Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time Fyodor saw Yokohama, it was from the window of a taxi. He pressed his forehead to the glass, watching unfamiliar buildings flicker by like static. His parents sat in silence in the front, their voices low, tense — the kind of quiet that filled every space with pressure.

It was supposed to be a simple business trip. Just a few days long, they’d said. Just meetings and paperwork. Then they’d go home to Saint Petersburg. Back to snow-covered sidewalks, the smell of fresh pirozhki from street vendors, the rhythm of Russian lullabies and his grandmother’s warm arms.

But that return never came.

His parents died on the third night. Car crash. A hit-and-run done by a local destructive gang nicknamed 'The Dam'. It was the kind of accident that made the evening news and was forgotten the next morning. Fyodor was only nine. Too old to cry like a baby, too young to understand the gaping, hollow wound left behind due to the loss.

The days that followed were a blur. Phone calls in a language he barely understood, cold stares from officials, the words "no immediate relatives in Japan" repeated over and over. He tried to tell them — his uncle, his grandmother, someone would come for him. But flights didn’t happen. Paperwork got stuck. And in the end, they stopped trying.

He was placed in a Yokohama orphanage. Just another number in a crowded hallway.

The first beating came three days in.

It started with whispers — "Gaijin," "foreigner," "can’t even speak right" — words that stung even when he didn’t understand all of them. Then fists. Then laughter. His Japanese was broken, barely enough to beg them to stop. No one did.

Fyodor learned quickly thanks to his high IQ. He learned to keep his head down. To speak less. To read lips. To observe before acting. He taught himself Japanese through old textbooks and whispered lessons from kind staff who didn’t stay long. He memorized every corner of the orphanage — every creaky floorboard, every loose screw in every bedframe — like a map of survival.

He stopped crying at ten. Stopped hoping by eleven. By thirteen, he was a ghost in the halls — thin, quiet, invisible unless someone needed a punching bag.

At fourteen, he finally ran.

No one noticed.

He lived in abandoned rooftops and alleyways, worked sweeping floors at a bakery that paid him just enough to live a somewhat normal life. Some nights he slept under bridges. Some nights he didn’t sleep at all. But there was a strange peace in being free — even if freedom came with hunger and bruises.

Soon, he managed to get himself a small one room apartment, It wasn't much, But it was enough for him.

He never spoke of Russia again. He didn’t let himself remember the smell of his mother’s perfume or the sound of his father's laughter. That life was gone.

This new one — that left and empty hole in his heart — was the only one he had now.

And he intended to survive it.

Soon Fyodor found out that he had something called an ability. Apparently, abilities were extremely rare and powerful that appears randomly within people. His is called crime and punishment. It allows him to take over the body of anyone who commits the "crime" of killing him, turning them into a copy of Fyodor and takes over the body, effectively switching places with them. It also gives him the power to kill someone with a single touch, effectively killing the person. The way he found out about it was not pretty, he got murdered an then murdered the person's accomplice with his ability.

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The bell above the door chimed gently as Fyodor stepped into the coffee shop, his thin jacket soaked from the unexpected downpour outside. The scent of roasted beans and old wood wrapped around him like a rare warmth. He didn’t come here often. The prices were a luxury he couldn’t usually afford, but he had managed to scrounge together enough for one cup today — his one indulgence this month.

He slid into the corner booth, always the farthest from the counter, where he could observe without being seen. It was habit now. After years in an orphanage where eyes were weapons and trust was poison, Fyodor had learned to survive in silence.

He took out the tattered book from his coat pocket and began reading, though his eyes rarely moved. The truth was, he was eavesdropping.

"You're seriously telling me you've never eaten here?" a voice rang out — smug, amused, and slightly too loud for the small shop.

Fyodor looked up briefly. Two teenagers, both about his age. One had long ginger hair tied in a messy ponytail and wore a trench coat two sizes too big. The other — with an eyepatch, an infuriating smirk, and hands buried in the pockets of a fancy-looking coat — looked like he didn’t belong in a place like this.

"I'm just saying," the smug one continued, "sometimes it's good to know how the other half lives. It's humbling."

"It's boring," the redhead grumbled. "If I wanted crap coffee, I would've stayed in the Port Mafia break room."

Fyodor's fingers twitched slightly. The Port Mafia. An organised crime organization that operates in the dark, killing and torturing those who wronged them.

His ears perked up. He had heard of them — who hadn’t in Yokohama’s darker corners? He knew better than to get involved.

But then it happened.

The eyepatched boy’s gaze swept the café lazily… and landed on Fyodor.

A beat. Then two.

Fyodor quickly looked back at his book, heart beating faster. But it was too late.

"Hey," the boy said, suddenly walking over to Fyodor's booth. "You look like you’re hiding something interesting. Mind if we sit?"

Fyodor looked up, jaw clenched. "I do."

The boy ignored the answer entirely and plopped down across from him. The redhead followed, eyes sharp and untrusting.

"Name’s Omasu Dazai. This is Nakahara Chuuya."

Chuuya offered no greeting, just a skeptical scowl.

"Fyodor Dostoyevsky," he said carefully, trying to sound as indifferent as possible.

Dazai smiled, too wide, too knowing. "Russian, right? You’ve got an accent."

Fyodor blinked. Most didn’t catch that. Not anymore.

"You're not from around here," Dazai continued. "But you've been here long enough to learn how to pretend you are. That takes effort."

"Why do you care?" Fyodor asked, unable to keep the suspicion from his voice.

Dazai leaned forward, chin on folded hands. "I don’t. But I get bored easily. And you seem… different."

"You always do this," Chuuya muttered, sipping his drink. "Pull strays in off the street just 'cause they look sad and mysterious."

"Don’t flatter me," Fyodor said coldly.

Dazai laughed. "No, that was me flattering him. You’re just grumpy."

For a moment, silence settled between them.

Fyodor stared at the two — one wild and sharp like a blade, the other casual yet coiled like a snake — and something in him itched. These weren’t normal teenagers. Not like him. But they weren’t the cruel boys from the orphanage either. They were… something else.

Something dangerous.

But maybe, just maybe, danger wasn’t the worst company for a boy who had survived everything else. Maybe they could help him in his plan...?

Chapter Text

The building reeked of blood, gunpowder, and desperation.

Somewhere on the second floor, a man screamed. Then silence. Fyodor stepped over the body sprawled at the foot of the staircase, gloved hands perfectly clean. He never needed to get them dirty — not when he could direct the chaos like a maestro behind the curtain.

The raid was nearly done.

"Chuuya, west corridor's clear," Dazai’s voice crackled over the comms, smooth and unbothered despite the symphony of violence behind him.

"Good. I'm heading to the archive room. Fyodor, you in position?" Chuuya replied, boots thudding against marble.

Fyodor’s voice came low, cold, from the darkness. “Always.”

The building was an old financial front for a rival black-market syndicate. It had been on Fenikkusu’s list for months — extremely corrupt, militarized, and riddled with ties to foreign intelligence - which will benefit the Decay Of Angles with the information. Tonight, the building would burn, burn just like what they did to the others.

All three of them knew the plan by heart. Fenikkusu didn’t leave evidence. Only ashes. And just hopefully, just hopefully, a more honest corporation will emerge from it.

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Chuuya kicked the archive room door off its hinges, scanning rows of metal cabinets and computers humming with confidential files that are filled with the business's secrets.

"Found it. Ten minutes till ignition," he called.

“Make it eight,” Fyodor replied. “The outer perimeters' compromised.”

Dazai’s laugh echoed in his earpiece. “He just means he’s bored and wants to go home.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes. “Not all of us sleep in coffins like you, bastard.”

“Let’s not argue when we’re seconds from blowing everything up, yes?” Fyodor’s tone was sugar-laced steel. “Focus.”

Eight minutes later, they stood in the center of the building’s grand hall, the air growing hotter by the second. Flames licked up the side walls. The documents were already crackling, decades of corruption reduced to ash.

Fyodor adjusted his scarf, watching fire dance in Dazai’s eyes.

“Did you bring the lighter again?” he asked dryly.

Chuuya tossed him a look. “It’s symbolic, okay? Tradition.”

Dazai flicked the flame to life. “Phoenixes rise from fire. You can’t spell Fenikkusu without drama.”

With a unified nod, they tossed the final flare into the heart of the inferno.

The explosion came seconds later — glass shattering, steel groaning, and the entire foundation beginning to collapse inward.

They stood on the rooftop of the neighboring building, watching the blaze consume the structure like a divine punishment.

Fyodor closed his eyes, the heat warm on his pale skin. “That’s the fifth one this month.”

“And still no real resistance,” Dazai murmured. “Yokohama’s starting to tremble.”

“Sigh,” Fyodor said. “They should really pull their socks up, Yokohama is freaking independent. what will happen if all of the small gangs in Yokohama just decides to make a deal with the Mimic and destroy the Ministry and the Port?”

"Yeah," Dazai grilled this teeth together."We need to figure out a better way to get the ministry and the Port Mafia to work together. Or else we might have a bigger problem in our hands along with orphans to deal with."

The silence lingered for a few more seconds and they entered and alleyway just like they had planned. Then Chuuya broke it with a snort.

“Hard to believe it’s been a year since we met at that dingy café.”

Fyodor smirked faintly. “You mean the one where you threatened to stab Dazai with a plastic fork?”

“He deserved it, we were 16 at that time anyways,” Chuuya grumbled the last part softly so that the others could not hear.

“I still have the scar from the fork,” Dazai said proudly, lifting his sleeve.

“Liar,” both of them said at once.

A quiet laugh passed between them. Just three monsters in the dark, Trying to save their home from the dangers of small gangs that caused the death of their families (excluding Chuuya, IYKYK).

“Same place next week?” Dazai asked, eyes flicking toward Fyodor.

“Only if they don’t raise the prices again,” Fyodor replied. “Their coffee isn’t that good.”

Chuuya rolled his shoulders. “Guess that’s our cue. You good heading back alone?”

Fyodor gave a slight nod. “I’ve got an early shift. I also heard of a rising organization called the Armed Detective Agency.”

Dazai smirked. “Ah yes, the humble bakery worker by day, international terrorist by night. We'll leave it to you to get information about the agency, Mori has been giving me and Chuuya way more jobs lately.”

“Roger that,” Fyodor said with a ghost of a smile.

The roaring of the fire grew slower as they walked further away from the crime scene. Only time will tell when it would be found.

They didn’t look back.

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Back at the penthouse, Dazai peeled off his coat and collapsed on the couch, Chuuya following suit with a tired groan.

“You think Mori suspects?” Chuuya asked.

“Of us being spies of a newly formed unknown organization?” Dazai said, tossing a stress ball in the air. “Most likey no.”

Chuuya frowned. “If he finds out—”

“I know.”

But neither of them said more.

Because for now, Fenikkusu burned like a god across Yokohama.

And even angels need to lie.

But for now Soukoku needed to rest, Mori had given them an assignment tomorrow after all.

Chapter Text

Yokohama was slow to wake that morning. The streets, usually alive with hurried footsteps and blaring horns, were hushed beneath a sky blanketed in overcast grey. A gentle drizzle had fallen before dawn, leaving the sidewalks slick and glistening. It was the kind of weather that made people linger in doorways, duck into cafes, and nurse warm drinks longer than usual.

And tucked away in a narrow street near Minato Mirai, hidden behind flower pots and a chalkboard menu, was a small coffee shop with fogged-up windows and no name on the front.

Inside, the air was warm and smelled of roasted beans and cinnamon.

Fyodor Dostoevsky sat in his usual corner seat. He was early, as always. A simple black turtleneck and charcoal coat made him blend in seamlessly, his hands wrapped around a cup of earl grey. His eyes, however — sharp and cold and observant — betrayed the stillness of his body. He watched the steam rise from his drink in practiced silence, ears tuned to every footstep outside, every creak of the wooden floor.

It had been a year since the night they burned down that syndicate's headquarters.

A year since the Port Mafia’s quiet whisper of "let them burn it all if it makes room for something better."

A year since Fenikkusu was born.

The phoenix. The rebirth.

And now they were ready for their next step.

The bell over the door jingled gently.

Fyodor’s eyes flicked upward.

Dazai entered with the same lazy stride he always had — hands in his pockets, scarf looped messily around his neck, trench coat half-buttoned like an afterthought. The barista at the counter didn’t even glance up. They’d seen him before.

Many times, in fact.

Dazai Osamu had made a habit of pretending he was just another bored twenty-something who liked bitter coffee and empty shops.

But Fyodor knew better.

Dazai’s eyes — always half-lidded, always disinterested — missed nothing.

"You’re early," Dazai said as he sat down across from Fyodor, pulling off his gloves. "Or I’m late. Hard to say."

Fyodor gave a small shrug. “You’re always late. I’ve simply adjusted my expectations.”

“You wound me.”

“Not yet,” Fyodor said, sipping his tea. “Where’s Chuuya?”

"Threatening a vending machine down the street. Said it stole his change."

Fyodor smiled faintly. “Justice must be served.”

Before Dazai could reply, the door slammed open, the bell ringing violently.

“I swear to God, I’ll break every last one of these machines if they eat my money again—!”

Chuuya stomped in, hair tied back in a low ponytail, coat slung over his arm, and the air of a man two seconds away from committing public property damage.

“You two could’ve waited,” he grumbled, sliding into the seat beside Dazai.

“And miss your dramatic entrance?” Dazai asked sweetly.

“Bite me.”

Fyodor gestured at the waitress with two fingers, ordering Chuuya’s usual. “Shall we begin?”

They sat in silence for a moment as the drinks arrived. Black coffee for Chuuya. Something much too sweet for Dazai. Fyodor, ever minimalist, kept to tea.

No words were wasted between them anymore. Fenikkusu was efficient like that.

Chuuya set his cup down. “We’ve been watching the ADA for months now. It’s time we talk about what we’re going to do about them.”

“They’re not a threat,” Dazai said calmly.

“Yet,” Fyodor added.

Chuuya nodded. “They’re competent. They’ve dismantled two human trafficking networks and brought down a black-market auction house in the last six months. That was our job.”

Fyodor leaned back. “They’re idealists, but not stupid. That makes them dangerous.”

“But also… useful,” Dazai added, tapping his cup. “If pointed in the right direction.”

Silence settled again.

Chuuya looked out the window, rain still tapping gently against the glass. “They’re trying to protect Yokohama.”

“So are we,” Fyodor said.

Dazai grinned. “The difference is, we’re honest about the methods.”

Earlier That Month – Port Mafia HQ
The meeting room of the Port Mafia was dimly lit, as always. There were no windows. Just leather chairs, a long table, and power humming in the silence between the men who sat around it.

Ougai Mori steepled his fingers.

“The ADA has grown bolder,” he said. “But that is not inherently a bad thing.”

Chuuya stood at the far end of the room, arms crossed, coat draped over one shoulder.

“They’ve crossed into our territory twice.”

“And yet,” Mori said calmly, “they left with criminals. Not civilians. They didn’t touch our trade routes, or our safe houses.”

Chuuya frowned. “So you’re saying let them do our job?”

“I’m saying…” Mori’s gaze sharpened. “If we want peace in this city, it must be built on unity. Not dominance.”

Chuuya stiffened. “You’re suggesting we work with the ADA?”

“No,” Mori said. “I’m suggesting we give them an enemy worth fighting. One so large, so dangerous, they have no choice but to ally with us.”

Silence.

Then Chuuya’s eyes narrowed. “You knew about Fenikkusu from the start.”

Mori smiled.

“I didn’t build this organization to remain blind, Chuuya-kun.”

Back to the Present – The Café
“They don’t know it yet,” Fyodor said, “but the ADA and the Port Mafia are two sides of the same blade. If they can be convinced to cut in the same direction...”

“We can use them,” Chuuya finished.

“No,” Dazai corrected, for once serious. “We can work with them.”

Fyodor glanced at him, surprised.

Dazai’s voice was low, firm. “We aren’t trying to rule. We’re trying to rebuild. The old government? Corrupt. The military? Bought and sold. Politicians are puppets. The law protects no one.”

“So we become the law?” Fyodor asked.

Chuuya looked between them, arms folded. “We become the firewall. The system that protects Yokohama from falling apart.”

“And we do it,” Fyodor murmured, “by creating a new enemy. A terrifying one. The kind that forces alliances.”

“The Decay of Angels,” Dazai said.

Chuuya’s brow furrowed. “What exactly is this Decay supposed to be?”

“An ideology,” Fyodor replied. “A whisper. A myth. We leak false threats, forge attacks, stage ‘incidents’—enough to cause fear but never actual harm. Enough to make the ADA and Mafia believe it’s an imminent, supernatural threat.”

“And behind the curtain, we operate freely,” Dazai said, “tearing out the roots of corruption and replacing them with something better.”

Chuuya chuckled. “You two are maniacs.”

“You agreed to this,” Fyodor said mildly.

“I’m not saying I regret it.”

They spent the next two hours drafting the first phases.

Public attacks — staged and dramatic — on government buildings with falsified messages left behind by “The Decay of Angels.”

Blackmail leaks on politicians tied to foreign syndicates.

Anonymous manifestos condemning Yokohama’s leadership.

And through it all, the ADA would investigate.

And the Port Mafia, under Mori’s approval, would quietly offer assistance.

Eventually, the two organizations would form a temporary alliance.

Long enough for Fenikkusu to finish what it started.

Later That Night
Chuuya and Dazai returned to the penthouse — one of the Mafia’s clean fronts. Marble floors, modern furniture, windows stretching floor to ceiling. Their base of operations outside official eyes.

Dazai peeled off his coat and dropped onto the couch.

Chuuya poured himself a drink and sat beside him, staring out over the city skyline.

“Do you think it’ll work?” he asked after a while.

Dazai’s eyes flicked open. “It has to.”

“If the ADA ever finds out—”

“They won’t,” Dazai said, cutting him off. “And if they do… we’ll tell them the truth. That we chose this path because no one else would.”

Chuuya sighed, tilting his head back. “Yokohama better be worth all this.”

Dazai closed his eyes again.

“It is.”

Elsewhere — 3:42 a.m.
Fyodor stood behind the counter of the bakery, tying his apron as the ovens hummed quietly behind him.

He liked this place.

The warmth. The quiet. The simplicity.

It was a stark contrast to the world he helped build — one of fire and lies and shadows.

But even monsters need homes.

And for now, Yokohama was his.

And he would burn the world to protect it.

Chapter Text

Dazai sat on a counter a Lupin's for the 5h time that month as he chatted with his friends Oda Sakunosuke - whom Dazai calls 'Odasaku'- and Ango Sakaguchi.

Oda was a particular man in the Port Mafia as even though he was an assassin, he had never killed anyone.

Because of that, he was the lowest rank in the PM

Oda was what most people would call an 'stay-at-home-father' or a 'Father-figure'. He was the guy you will go to if you needed help or a shoulder to cry on.

Oda's Ability allows him to see 6 seconds into the future, allowing him to stay safe.

Ango was a intelligence operative in the PM.

Ango was like a strict mother to Dazai, Keeping him in check.

So to an outsider's point of view, they were like a chaotic family.
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Things were going like normal, until Oda asks what Dazai will be doing the next day.

"Oh! What I will be doing tomorrow? Well I will first have a chat with Mori and he will send me on another mission with the Chibi. Then at night we will meet up with Fyodor and go take down that business down the road. You know, 'Olli's Bank For Kids'? It steals money form the kids. So the three of us are going to break in, steal their filles. and burn it to the ground-"

"Wait-You're gonna do what?!"

"Huh? I haven't told you that I'm part of Fenikkusu Yet?"

"NO!" Ango and surprisingly Oda shouted at Dazai in shock.

"Oh. Surprise?"

"No wonder the files of Fenikkusu always go missing. You and your boyfriend was behind it weren't you?" Ango sighed exasperated at Dazai.

"Of course we were- CHUUYA IS NOT MY BOYFRIEND!" Dazai cut himself off as he realized what Ango said.

Oda smirked, " Dazai, denial is a river in Egypt."

"Not you too Odasaku!"

Oda and Ango just laughed at their friends misery as Dazai glared at them playfully.

"Hey! I know!" Dazai clapped his hands together, " How about I bring both of you to meet them next week? I'm sure that they won't mind!"

"Are you sure that we won't be killed?" Ango asked wearingly as he heard rumors about how ruthless the trio was.

"Of course not! Well unless you tell anyone about it, that will be a different story but I trust both of you! So can both of you not tell anyone about the meeting? Please?" Dazai pleaded using his ultimate skill: Puppy Eyes (Or Cat Eyes as he prefers to call it that.)

Oda quickly agreed and Ango too to not tell anyone about the meeting.

Soon the Dazai had to leave the Bar as he had a mission early the next day.

After waving goodbye to Dazai, Oda and Ango turned to each other, unsure what to think of this new development.

"So.., what now?"

"I really don't know my dear Ango."

The two lovers sat in complete silence for a few more minutes to completely process all the information.

"Hey," Ango said, "I don't think that Dazai would do this for not reason. After all, we do know his personality."

Oda nodded and smiled, "Indeed, I believe that we can trust Dazai in this. There must be a secret overall motive in the game that he is playing."

(Preview, chapter not complete yet)