounding him and focused on the large painting before him. It was a secret, a clue hidden in plain sight—it had to be. It was likely the opening he had been searching for, or at the very least, a hint to it, especially when every other path he had taken had led to dead ends.

Where should he start?

Akutagawa was no detective, but it shouldn’t be much different from the missions he had undertaken in the past. His rivals had always laid traps, weaving puzzles and riddles to try to thwart him and block his path—but time and again they had all failed.

He was unstoppable once he figured out an angle to strike, now he must try.

The mafioso took a step closer and reached out a hand, his fingers brushed against the cool, uneven surface of the painting directly, nothing happened.

Next, he pressed his palm firmly against the canvas and pushed.

What happened next startled him. Instead of meeting resistance, ruining the pigment, or tearing the thick linen cloth apart, his hand sank into the surface. It gave way like jelly, quivering slightly under his touch. His instinct screamed for him to pull back from the unknown, but the sensation was oddly smoothing, like slipping into warm, viscous water. Against his better judgment, Akutagawa pushed his hand further into the canvas, going inside the painting itself.

Akutagawa’s heart raced, knowing he had likely found the hint he was looking for. It was not a normal painting, it seemed to be the opening of a portal.

He could only wish this was a hint that could lead him to a route of escape.

For an instant, the world muffled around him. His fingers felt something solid amidst the shifting, gelatinous texture. Tentatively, he gripped it—a small, rectangular object. He quickly yanked his hand back, pulling out the object along with a faint ripple that spread across the painting, before the surface of the painting smoothed back over all on its own as if nothing had happened.

Akutagawa looked downward, in his hands there was a book. Its cover was brown leather, aged and cracked at the edges, and the scent of earth and something faintly floral wafted from it—a faint scent of rose? A delicate latch held it shut, but there was no lock.

It was a diary.

He turned the worn diary over, searching for clues to its origin, but there was nothing—no embossing, no initials, just plain, timeworn leather. The book seemed unassuming, but Akutagawa felt oddly drawn to it like the diary held secrets too powerful to remain hidden.

His heart pounded as he flicked open the diary and peered at the first few pages. The pages were crisp, written in neat, looping script. The words didn’t seem to follow any logical order, jumping between musings on the nature of reality, snippets of poetry, and strange sketches of symbols that the mafioso couldn’t recognize.

Though Akutagawa had no time to examine it further, the world suddenly shifted before his eyes. A sharp pain pierced his chest, forcing a gasp from his lips. He dropped the book, clutching his torso, but the agony only intensified. His knees buckled, and he staggered, as something sharp pressed painfully against the inside of his skin.

Thorns.

Thorns and brambles broke through his flesh in jagged bursts, tearing through his arms, his legs, his chest. Blood trickled down in threads, soaking into the earth as fresh roses—red as rubies, their petals almost glowing in the gloom—bloomed from the wounds. Akutagawa could not stop the screams that torn from his throat, the sound echoing off the hedges of the maze, but the roses kept blooming, their thorny stems twisting around his body like cruel chains.

Akutagawa had always known pain, but this time it came from a depth within his being that he hadn't anticipated, catching him completely off guard.

The mafioso collapsed, writhing in the dirt, the brown-colored diary had dropped out of his hands as he fell, lying just out of reach. His own blood seeped into the soil, feeding the roses growing from him, their blossoms swelling larger with every passing second.

He choked, and instantly his throat was flooded with the taste of fresh blood—that's when he remembered.

The name of Mishima’s Ability, Punishment by Roses.

So……those roses, brambles, and thorns, were they his punishment for trying to escape its grip?

From the rosy shadows of the maze, another figure emerged. He walked rather leisurely, hands in his pockets, his face half-hidden beneath the high collar of his long dark coat. His footsteps were soft but deliberate.

Even amid the haze of searing pain coursing through his body, Akutagawa could still recognize the other boy’s presence.

“I warned you, didn’t I?” the silver-haired youth said, his voice smooth but laced with condescension, his gaze shifted from the large painting of the slaughtered saint to the fallen figure of Akutagawa. “ I told you to stay put and behave yourself, didn’t I? Yet there you are, bleeding onto the ground only because you wanted to find something that isn’t meant to be found.”

The black-haired one tried to speak, but his voice was choked by his own blood. Akutagawa was ashamed to let his enemy see him so weak. Why couldn’t he stand up again…? Why was he so useless?

Causally, the Weretiger crouched beside him, tilting his head to the side as if observing a rare insect. Then the youth reached out and grabbed Akutagawa’s hair, forcing him to look up at him.

“Just when will you learn to behave, Akutagawa? I’m disappointed but why am I not surprised?”

Akutagawa had no answer, there was nothing he could do or say other than lying on the dirt ground and watching when the Weretiger bent down to him, the tips of their noses close enough to touch.

“I told you, you aren’t going anywhere. You stay here and I’ll look after you, it really isn’t so difficult to understand, right?”

The silver-haired one gave his head another tug, causing Akutagawa to gasp in pain. It made no sense. The Weretiger’s strange insistence, it almost looked like…possessiveness.

The Weretiger reached out, this time plucking one of the smaller roses growing from the older man's chest. The thorny stem came free with an audible squelch, and he inspected the flower like it was a fine artifact. “Beautiful, isn’t it? A fitting punishment for someone who couldn’t resist the lure of curiosity and sought to uncover secrets that were never theirs to know.”

The mafioso’s eyes widened in shock and pain, but the other seized this moment to let go, turning to pick up the fallen diary from the ground and tucked it neatly into the lapel of his coat, effectively keeping it well out of reach from Akutagawa.

“When will you learn? You aren't leaving here, trying to escape won't do you any good at all, and digging for things you’re not meant to know won’t help you either. So don’t do that again.” His voice was slow but there was something icy and emotionless in it.

A wet, guttural laugh tore from Akutagawa’s throat, raw and ugly. He was a picture of misery, his body pierced by those cursed thorns. Every movement sent fresh waves of agony as they ripped further into his flesh. Yet, despite it all, he mustered the strength to spit a mouthful of blood straight to the Weretiger’s face.

To his credit, the Weretiger didn't even move a muscle as Akutagawa’s blood hit his face.

With one hand wiping the blood from his own cheek, the silver-haired one asked in a sing-song voice. “Are you done, Akutagawa?”

With that, the younger man dropped the bloody rose he was holding to the ground, then he reached out a gloved hand to grip the collar of Akutagawa's shirt. “ If you're finished, then let's go back.”

Then the Weretiger started dragging the injured man backward unceremoniously. Akutagawa groaned, feebly tugging at his captor’s gloved hands, but his efforts were in vain.

“ Don't touch me!” He choked, and a string of threats stumbled from his blood-stained mouth, but his voice was weak and far less intimidating than he had hoped. “I–I’m going to kill you for this!”

“ Oh, I know you want to, I know you would. I’m all too aware of it, Akutagawa.” From above, the Weretiger gazed down at him with an air of casual indifference, as if not only the younger man was prepared for such a hostile reaction, he even found the threats more amusing than alarming.

“But first, you need to heal before you can try, don’t you?”

The words got Akutagawa to pause, his struggles faltering for a moment. The Weretiger didn’t waste the opportunity, hoisting the injured man onto his shoulder and carrying him effortlessly like a sack of potatoes, through the labyrinth of endless rose-threaded paths.

As the two figures vanished into the shadows of lush green and crimson hues, the maze was silent once more, save for the soft rustle of rose petals falling to the blood-soaked ground behind them.

Chapter Text

Dreams, the one place where people let their guard down, where the truth of their desires surfaced without restraint. No matter how disciplined a person was, sleep had a way of stripping away control, leaving them vulnerable to the unfiltered chaos of their own mind. Nakajima Atsushi was no exception. And that made him weak.

Although he would not admit it to anyone, Atsushi often dreamed of things that were not just memories but anchors of longing and the darkest corners of his nightmares. The images felt as real as the breath in his lungs, vivid and suffocating. They clung to him with the force of guilt, regret, and a slow-burning anger that seemed impossible to escape.

In each of these dreams, there was one constant: a figure. A man who had sacrificed himself for him by putting himself in harm's way. The blood...so much blood...and the face of that man—Akutagawa, his longtime rival—was etched in his mind, but the other man's smile in the end haunted him the most. A smile so filled with quiet resignation that it tore him apart every time he remembered it. The last words he heard from Akutagawa, as they stood in the face of certain death on that ship, rang in his ears like a cruel echo: "Go. You fool."

He had tried to bury it. The image, the memory, the emotion. But it always returned, a reminder of a debt he could never repay. He had believed that he could never feel anything for another person as intensely as he had felt toward Akutagawa— not this unbearable sense of loss. But now, everything had changed.

Obsession was a deep, gnawing thing that kept him awake at night, twisting and turning inside him. It mingled with the anger, bubbling up in moments when he least expected it. But there was more to it than that—grief, raw and untamed, buried beneath everything else, mixed with a confusing, impossible sensation. Lust.

He hated it. Hated himself for it. How could he feel this way? How could the simple thought of Akutagawa make him want to reach out in ways that was so unnatural?

He wasn’t sure. He felt like one of the most twisted, broken people alive. And the worst part? He couldn't escape the constant pull of this sickening desire.

In some other dreams he had, the silver-haired young man didn’t dream of what happened on that ship, instead he found himself locked in combat with Akutagawa. It wasn’t unusual—conflict had always defined their relationship, a collision of wills that neither could resist. But here, in the strange, fluid reality of dreams, the fight felt different. More visceral. More raw.

Akutagawa always brought out the worst of him and he suspected he had the same effect on the older man. However, somehow it felt good to do his worst, to have no restraint and no pretence.

In the dreamscape, they clashed in a flurry of movement—fists flying, bodies twisting, every strike fueled by rage and frustration. The world around them was blurred, indistinct, as if it existed only to serve as the backdrop to their struggle.

Punch. Block. Counter. Their breath came in ragged bursts, muscles burning from exertion, but neither relented. Here, there were no rules, no need for restraint. It was nothing but pure, unchecked aggression, their emotions manifesting in each calculated strike.

Then, something shifted.

With a sudden burst of energy, Atsushi drove forward, catching Akutagawa off guard. In an instant, he had him pinned—Akutagawa’s back against the ground, Atsushi’s hands gripping his wrists, holding him down. For a moment, time stretched, the echo of their heavy breathing filling the silence.

Akutagawa had managed to cut him repeatedly with his Ability. Atsushi was bleeding, but he wasn't paying much attention to his own injuries. He could still hardly believe it—he had bested Akutagawa. The realization sent a heady rush through him, a potent mix of triumph and something far more perplexing.

Victory. It should have felt exhilarating. Yet, the high didn’t last. A strange unease stirred within Atsushi, creeping up his spine like a whisper of something foreign and unwelcome. He had won—but—

Had he really?

Still caught in the dream’s grasp, Atsushi found himself questioning: was this just another fight, another clash of fists and fury? Or was it something more?

His gaze dropped, and he met Akutagawa’s eyes.

Akutagawa was staring up at him, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. His eyes burned—not just with rage, but with something deeper, something unreadable. If a gaze could turn into daggers, Atsushi would have been skewered a hundred times over by the sheer intensity of Akutagawa’s stare.

Atsushi was still panting heavily, heart pounding so hard he could hear the rush of blood in his ears. But as he looked down, truly looked, he saw something different in Akutagawa’s expression. The usual aloofness, the familiar wall of unyielding hatred, had cracked. And beneath it—

Hatred, yes. But also defeat. A flicker of uncertainty. A sliver of something raw and fragile, something he had never glimpsed before.

Lust.

Fear.

The mask Akutagawa always wore had fractured, revealing something vulnerable. And for the first time, Atsushi wasn’t sure if he had truly won at all.

Then, horrifyingly, something inside Atsushi shifted. A rush of possessiveness surged through him, primal and uncontrollable, drowning out reason. Instinct took over, and before he could think, he acted.

He bent down and crushed his lips against Akutagawa’s.

Without fault, his dreams always ended here with him waking up with a start in the middle of the night inside his cupboard, waking up with messy tears slipping down his cheeks and soaked with cold sweat.

****

There had been a confrontation, when days later Atsushi finally uncovered all the schemes operating behind the scenes. He had stormed in front of Dazai, all but shaking with fury. How could you? he had demanded, voice trembling as he glared at the older man. How could you ask this of Akutagawa?

Dazai had sat there, unnervingly calm as ever, his expression unreadable. The bastard knew exactly what he had done. He knew that Akutagawa would take his words to heart, would see the task as an obligation, a command, and protect Atsushi at all costs—even if it meant his own death. Akutagawa had always been like that. Devoted. Stubborn. But Dazai... Dazai had played on that, manipulating him like a puppet master pulling at the strings of his former mentee.

How could Dazai do that? How could he be so cruel?

But the deeper question was how could he allow all these to take place in front of his eyes? How could Atsushi let Akutagawa do this for him? How could he accept this sacrifice, knowing that it was something Akutagawa would never hesitate to offer, no matter the cost?

"Why?" he had asked miserably, his voice quieter this time. "Why would you do that to him? To both of us?"

Dazai’s response was slow and deliberate, each word weighted with layers the younger man wasn’t sure he wanted to unpack. "Because it has to be done. The alternatives are even worse," he said, his tone almost too calm, too knowing.

It’s for the best. That was the part Dazai had held back from saying.

All Atsushi had heard in that moment was the voice of his own guilt, screaming in protest. How could he live with this? How could he live with Akutagawa’s death on his conscience?

Worse, how could he carry this overwhelming weight of everything he felt toward Akutagawa when it twisted into something darker: the anger and confusion tangled with his grief, and something far deeper than lust began to unravel in his chest. It was all far more complicated than he ever could have imagined. He was more messed up than he’d ever realized.

Chapter Text

Nakajima Atsushi had previously indicated to him that Punishment by Roses was a weak Ability; he made it sound like the Ability was harmless or, at the very least, passive.

He lied, of course, and Akutagawa should not have been surprised. Nonetheless he was suffering the consequences of trying to escape from the Ability’s grip. When Akutagawa refused to stay put, be a model prisoner and tried to find a means to escape instead, pain erupted across his body, blooming like nepenthes vines unfurling from his very bones and flesh, each tendril a reminder of his futile attempt to resist.

This was his punishment for daring to seek an escape route—a cruel price exacted by the Ability’s relentless grip.

Currently, the two of them were back in the same white building Akutagawa had first found himself in. The weretiger had placed him back to where the younger man had insisted was his room—the room that he found himself in when he first woke up.

After laying him down on the mattress, the Weretiger started tending to his wounds clinically. It started a process of the silver-haired one cutting and tearing the thorns from Akutagawa’s flesh with a pair of medical scissors, removing the blood-soaked brambles one by one slowly, before tossing them to the floor.

Although the younger one claimed he had done his best to make Akutagawa as comfortable as he could, the process was still slow and agonizing.

The silver-haired man quietly repeated the procedures of tearing the thorns away from the mafioso’s flesh, then dressing the wounds that were left behind on the older man’s body.

The mafioso had been through a lot of injuries and pain, in the past Dazai regularly beat him up and broke his bones while the older man was training him, but this time he must admit the agony caused by Punishment was something beyond even his experience.

The room was too quiet, sterile in a way that made it feel like a forgotten hospital wing. White walls, white floors, white ceiling. A single metal chair scraped softly against the tile as the silver-haired youth sat next to where Akutagawa laid on his bed, holding a roll of gauze, the expression on his face hovered between frustration and concern.

He was drifting in and out of consciousness, but whenever he floated back to the surface, his condition was still the same. His torso and limbs were wrapped up by so many bandages, just to stop the bleeding, bandages, so many of them. He was still trapped by Mishima Yukio’s Ability, still trapped in his own weakened and injured body, unable to even activate Rashoumon to defend himself.

Once again, Dazai was right all along. Without his Ability, he was always too weak.

He must have passed out completely due to the pain and the blood loss at some point even though he didn’t remember shutting his eyes, the next time Akutagawa snapped awake, blood-soaked rose petals filled his vision, it took a few seconds longer for his eyes to focus and see rose petals, thorns and leaves had fallen all round him among the white mattress.

The mafioso took a deep breath, trying to get his bearings. He knew he had lost too much blood, which meant rationally he shouldn’t try to move. He knew it, still he couldn’t help twisting and turning, as if it could reduce the pain.

In fact, it couldn’t.

He hated this, he had fought through worse injuries than this, but his body had been weakened since he came back from death.

He didn’t want to acknowledge this, but he had been weakened. Disgustingly, the Weretiger was still playing nurse with him when he was at his worst condition.

The younger man could have just left him to bleed dry, instead now the silver-haired one was dressing his wounds with the utmost care and mindfulness.

Akutagawa could not understand it, it was not how you were supposed to treat your arch rivalry, your…enemy.

If the Dazai-san in the past had ever seen one of his subordinate’s showing mercy and care like this to their enemy, the only outcome would be Dazai sending a bullet straight to the offender’s forehead.

“You need to be still,” The silver-haired youth said, voice low but firm. “You’re bleeding through the last one, you’re dripping on the mattress, Akutagawa.”

The mafioso scoffed in response, but he refused to say anything.

A smear of dark red trailed down Akutagawa’s forearm and had begun to seep through the mattress beneath him, but he refused to acknowledge this fact. His eyes flicked to a nearby closed window — the only break in the white.

He could still feel the Weretiger removing the thorns from his flesh, each tug a tiny flare of pain. He cleaned and dressed the wounds with practiced precision. Every step was meant to prevent infection, but it couldn't prevent the weariness settling deep into Akutagawa's bones.

Akutagawa despised moments like this. His body lacked the regenerative ability that some other Ability users took for granted. When he was injured, he had to heal the old-fashioned way—slowly, painfully, helplessly.

The waiting was always the worst part. His body felt like a cage, unresponsive and foreign, as if it no longer belonged to him. He could barely move, could hardly manage the most basic acts of self-care. Everything took effort, and every effort reminded him how powerless he had become.

“It’ll definitely leave scars,” the Weretiger murmured, fingers ghosting over the freshly bandaged wounds. The touch was careful, but lingered just a second too long.

Scars were the least of the mafioso’s concerns. His body was already a canvas of half-healed old battle wounds, permanent reminders of skirmishes survived but not escaped. Some of the scars were the distinct mark of Dazai’s interference—tainted wounds that refused to close cleanly, as if even his flesh remembered those who had almost killed him.

Akutagawa kept his eyes fixed on the window– anything to distract himself from his current situation. Beyond the glass, the rose maze shimmered under the night sky, an endless tangle of unchanging green and crimson.

“Why are you always so stubborn?” The Weretiger asked, peeling back a soaked bandage, the movement unavoidably pulled at some torn flesh. Akutagawa flinched, but he managed to bite back a pained whimper.

“You act like letting someone help you is some kind of weakness.” The Weretiger commented, at this point, it felt like he kept on talking only to break the constant silence.

Unconsciously, Akutagawa’s jaw clenched. He still didn’t answer. His gaze remained fixed on the maze outside, where thorn-covered paths seemingly twisted into infinity.

Sighing almost dramatically, the Weretiger pressed the gauze against another jagged cut. “You’re lucky I found you when I did. If you’d stayed out there any longer—”

“I didn’t ask you to come after me,” Akutagawa snapped. If he had a choice, he would not have chosen to see his arch enemy, he didn't want him to interfere; he would rather bleed out than accept the other man’s help.

“No, you didn't. But I would find you anyway, I told you I will keep you safe.” The younger man’s voice softened just slightly. “Because I care.”

That made Akutagawa whirl back to face the other man in outrage. “I don’t need your pity! How many times do I have to say it?”

“It’s not pity, and I’m not trying to humiliate you,” The silver-haired man replied defensively.

Akutagawa almost fired back, but a wave of dizziness crashed over him. His mind spun, and the world seemed to tilt with it. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to steady himself.

Every moment like this felt like humiliation. Wasn’t it obvious? If only he still had his Ability. If only he weren’t so damn weak.

“Akutagawa, you’re not well—don’t push yourself—”

The Weretiger murmured more, but his words were distant, muffled.

Akutagawa was slipping again, drifting in and out of consciousness. The pain, the blood loss, the fatigue—they pulled at him like dark water, threatening to drag him under. He didn’t have the strength to snap at the Weretiger, and it irritated him more than the pain itself.

"You never listen," Faintly, he heard the Weretiger’s whisper, his voice low and unexpectedly close. “Even when it hurts you. But please stop being foolish—this time there’s nowhere left for you to run.”

Akutagawa felt a weight settle beside him, the heat of another body pressed faintly against his. A breath—warm and steady—brushed the side of his face.

“You’re not going anywhere. In this state, you’re literally all mine.”

The arrogance of that statement burned hotter than any of his wounds. The Weretiger truly believed he held the upper hand, that he—of all people—had Akutagawa at his mercy. It struck at the one thing Akutagawa still clung to: pride. The same pride that had kept him alive through the years, that had driven him to prove again and again—to the Port Mafia, to Dazai, to every enemy he’d ever faced—that he wasn't weak.

Now, this man dared to undermine even that.

With effort that made his vision swim, Akutagawa cracked his eyes open. The world was a blur, hazy shapes and smudged light. But even in that murk, he could make out the silver-haired man’s silhouette hovering over him. And more than sight—he felt the weight of the Weretiger’s gaze, heavy and unwavering, boiling against his skin.

It was then Akutagawa realized with startling clarity how exposed he was. Barely clothed, bleeding, broken—lying there with nothing but bandages and a thin sheet. Under different circumstances, it might not have mattered. But now, it felt unsettling. Intimate. As if something deeper than just his flesh had been laid bare.

Through his fevered haze, he felt faint touches—gentle, almost reverent. Hands that lingered longer than they should have, tracing his wounds like they were something sacred.

He almost wished he could pass out completely. But no such luck. Instead, he was aware of everything: the loss of his Ability, the suffocating isolation, the way his every move was watched and monitored like he was a specimen in a glass tank.

And with that awareness came a new, unwelcome emotion.

Entrapment.

It crawled under his skin, bitter and inescapable. For the first time in his life, Akutagawa didn’t feel like a survivor or a weapon.

He just felt... trapped.

Chapter Text

People often spoke of tigers as creatures driven by a ruthless, insatiable hunger. Their nature was one of both greed and cruelty—wild tigers, they said, hunted not just to sate their appetite but for the sheer pleasure of it, often toying with their prey, savoring the kill before growing bored and finishing the hunt. The idea was simple: tigers took what they wanted, unburdened by any moral conflict, their brutal power unchecked.

Was Nakajima Atsushi any different from those beasts?

The question lingered like a shadow in the youth’s mind. He could hardly deny the gnawing hunger within him, the same kind that defined the tigers’ insidious desires. Back then he used to deny this side of himself, but now, not so much.

It was true that he had so much already—wonderful teammates at the Agency, a small circle of loyal friends who had come to mean the world to him, and the heartwarming comfort and acceptance brought by his friends that he had fought so hard to keep. His friends had almost been ripped away from him during the battle with the Decay of Angels and the Hunting Dogs, but now they were back. He had been granted a second chance to hold on to all of them.

And yet, it was not enough.

He still reached for more—more than he deserved. There were moments, late at night, when he found himself wishing for things that could never be his, lingering on desires that only made his chest ache with an emptiness he couldn’t explain. He already had it all—or so he told himself—but why, then, did the hollow space inside him never seem to fill?

Pathetic! If the Headmaster could see him now, the older man would likely smirk and scoff at him without mercy.

Most people would tell him that he should be grateful, that he should embrace the peace he had won, the warmth of the friendships he had fought to keep. After all, he had gained back everything that mattered, hadn’t he? Yet, every time he tried to grasp this sense of gratitude, it slipped from his fingers like sand. The hollow in his chest seemed to defy reason, a gnawing, restless thing that refused to be soothed by anything he had. No matter how much he tried to tell himself it was enough, it never felt like it was.

He was devastated when he witnessed Kunikida, Kenji and the President got struck down and died in front of him. Until much later, his lost friends and the President were restored miraculously, with Atsushi's help along the way.

He should have been overjoyed to have his friends…his family back, but something still left him feeling hollow, even when he was among his friends, it felt like he was not whole.

The truth was….. Atsushi nearly fell apart when Akutagawa used his own life to distract Fukuchi and helped him to escape, and the wounds from that day seemed to have never healed.

Even after the battle had ended, Atsushi was still carrying the invisible wounds, bleeding from the inside where no one else could see, bleeding when he didn't have it in him to cry.

Then he learned of the Agency and the Port Mafia making another deal with the Army over Akutagawa.

It was when he finally learned Akutagawa was in fact still alive, against all odds.

It was when Atsushi couldn't help himself, he couldn't have held back even if he tried. He decided to throw himself into the deal.

Every sane person would have told him it was madness to make such a choice, madness to throw what he had earned away. Gratitude alone should have been enough to quiet the restlessness inside him, but instead it only made the yearning worse. It wasn’t about lacking—he had more than he ever dared to hope for—it was about wanting differently. Wanting something he could never name aloud.

At night, when his room was bathed in shadow, the thought returned like a confession he couldn’t make: that what he wanted was not peace, but intensity—something fierce enough to burn through the loneliness still haunting him.

It was when the dreams began, his dreams spoke in a language that Atsushi could barely acknowledge in his waking moments. It told him that hunger was not always for food, victory, or even peace. Sometimes it was for something far more primal—a claim, a bond, a possession. The idea unsettled him, twisting inside his chest like a parasite, reminding him of the tiger within him again. The white tiger did not question why they hunted. They did not apologize. They simply took.

And perhaps, somewhere deep down, he longed to do just the same.

It was a thought that left him awake at night, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding like a criminal caught in the act. Sleep, when it finally came, brought no escape—only strange visions that left his breath uneven and his mind raw when morning broke.

Whenever he had a dream about Akutagawa, his arch rival, about almost kissing the older man…there was only one thought in his mind.

The look on the mafioso steel-grey eyes. This look…Atsushi wanted it for himself.

If only Akutagawa would look at him like this in reality.

If only—

If only Akutagawa would look at him like this in real life.

Atsushi often woke from those dreams feeling a hot, unshakable shame burning beneath his skin. The thoughts that stirred in the dark corners of his sleep unsettled him—alien, intense, and utterly his own.

Sex had always been a forbidden subject in the orphanage he grew up in. The boys and girls had been raised under a regime of silence and guilt, discouraged from so much as thinking about it. Staff members had scoffed and lectured them with familiar refrains—“Don’t repeat your parents’ mistakes!” and “Don’t become a burden to society!” Those warnings had rooted themselves deep, growing into shame that twisted around every hint of desire.

When Atsushi joined the Agency, the world had widened. He met plenty of beautiful ladies—some colleagues, some clients. He admired them, respected their strength, their intellect, even their charm. But none of them had ever stirred in him the raw, disorienting emotion that flared whenever he looked at Akutagawa.

Something inside him had cracked open.

At first, it was hate—clean, scorching, and absolute. He despised the mafioso in a way he’d never despised anyone before. Akutagawa was a threat, a mirror, a storm that threw his inner world into chaos. Akutagawa kept undermining him, wanting to erase him, to annihilate him completely, as if that would quiet all the turmoil he had with Dazai, his old mentor.

Akutagawa hated him, didn't care for him– this had always been clear.

But over time, what Atsushi wanted from Akutagawa began to shift—subtly, dangerously.

More often than not, Atsushi was still angry with the older man, still wanting to tear the older man apart. But now, it was only so he could put him back together—piece by piece, on his own terms.

Not out of malice, but something far more terrifying.

Need.

A need to possess, to own and also to maim.

If it was the only way to save Akutagawa, he would gladly do go through the worst torture to keep his former rival by his side.

Chapter Text

The wounds on Akutagawa’s body were healing, but slowly. Yet despite his recovery, the black-haired man refused to eat. Days passed, and every meal brought to him remained untouched, growing cold on the table.

“Come on, Akutagawa. You have to eat something,” The Weretiger said sharply as he entered the room, spotting the untouched plate from earlier. His tone carried more fury than concern this time.

Akutagawa sat at the edge of the bed, his back to the younger man, saying nothing.

Silent treatment. Childish—but one of the few weapons AK still had against his jailer.

“I made your favorite dishes, you know,” The silver-haired one added, his voice edged with passive aggression.

Still, nothing. Not a glance. Not a word.

Silence swallowed the white room, heavy and sharp just like the everlasting thick scent of roses. For a fleeting second, Akutagawa almost believed the Weretiger had given up and left.

But Akutagawa wasn’t foolish. He knew exactly how stubborn, how annoying his rival could be.

“Akutagawa, you must eat something. Seriously!”

This time, the Weretiger’s words came with action. A strong hand gripped his shoulder, trying to twist him around.

Akutagawa was not going to be manhandled, though.

Without hesitation, he swung—his fist connecting hard with the younger man’s nose.

The sliver-haired one stumbled back, blood quickly spilling down his face, trailing from his nose to his chin. With his own Ability out of commission in this pocket realm, his injury didn’t heal on its —not this time.

Instead, the Weretiger licked the blood from his lips as if it were essence. The gesture was deliberate. Predatory.

“Fine,” He said, voice low. “If we must do this the hard way.”

It was the only warning before the Weretiger lunged at Akutagawa. The two collided, fists flying, punches landing, kicks and curses exchanged—brutal and raw, like two school boys scrapping in a playground.

Neither could use their Abilities in this realm; only strength and sheer will determined who would win.

But in the end, Akutagawa found himself pinned to the bed, his chin gripped tightly in his jailer’s claws.

“You must eat,” The Weretiger said flatly, his voice devoid of emotion.

“Unhand me!” Akutagawa snarled, struggling beneath him.

“You’re being bad, Akutagawa.” A smirk tugged at the sliver-haired youth’s lips, though his eyes were disturbingly hollow. “And bad kids need to be punished.”

The grip tightened. Pain lanced through Akutagawa’s jaw—sharp enough to convince him that the other would break it if he resisted further.

At last, humiliation burned hotter than defiance. The mafioso parted his lips, allowing his jailer to press a glass of cool milk to his mouth, forcing him to drink.

It was degrading. Utterly humiliating.

When the Weretiger finally let go, Akutagawa wordlessly took the now empty glass from the youth’s hand—and smashed it against his face.

The shattering was sharp, sudden. Then the smell of fresh blood flooded the air, drowning the faint trace of roses.

****

Hours later, Atsushi wiped the last remaining bloodstains from his cheek with the back of his hand, but by that time some of the crimson stains had already seeped into his shirt. There was no time to change. All he could do was throw a long jacket over the worst of the stains and hope the Boss would not care to notice.

He knew better than to be late.

The tiger-Ability user boarded the waiting SUV outside of the building. The driver, suited and silent, did not glance twice at Atsushi and the blood upon his person. He was wise enough to ignore it.

Inside the vehicle, the silver-haired youth caught his reflection in the window: pale, cold, marked with fresh scars. Akutagawa’s handiworks. Atsushi noticed that even with the white tiger’s healing power, the wounds he earned in the realm of Punishment still always healed much slower than usual, and despite his weakened state, Akutagawa had fought viciously.

For a brief moment his thoughts drifted back to what had just happened. Patience had its limits, even for him. This time Akutagawa had pushed too far, and the result had been inevitable—another round of punishment.

Still, Atsushi felt no real anger. His punishment had not been born out of rage. It had been a necessity—discipline, restraint, control. A way to keep Akutagawa safe.

Was this how people felt when they owned a pet? You had to look after them but at the same time you were responsible to restrain them for their own sake.

Owning a pet, a small animal, had been an impossible dream for the orphans. Especially for a good-for-nothing-orphan like him—someone who had been nothing, and owned nothing.

Yet now, Atsushi understood. He finally grasped the strange, intoxicating thrill of ownership.

****

He had to be scanned and passed through a group of heavily armed bodyguards before he was allowed entry into the office—elegantly furnished, yet cloaked in a somber, oppressive gloom.

“Boss, you called for me?”

He dropped to one knee and bowed low to the middle-aged man seated at the head of the spacious room—the very man who had been his enemy not so long ago, the man who had changed Atsushi’s fate with just one sentence exchanged with Fukuzawa-san.

Mori Ougai. The current Boss of the Port Mafia himself. A figure well earned all the fear and respect he commanded in the shadowy society.

Today, Miss Elise, Mori’s companion was nowhere in sight, instead one of the Executives was present inside the Boss’s office. Nakahara Chuuya stood a few paces behind Mori, his arms crossed, posture tense.

Atsushi could feel the weight of the Executive’s icy, narrowed gaze. It was quite obvious that Dazai's ex-partner didn’t like him. Didn’t trust him. The resentment in Nakahara’s eyes was unmistakable, although Atsushi knew he had never personally offended the older man in any way.

This level of resentment was likely fueled by the... arrangement concerning Akutagawa. That was the only explanation.

But both men knew the truth: there was nothing Nakahara could do about it. In the Port Mafia, the Boss’s word was law.

Despite his obvious disdain, Nakahara said nothing. He simply glared at the younger man, fury simmering just beneath the surface.

Deal with it, Nakahara, Atsushi thought dryly, returning his gaze with quiet defiance. There’s nothing you can do. You could’ve done more—but you didn’t. Just like everyone else. You failed him.

During the chaos of the vampire outbreak, Nakahara had been too preoccupied—entertaining Fyodor Dostoyevsky and Dazai, playing whatever twisted game they were caught in. Atsushi doubted the Executive had spared a single thought for Akutagawa’s safety during that time.

That was the difference between them.

People like Nakahara Chuuya claimed to care. But they didn’t care enough. Not really. Not when it counted.

A flicker of possessiveness stirred in Atsushi’s chest. Akutagawa was his now—bound to him by agreement and blood, a connection that hadn't existed before but one he had forged anyway, through sheer will.

But Nakahara was not the one he should pay attention to now, it should be Mori—the Boss whom he must focus on.

“Atsushi-kun~ you may stand up~.” Behind his rosewood desk, the Boss sang the words in a lilting tone, pleasant on the surface, edged with danger beneath. One wrong word, one faltering breath, and that melody could sharpen into a threat.

“ Thank you, Boss.” Atsushi rose with deliberate care, each movement precise and measured. The white tiger within him stirred at the change in posture, restless, as if it disliked the feeling of restraint. He forced his shoulders to remain loose, his expression neutral. No sudden gestures, no tells. In the Mafia, control was survival.

“Today,” Mori continued in a causal tone, “I would like to see how you’ve been processing things lately. And, of course, hear the report from your last assignment.”

“Yes, Boss.”

With his eyes still lowered to the floor in respect, the silver-haired youth began to file his report to the head of the Port Mafia.

In his last assignment to secure an important shipment, there had been crossfires between his troop and an enemy group. Their enemy had fought hard—fighting boldly and fiercely enough to thrill the beast prowling inside him—but their resistance had been futile. Atsushi had channeled the tiger’s strength into cold precision, leading his small troop of armed men with ruthless efficiency. The battle ended quickly. The shipment was secured, the enemy eliminated. No loose ends. No witnesses.

The Nakajima Atsushi in the past would have been astonished by such operations and its cold-bloodedness, but after the transfer, now to him something like this was just business as usual.

“Well done, Atsushi-kun!” After hearing the report, the Boss gave the younger man a rare praise, smiling as though he was a teacher facing a favourite star student, his voice full of honeyed approval. “I’d like to see you take on more responsibility now—tougher missions, higher stakes. Do you feel you’re up for it?”

“As you wish, Boss.” Atsushi replied evenly, though he felt the tiger’s low growl in his chest, as if eager for the challenge. He knew too well this ‘promotion’ was merely another test—of usefulness, loyalty, and most of all, control.

“ Very well.” Mori smirked, resting his chin at the back of his hands. “But before I let you go, how do you feel? Has your Ability given you any trouble lately?”

The question struck like a sudden blade. Atsushi tensed, spine stiffening. He hadn’t expected the Boss to probe that deeply—not here, not now—but perhaps he should have. Mori always had a way of finding weaknesses and prodding at them, smiling all the while.

“I have it under control now, Boss. Sorry for making you worry.”

The words left his lips evenly, almost casually, but inside, his pulse thudded like a warning drum. His fingers brushed the edge of the heavy iron collar at his neck—a cold, unyielding reminder of how fragile that control truly was. It had been locked on the day he left Fukuzawa-san’s command, the only safeguard keeping the white tiger from tearing free.

He remembered the last time he lost control—remembered the screams cut short, the smell of blood heavy in the air, bodies collapsing like broken puppets. Men and women– enemies and subordinates alike, even civilians—had died around him like flies. And the punishment that followed had been… severe. Not for the slaughter itself—the Port Mafia had no qualms about lives lost—but for the waste. For destroying valuable trained soldiers.

Mori smiled thinly at his reply, as if measuring not just Atsushi’s words, but the steadiness of his soul, of how hard or how easily the youth could be broken, but there was no further questioning from the older man, soon Atsushi was dismissed.

Without the President’s—no, without Fukuzawa-san’s Ability to tame the white tiger, Atsushi had found it almost impossible to keep the white tiger inside him under control. Alone, the weight of that primal force pressed against his mind like a storm against a brittle door. The silver-haired youth had done his best to mask this weakness, because in the Mafia, weakness was an open invitation to be devoured.

But Atsushi was no one’s prey. Not anymore.

However, much to his irritation, Mori seemingly had still seen through the cracks in his façade and sensed his struggles and pain. The Boss of the Port Mafia had a talent to find out weaknesses, it seemed. Atsushi suspected that Nakahara had noticed as well—perhaps even sooner.

Once, the tiger’s instincts had terrified him. Its hunger, its need to move, to fight, to hunt. Keeping it caged had been like gripping a blade by its edge—every moment an invitation to bleed.

Yet lately… lately something had changed. A fragile understanding had settled between boy and beast, as if they had begun to breathe in unison. The tiger no longer roared quite so loudly for release. Instead, it prowled quietly within him, watchful, waiting—almost… patient, because the tiger knew too well it already had Atsushi within its claws.

****

Atsushi was making his way out from the top floors of the skyscraper—the towering heart of the Port Mafia—when a figure caught his eye.

It was Nakahara. The Executive seemed to materialize out of nowhere, his presence abrupt and imposing. He stood at the top of the grand staircase, looking down at him with a gaze as cold and unyielding as steel.

The sliver-haired youth froze for half a breath. There was no slipping past the Executive, no pretending he hadn’t noticed. Straightening his posture, the youth ascended the steps with careful deliberation, forcing a polite smile onto his lips as he looked up at the older man.

“Executive Nakaha—”

“The Boss may have been going easy on you,” Nakahara cut him off, voice flat and sharp, as if his words were a blade meant to leave no room for response. “but I hope—for your sake—you truly know what you’re doing, newbie.”

He didn’t so much as acknowledge the younger man's attempted greeting before turning away, his coat brushing against the banister as he descended the opposite side of the staircase, already dismissing Atsushi from his attention.

Atsushi watched him go, the weight of the words lingering heavier than the silence that followed. It hadn’t been advice. It was a warning, clear and uncompromising. One wrong move—just one—and the consequences would be grave.

Chapter Text

Atsushi stared down at the thick, worn leather-bound diary in his hand, his expression dark. Mishima’s diary, which he previously tossed away from Akutagawa seconds after the mafioso discovered the very item in the rose maze. The edges of the diary were frayed, the corners softened by time and years of handling.

Akutagawa didn't manage to read much of the content inside the dairy, but the damage had already been done. He had opened it. He had read at least the first few pages.

Atsushi had long read through the diary from page to page, almost knowing every word by heart.

Most of the entries revealed the thoughts of a young man wrestling with a lifetime of quiet despair. Mishima Yukio– the owner of the diary– had been born into a prestigious family, doted upon by a grandmother who seemed to both shield and smother him. Frail in body, awkward among those around him, he wandered through childhood like a ghost, with books and literature as his only constant companions. Among his peers, he was always ‘the other’. His words dripped with confusion—about his place in the world, about his desires, about what was expected of him.

Mishima’s teenage years—awkward, uncertain, and painfully lonely. His entries detailed the slow, confusing stirrings of his sexuality: a series of fleeting, unspoken attractions to his male schoolmates and, later, to fellow soldiers. None of it blossomed into anything real. He could barely act upon those feelings because they were not socially acceptable at his time. Those feelings were crushed and doomed from the start, shadows of desire he never dared to name aloud.

It was pitiful, in a quiet, human way—like watching a bird pace inside a cage it had built for itself, or someone locked themselves deeper and deeper inside a maze of their own making.

Later, the young Mishima joined the military. Perhaps he hoped to find clarity there. Or a sense of purpose. Or maybe it was an escape—from his family’s expectations, from his grandmother’s suffocating love, from the parts of himself he couldn’t reconcile. Perhaps, in some corner of his heart, he was seeking punishment.

But even the Army gave him no meaning.

He remained adrift. A man surrounded by people, yet never truly seen, a soldier fighting wars inside his own mind.

Mishima didn't directly mention his Ability in his diary, though it was believed that Punishment by Rose manifested shortly after he joined the Army.

The prose in those entries was beautiful—painfully honest at times, the writer was obviously talented—but Atsushi found nothing profound in it. Nothing extraordinary. Just the slow unraveling of a man no one truly saw and understood. After closing the diary, he couldn’t say he felt sympathy. He couldn’t even say he liked or disliked it. He felt nothing.

But even now, Mishima seemed unable—or unwilling—to let go.

What frightened him wasn’t what Mishima had written in his diary. The diary itself was just a part of Mishima that refused to die and disappear, just a lingering shadow of his longing and desire still clinging to life inside his Ability.

What worried him was something else that had been kept hidden inside the diary.

He had made a mistake—a grave one. He had let Akutagawa discover the diary from its hidden place. Or rather, he had failed to keep it hidden.

The diary should have remained lost.

Atsushi’s fingers tightened around the leather as he thought of the letter—the envelope sealed in crimson wax, slipped between Mishima’s pages as if it belonged right there, which it shouldn't.

The name written on the front of the envelope with dark black ink made it obvious that the letter was addressed to no other than Akutagawa Ryuunosuke.

There was no return address on the back of the envelope. No date. Just a single name written in delicate black ink: Fukuzawa Yukichi.

Atsushi had tried to destroy the diary along with the enveloped letter inside—again and again. He had burned the pages until they turned to ash, only to find the diary resting on his desk the next morning, unmarred. He had thrown it into the river. Days later, it appeared in front of him, dry and seemingly untouched.

Once, out of spite, he buried it beneath concrete. A week passed. Then he opened a drawer and there it was, refusing to disappear.

The diary could not be destroyed. And it refused to be forgotten.

But no matter how cursed or persistent it was, Atsushi had made one vow: Akutagawa would never read that letter.

He would never learn what Fukuzawa had written. He didn’t need that knowledge.

The room had grown colder without his noticing.

Suddenly, a low chuckle broke the silence.

“How long do you think you can keep that from him, Nakajima-san?”

The voice echoed like a whisper from a long hallway—too close, too knowing.

The tiger-Ability user didn’t turn. He didn’t have to.

Mishima Yukio.

Even now, even when the real Mishima was sitting tight inside his high-security prison cell with nowhere to go—the man’s phantom still lingered in the realm of his own creation, it returned to haunt Atsushi from time to time, just like the diary he left behind, they were both part of the realm now. Uninvited. Unshakable.

“You’re not real,” Atsushi stated quietly, more to himself than the phantom behind him. “Go away.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw the figure—faint, like a reflection in a dark window. The same boyish face from the old photographs of Mishima from the Army’s dusty case files. Pale. The face was kind of still, eyes too deep to be a real human. This was a teenage version of Mishima Yukio, wearing an old fashioned black school uniform, the one that schoolboys would wear before the time of the Great War.

“Perhaps,” The pale, youthful-looking apparition of Mishima said as he shifted soundlessly next to Atsushi, his smirk unreadable. “Perhaps I’m not real.”

Then, after a beat, the smiling phantom added. “But the letter is real, and so is what it says.”

Atsushi’s throat tightened.

Outside, the wind rose suddenly, rattling the windows, sending the thick scent of roses to hit him in waves. The lights flickered once and again, and then the phantom disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared.

When the silver-haired youth looked down, he found the diary was open. Between two pages, lying open on the desk before him—

The letter.

The envelope remained sealed, perfectly intact with all the secrets hidden within, but Atsushi didn’t have to open the letter to know what was written inside. Waiting.

Atsushi knew he must find a way to hide it all again.

****

Atsushi still remembered the parting words of the President before he left the Armed Detective Agency, the older man had looked troubled and worried, though like everyone else he hid his emotions as much as he could.

”I believe you would do the right things.”

He knew the President meant well with those words, he was trying to encourage Atsushi, even in this grim situation, he wanted his soon-to-be ex-employee to not lose his way, but the older man didn’ t seem to realize that unfortunately the youth could not live up to his expectation. Maybe the other members of the Agency could, but he could not, or once he was capable of it, but now he no longer could, the Port Mafia was a place where everyone did what they must, what was most necessary to survive and thrive.

He once passed the President’s test and was deemed good and worthy enough to join the Agency, but the older man, as wise as he was, probably could not predict the events that soon followed.

People changed, some of them changed for the better, some of them turned for the worse.

Atsushi thought, although he found hardly any pleasure and warmth in his new home, still it seemed like now in this place at least he belonged.

People changed, people had to change to adapt to the ever changing world they lived in and Atsushi was no exception.

Chapter Text

Weeks later, Akutagawa still woke in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, haunted by memories of his punishment. In his dreams, he was back in the same helpless situation again — being physically forced down, wrists bound, the sharp scent of antiseptic in the air, and the unbearable pressure as a feeding tube was forced through his nose, sliding down into his stomach.

He could still feel the ache in his throat, the helpless panic that clawed at his chest as he struggled to breathe.

The Weretiger had told him it was for his own good — that if he refused to eat, this was the only way to keep him alive. “If you won’t take it yourself,” The younger man had said, voice eerily calm, “then I’ll make sure your body takes what it needs.”

If he thought Akutagawa would believe what he said, then the Weretiger was a bigger fool than he could imagine.

Every time he woke from those nightmares, heart pounding and stomach churning, he couldn’t shake the thought that the act had not really been about nourishment — it had been about control.

Deep down, it was an act of extreme control. If anyone were to witness an adult being treated like a child in such a way, it would be nothing short of humiliating.

*****

Weeks later–and Akutagawa only knew weeks had passed because it was what his jailer told him so–the remnants of the punishment still lingered. The harshness of his restraints, the isolation, the absolute silence of his imprisonment — all of it was behind him now. The mafioso had been released, a decision had been made quietly once the Weretiger was certain that the other man no longer tried to resist. No more hunger strikes. No more self-inflicted harm.

But freedom, in Akutagawa's case, had come with a peculiar condition.

The Weretiger had taken it upon himself to personally spoon-feed Akutagawa every meal, as if it were some sort of strange ritual to ensure he didn’t slip back into his old patterns. Every single day, without fail, the jailer's hands—rough yet surprisingly tender—would lift the spoon to Akutagawa’s lips, making sure that every bite was swallowed, that nothing was rejected. There was no room for defiance, no room for rebellion.

Akutagawa had thought he understood defeat—thought he’d known humiliation intimately– humiliation from struggling to survive in the slum, from Dazai, from his enemies. Yet reality, as always, proved him wrong.

He sank into a new low when he was forced to lay bound to a sweat-stained mattress, straps digging into his wrists and ankles, every breath heavy with the sterile stench of antiseptic. A thick feeding tube slid from his nose down into his throat and to his stomach, pumping liquefied food directly into his gut, the way one might nourish a paralyzed patient who could no longer care for themselves. It wasn’t just the physical confinement—it was the indignity. The helplessness.

And the humiliation didn’t end there.

The silver-haired tiger-Ability user sat opposite him, the white strands of his hair catching the dim light of the room as he offered yet another spoonful. His voice broke the silence, soft but purposeful. "It isn't so hard, right?"

It wasn’t a question directed at Akutagawa, not really, not when he couldn’t talk with a tube down his throat. It was as if the Weretiger was talking to himself, attempting to convince himself that this routine—this quiet, constant act of care—was the right choice. But his words hung in the air, unanswered, the silence between them thick and unyielding.

At this point, Akutagawa didn’t even seem to hear his jailer's words. His pale lips remained closed, his eyes unfocused, his thoughts seemingly miles away from the present moment. His silence was the very testament of his refusal.

A heavy sigh escaped the silver-haired one, thick with barely veiled frustration this time. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of the task that was becoming all too familiar.

The spoon hovered between them for a moment, waiting for an answer that might never come. In that quiet, uncertain pause, Nakajima Atsushi wondered just how much of this routine was about saving Akutagawa—and how much of it was about saving himself.

****

“Akutagawa,” During a rare occasion that the tube was removed and Akutagawa was actually allowed to speak, the Weretiger said quietly, his tone caught somewhere between warning and pity. “Don’t make this any harder for yourself.”

“You’re not the one locked up.” Akutagawa finally responded, his voice raw, it was like the fire of old resentment and hatred had somehow found their way to him. His limbs were still tightly restricted so it was not possible for him to fight back physically. “Easy for you to say!”

“You forget,” The young man replied. His eyes flickered—briefly, painfully—like someone touching a live wire. “The Headmaster used to lock me up too. I know what it’s like. He… tortured me as well.”

Akutagawa knew enough about Nakajima Atsushi’s past—about the orphanage, the Headmaster, this twisted mentor and father figure who regularly tortured his young ward ‘for his own good’. The Headmaster’s long shadow cast over the boy’s childhood. He’d studied the tiger-Ability user thoroughly as an opponent in the Port Mafia, tried to map his behaviors like a tactician charting enemy terrain. But now, strapped to this mattress, any attempt at understanding felt futile. It was bitterly ironic: the Weretiger, once a helpless victim under his mentor’s tyrannic hand, was now seemingly repeating the very patterns of cruelty once inflicted on him.

Did the Weretiger even realize?

“Tell me what I can do for you, Akutagawa. Just… tell me.” The silver-haired youth’s voice cracked on the plea, soft yet urgent.

In a sudden surge of anger, Akutagawa spat at him. “You want to help me? Here’s what you could have done, Weretiger. You could have left me in this hellhole to rot! At least then I wouldn’t have to look at your face!”

“Can’t do that.” The younger man’s voice was steady but gentle, like someone speaking to a frightened child. “I have to stay here. With you. And you’re wrong about one thing.”

“What?” The mafioso hissed.

“I used to hate you,” the Weretiger said, his eyes lowered. “That’s true. But I don’t want to hate you anymore. I haven’t hated you for some time now. The situation’s changed. I want to be your… friend.”

*Friend?* Akutagawa almost laughed aloud. Was the boy delusional? Who would want to befriend someone who’d tried to kill them more than once? Had the Weretiger completely lost his mind?

“I thought… I was hoping…” The Weretiger’s voice softened further. “I know… you don’t hate me as much as you used to, either.”

“You’re delusional! I—”

“Then why did you save me on that ship?!” The silver-haired youth’s composure cracked, his voice suddenly rising, anger flaring through his calm like a flash of claws.

Akutagawa fell silent. For once, he had no retort.

“Admit it,” The youth pressed. “You don’t hate me—”

“It was for Dazai-san’s order that I saved you, you fool!” This time Akutagawa’s denial came instantly, reflexively, like a blade drawn before thought.

“Is that so?” The Weretiger asked softly. “Did you really do it for Dazai’s sake?”

“What else?” The black haired one shot back. He was still restricted, still powerless, the liquidized nutrients he was forced to take still sat heavy in his stomach, but his biting remarks still left the Weretiger speechless.

With this fact, he could almost feel satisfied.

But the question still hung there between the two of them, heavier than the straps pinning Akutagawa down. He remembered the night in the woods when Dazai had looked at him—eyes unreadable—and said: ”You know the reason, right?”

Akutagawa had been trying not to think about the meaning behind those words ever since.

****

After that long conversation, the Weretiger had seemed to grow… distant. He still came and went, checking on Akutagawa, doing what he could to keep the other man alive—”keeping him as comfortable as possible” was how the youth would phrase it. But something had changed. Each time he appeared in the locked white room—where the air was heavy with the scent of overgrown roses seeping in through the narrow, barred window—his presence felt thinner somehow, more like a shadowy creature than a man.

He spoke little now, his purple-golden eyes avoiding Akutagawa’s for too long, as if some invisible weight pressed between them. The silence that lingered after his visits was worse than his voice.

With the Weretiger’s silence, the nightmares returned—vengeful and relentless—waiting for Akutagawa whenever exhaustion finally dragged him into sleep. He didn’t want them, didn’t want to see or feel them again. Yet they came anyway: an endless reel of memories, sharp and suffocating, replaying with merciless precision until he woke hollow, trembling, and spent.

His thoughts began to drift in those quiet hours, slowly at first, then further and further away. At the farthest corner of his mind, there was a place untouched by sound or light or bad memories—a quiet void where the world could no longer reach him. It was empty, yes, but safe. A sanctuary carved from silence itself.

Without realizing it, Akutagawa began to lean into that darkness more and more, drawn to its stillness, to the illusion of peace it offered. The sounds around him faded. The sterile white walls blurred into gray. Even the scent of roses that once filled the room seemed to wither away, leaving nothing but a soft, distant hum.

And then, one day, he didn’t come back. The silence held him, and the world went on without him.