Chapter Text
It was a perfectly normal day in Yokohama, as normal as it could be. One of those days when the sun peeked between the skyscrapers without much pretension, and the air carried the salty scent of the port mixed with the daily hustle and bustle. Dazai Osamu had gone shopping, something that, to everyone's surprise, had become an unbreakable routine in his life. He wasn’t alone, of course. Walking beside him were Ryunosuke, always with that serious expression that rarely softened; Gin, silent and observant, moving with feline grace even while carrying bags; and Kyouka, who, though still reserved, showed glimpses of the childish curiosity that Dazai was determined to nurture. Each of them, in their own way, held their respective shopping bags, filled with provisions that kept the peculiar home they shared afloat.
After a few rainy days, it seemed like a good atmosphere to go shopping with the kids. Bread, noodles, fresh vegetables for the curry Atsushi enjoyed so much, and some sweet breads for the snack. That was the plan. Simple, mundane, almost idyllic. But, as always, the everyday had taken a turn.
"Osamu-san," Kyouka’s voice broke the silence, her gaze fixed on the sky, "I think we forgot the milk."
Ryunosuke huffed, adjusting his grip on his bag. "No, Kyouka. We got the milk at the first store. What we forgot is... the soy sauce. For the noodles."
Gin nodded silently, her dark eyes flicking toward Dazai, who walked with that theatrical nonchalance that characterized him.
Dazai put a finger to his chin, feigning deep contemplation. "Oh, really? How forgetful of me. With so many brains around me, one would think at least one of you would remember important things." His tone was light, but a spark of mischief danced in his eyes. "We’ll have to ask Atsushi to make a quick trip if we don’t want his curry to be tasteless."
"But Atsushi-kun is terrible at remembering lists, Dadzai," commented Kyouka, with a barely visible pout. "He could come back with only rice cakes."
Ryunosuke frowned. "Atsushi shouldn’t go alone. The tiger..."
"The tiger is under control, Ryunosuke-kun," Dazai interrupted with a reassuring smile. "Besides, we're almost home. We’ll see if it’s really that disastrous." Then, adding in a theatrical tone: "Maybe tasteless curry is the key to a new healthy diet! Think of the possibilities."
Gin rolled her eyes subtly, a small sign of her growing confidence and comfort.
As they talked, they arrived in front of the imposing facade of Kokoro no Yakata. The building, with its six levels and sturdy yet welcoming air, stood with a kind of silent dignity, as if knowing that, despite the rumors, it was a true sanctuary. Just as Dazai was about to insert the key into the lock, a voice caught his attention—one he knew all too well and rarely heralded anything good.
In front of him, with that sharp, needle-like smile, was Mori Ougai. At his side, like loyal shadows, stood Chuuya Nakahara, with his characteristic contained ferocity, and Kōyō Ozaki, whose elegance concealed a cold lethality. The trio radiated an aura of power and danger that abruptly contrasted with the domestic atmosphere Dazai tried to build.
“Well, well, Osamu. What a pleasant coincidence,” Mori said jovially, his eyes scanning the children with interest. “I heard you have another street kid under your care. Looks like your vocation as a... savior of lost souls is flourishing.” He walked through the puddles without concern for staining his polished leather shoes. “You’ve certainly grown a lot. And your little organization too, don’t you think? Bigger, more... peculiar each time.”
Dazai’s shoulders tensed, barely perceptible to an untrained eye, but Ryunosuke, Gin, and Kyouka felt it. Dazai’s hand moved instinctively toward his back, as if searching for an invisible weapon. His usual smile disappeared, replaced by a freezing coldness.
“Don’t call me Osamu,” Dazai’s voice was a dangerous whisper, barely audible but loaded with venom. His gaze, full of contained fury, fixed on Mori. “Only those I permit can call me that.” The warning was clear—a sheathed dagger.
Inside Kokoro no Yakata, Atsushi, who had heard the arrival of his “Dadzai”—as many children affectionately called him—had come out with some smaller kids. Curiosity had driven them toward the entrance, but what they saw was tense and frightening. Mori’s presence, along with Chuuya and Kōyō, was like a dark stain on the daylight, a resonance of the world Dazai had pulled them out of.
Q, who had also come out with the children, did not like Mori’s presence at all. His eyes, normally vacant or overly bright, narrowed with a mix of aversion and recognition. A subtle tremor ran through his body, and he whispered, “I don’t like... He’s bad.”
“It’s not an organization,” Dazai said, his voice a little louder now, while looking at Mori with barely concealed disdain.
“It’s a home. For children.” The situation frightened some of the younger children, who ran to cling to Dazai’s legs, seeking refuge in his imposing presence, even if they didn’t understand the imminent threat. Atsushi, though not sticking close to Dazai, stayed nearby, his golden eyes fixed on the newcomers, his instincts warning him of danger.
Mori ignored Dazai’s correction; his smile did not waver. His sharp, calculating eyes fixed on the children clutching Dazai, then stopped on Atsushi, analyzing every fiber of his being.
“A home, you say. How touching.” His tone was syrupy, but his words were a stab. “Many of these children have great potential. It’s a shame they’re being wasted here, playing house.” His voice was a silky caress, but each word was a needle. “Especially the tiger boy. He’s a fascinating creature, Osamu. He could be very useful.”
The mention of Atsushi, casually uttered, was the spark that ignited Dazai’s fury. His feet moved quickly, a subtle but decisive step, positioning himself slightly in front of the children—a human shield against the hidden threat beneath Mori’s carefully crafted indifference. It was a veiled threat, a reminder that Mori knew more than Dazai wanted him to know, a sign that the past was always lurking.
“Listen carefully, Mori-san, because I will say this only once,”
Dazai’s voice was a shiver in the air, a brutal contrast to the cheerful murmur from minutes before. He pronounced the name as if spitting poison, each syllable charged with cold, contained anger. He could be said to be the only living person daring enough to hold a dagger so close to his former boss’s neck without fear of repercussions.
“If one of those children disappears, believe me, I will know if it was your doing. I don’t care what absurd excuse you have. I will wipe out the Port Mafia, make you watch every second, and I won’t care if Yokohama burns with it.” His words were not a simple warning—they were a promise, a declaration of war that froze the blood. His voice, which moments before had been light and playful, was now an omen of destruction.
Mori laughed, a dry, humorless sound. “Oh, yes,” he said, his mocking gaze sweeping Dazai’s face. “Believe me, you’re not the first man to threaten me that way.” Mori assured him, his relaxed posture contrasting with Dazai’s intensity. “I have a long list of aspiring heroes and vigilantes. They all think they’re the only ones capable of fulfilling their grand promises.”
“But I can say with certainty that I am the only one who can fulfill it,” Dazai’s reply was swift, sharp, and filled with chilling certainty. His reputation, his history, backed every word. He was the demon Mori had forged, and now that demon was ready to protect the innocent—even if it meant destroying the world to do so. “And you know that. You’ve always known.”
Chuuya, visibly irritated by Dazai’s arrogance and the prolongation of the conversation, grunted.
“Mori-san, this idiot is wasting time. We can settle this right now,” his hand clenched, ready to activate his ability and end the tense encounter.
But Mori, with a simple gesture, stopped him—a warning glance halting the redhead in his tracks. Kōyō, for her part, remained silent, watching the scene with sharp eyes, betraying no emotion, though her frown suggested she found the situation, at the very least, annoying.
“See you, Osamu,” Mori said, the familiarity in his tone a final attempt to poke at Dazai, to remind him of his past. Then, with a barely perceptible nod, he signaled Chuuya and Kōyō to withdraw. The three turned and walked away down the street, Mori’s figure slowly disappearing like a shadow dissipating with the daylight, leaving behind a trail of discomfort and foreboding.
Once Mori and the others were out of sight, the children who had clung to Dazai loosened their grip. The tension that had hung in the air began to dissipate slowly, though a residue remained.
“Dadzai, who was that man with the hat?” asked one of the younger children, voice trembling.
“Were they... bad, Osamu-san?” inquired another child, big worried eyes.
Atsushi, slightly older, also had the same question in his gaze. "Were... they from the Port Mafia? Why did they want to...?"
Dazai crouched to the children’s level, his forced smile reappearing. He forced his eyes to show calm he didn’t feel.
“Just old acquaintances, little ones,” he replied softly now, but with a fatigue that only those who knew him well could detect. He stood up and headed toward the orphanage door. “Come on, let’s go. It’s getting late, and you must be hungry. And Ryunosuke-kun, don’t worry, we’ll find that soy sauce.”
Gently patting Ryunosuke’s back and giving a reassuring gesture to Kyouka and Gin, he encouraged them to enter, closing the door behind them as if to seal out the dark past that had just called at his door.
Inside Kokoro no Yakata, the warm, familiar atmosphere starkly contrasted with the coldness of the outside threat. The comforting aroma of chicken and vegetables filled the kitchen, blending with the muffled laughter of children upstairs. Dazai, with his sleeves rolled up and an apron that looked comically large on him, supervised the large, steaming pot of chicken soup bubbling gently on the stove. Next to him, Gin, focused, washed rice with precise, methodical movements—a skill she had perfected over time, even outside the battlefield. Kyouka, sitting on a stool to reach the counter, chopped vegetables into tiny perfect pieces with surprising agility.
“Gin, make sure the rice stays fluffy,” Dazai said, stirring the soup. “And Kyouka-chan, those carrot pieces are perfect. You’re a knife artist.”
Kyouka smiled slightly, a rare but genuine smile. Gin just nodded, not taking her eyes off her task.
As steam fogged the kitchen windows, Dazai was well aware that since betraying the Port Mafia, problems would be a constant in his life. He had expected challenges, pursuits, maybe even assassination attempts. But this, the veiled threat from Mori, the greed of other organizations surely also after his “peculiar” children, didn’t worry him. Not really. He observed Gin and Kyouka, their confident movements, their peaceful faces. They were the living proof that he had made the right decision. No matter how dark the echoes of the past, or how dangerous the shadows approaching, he was ready. He was home, with his family, and for them, the world could burn.