Chapter Text
Prologue — The Price of Light
The room smelled like rust, cigarette smoke, and something older—something that didn’t belong to the living.
Ranpo sat in the center of it, tied to a steel chair with enough chains to make it look dramatic. He could have laughed at the effort. For people who claim to be efficient, the Port Mafia really loves theatrics, he thought, adjusting his glasses with a knuckle.
The single bulb above him flickered. A drip echoed somewhere in the dark. He’d already mapped out the entire layout of the place in his head—the sound pattern, the echo delay, the number of footsteps when they brought him food. He knew there were two guards outside the door, one pacing out of boredom, one smoking out of habit. He knew the man behind the mirrored glass was watching him now.
He didn’t know why that man hadn’t come in yet.
Ranpo tilted his head toward the faint reflection in the glass. “You’ve been staring at me for forty-three minutes,” he said casually. “Is this a power move or just social incompetence?”
A low chuckle came through the speaker above him. “I was waiting to see how long it would take before you cracked.”
Ranpo smiled. “You’re going to be disappointed.”
The door opened with a hiss.
The man who stepped in didn’t fit the image Ranpo had conjured. Too young, too composed, too quiet. A black coat, a white bandaged hand slipping into a pocket, and eyes like wet ink—calm, unhurried, but with the same stillness as a snake before it strikes.
“Ah,” Ranpo said softly. “You’re the new executive.”
“Dazai Osamu,” the man replied with a small bow, as if this were a polite business meeting instead of an interrogation. “You’re Ranpo Edogawa. The detective who sees too much.”
“And you’re the murderer who smiles too easily.” Ranpo tilted his head. “What’s the game here, Executive Dazai? Torture? Bargaining? Seduction?”
Dazai smiled faintly. “You tell me. Which one would work best?”
For a heartbeat, neither moved. It was a duel of silence—Ranpo’s gaze sharp as glass, Dazai’s unreadable. The light hummed between them like a warning.
Then Dazai stepped closer, leaned down so his shadow fell over Ranpo’s face. “You know,” he murmured, “for someone who prides himself on seeing the truth, you should’ve known better than to walk into Yokohama without backup.”
Ranpo smirked. “Oh, I have backup.”
Dazai paused, his expression barely shifting. “Do you?”
Ranpo’s voice dropped, calm and certain. “And when he comes, you’ll wish you’d stayed behind that glass.”
Dazai’s lips parted in a ghost of amusement. “A single man against the Port Mafia?”
Ranpo’s smile widened. “No ordinary man.”
Outside, somewhere far beyond the walls of that dark room, thunder rolled over Yokohama’s skyline.
And in the distant hum of the city, a motorcycle engine roared to life—heading straight for hell.
_________________
There were worse places to end up than a sunlit office that smelled faintly of coffee and ink.
Chuuya leaned back in his chair, pen tapping absently against the stack of reports on his desk. Through the half-open window, the soft hum of Yokohama drifted in — car engines, distant laughter, the gulls calling by the harbor. Peaceful. Unusual. Almost boring.
And for once in his life, he didn’t mind that.
He’d grown up believing peace was a myth. The kind of thing scientists whispered about when they needed to test how much a child could take before he broke. He remembered white walls, blinding lights, the sting of needles, and the echo of his own screaming swallowed by machines. He’d run — fifteen, barefoot, skin bruised and heart hollow — through alleyways slick with rain until the city itself seemed to reject him.
Then, Fukuzawa Yukichi found him.
Chuuya still remembered that night vividly: the calm man standing at the end of the alley, coat brushing the wet ground, eyes neither pitying nor cruel. Just seeing. He’d offered a hand instead of a weapon, a home instead of a cage. And for a starving boy who’d forgotten what kindness looked like, that had been enough.
The Agency became his world after that. Ranpo was the first to speak to him, all smug smiles and sugar candies. “You’re the quiet type, huh? That’s fine — I talk enough for both of us.” Then came Yosano, terrifying but somehow comforting, Kunikida with his strict notebooks, and Atsushi, all soft edges and admiration. Slowly, the ache in Chuuya’s chest stopped feeling like emptiness and started feeling like belonging.
Now, years later, he sat at his desk surrounded by stacks of case files and an overfilled mug of black coffee, trying to convince himself that he hated paperwork less than missions.
He didn’t. But he loved the rhythm of it — the normalcy.
A knock on the glass door pulled him from his thoughts.
“Detective Nakahara.” The voice belonged to Kunikida, calm but clipped. His usual precision sounded… off.
Chuuya looked up. “Yeah?”
Kunikida lingered at the doorway, notebook in hand but not writing — which was a bad sign. “Fukuzawa wants you in his office.”
Chuuya blinked. “Now? It’s barely noon.”
“Yes,” Kunikida said quietly. “It’s important.”
That tone — low, cautious — had weight. The kind that tightened something deep in Chuuya’s chest.
He slid his chair back, grabbed his coat from the stand, and muttered, “Alright, alright. Guess my peaceful day’s over.”
Kunikida didn’t reply, only stepped aside to let him pass.
The walk through the Agency’s hallway felt heavier than usual. Everyone seemed quieter — Yosano’s office door was closed, Atsushi’s usual chatter missing from the lobby. The atmosphere hummed with tension.
Chuuya stopped at the end of the corridor and stared at the frosted glass of Fukuzawa’s door. A faint shadow moved behind it, measured, deliberate.
He exhaled slowly, resting a hand on the doorknob. “What the hell did you get yourself into this time, Ranpo…” he murmured, not knowing how right he was.
Then he opened the door, and the world he’d built on peace and paperwork began to crack.
The office smelled faintly of tobacco and polished wood. Fukuzawa sat behind his desk, hands steepled, eyes sharper than any blade Chuuya had ever faced. Papers and maps were neatly spread across the surface, but there was a tension in the room that no amount of order could hide.
“Detective Nakahara,” Fukuzawa said without preamble, “we have a problem.”
Chuuya straightened, resting his hands on the edge of the desk. “I was hoping today would be quiet.”
Fukuzawa’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Quiet doesn’t exist anymore. Ranpo Edogawa is missing. He was on a mission in Yokohama and has been captured by the Port Mafia.”
Chuuya’s stomach twisted. Captured? By the Port Mafia? He’d known it was dangerous work, but… Ranpo wasn’t just any agent. He was clever, resourceful… and yet, here he was, taken.
“Do we know where?” Chuuya asked immediately, tension creeping into his voice.
Fukuzawa nodded, tapping a finger against a map dotted with red markers. “Yes. He’s being held in one of their strongholds. Precise location is unconfirmed, but we believe it’s in the lower industrial district. You will lead the retrieval operation.”
Chuuya exhaled slowly. He’d faced danger before — monsters, criminals, even death itself — but the idea of going into a Port Mafia stronghold alone sent a ripple of unease through him. “Alone?”
“No,” Fukuzawa said. “You’ll have support — field agents, intelligence on surveillance points. But this… will require you to move fast and think faster. The Port Mafia isn’t forgiving. One wrong step and—”
“Ranpo dies,” Chuuya finished for him, voice tight.
Fukuzawa’s gaze softened ever so slightly. “Exactly.”
Chuuya’s hands tightened into fists. No way Ranpo’s going to be left behind. Not after everything.
He glanced at the map, memorizing the streets, the alleys, the possible escape routes. It was a challenge unlike any he’d faced, one that would test every skill he’d sharpened since joining the Agency.
Chuuya squared his shoulders and nodded. “I’ll bring him back. No mistakes.”
Fukuzawa’s eyes lingered on him, sharp and unreadable. “Be careful, Nakahara. This isn’t just any mission. The youngest executive in the Port Mafia’s history is involved. He’s… unpredictable.”
Chuuya swallowed. “Dazai Osamu,” he murmured under his breath.
Fukuzawa didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.
Chuuya left the office, heart steady but mind racing. Somewhere out there, Ranpo was waiting, and somewhere else, a young executive with a sharp smile was watching.
The streets of Yokohama were about to become a battlefield — and Chuuya Nakahara was about to walk straight into it.
The evening air was heavy with smog, the kind that clung to your lungs and left the city skyline drowned in shades of gray and red. The hum of traffic below the ADA building faded as Chuuya swung his leg over his bike, the familiar rumble of the engine grounding him in the chaos of his thoughts.
He pulled his helmet over his head, the visor reflecting his own eyes — sharp, focused, and furious.
Fukuzawa had said the support team would follow, but Chuuya didn’t have that kind of time. Every second wasted was another second Ranpo spent in enemy hands. And if there was one thing Chuuya knew about Edogawa Ranpo, it was that the man had zero sense of self-preservation when his mouth started running.
“Idiot probably provoked the whole damn Mafia by now,” Chuuya muttered, adjusting his gloves as the bike’s engine roared to life.
The city lights streaked past as he sped through the streets, weaving between cars like a blur of crimson and black. Wind whipped against his jacket, but his mind wasn’t on the road — it was on the labyrinth he was about to step into.
The Port Mafia.
He’d heard enough stories about them from the Agency files — how ruthless they were, how their hierarchy was a thing of nightmares. But none of that mattered. Ranpo was in there.
Still, the thought nagged him. Ranpo didn’t get caught. The man was arrogant, unflappable, and practically impossible to pin down. If he was taken, it was because he let them.
You better have a damn good reason for this stunt, Ranpo, Chuuya thought bitterly, leaning forward as his bike tore through a red light. Because if you’re wrong this time… you’ll get yourself killed before I even find you.
He could almost picture it — Ranpo’s smug grin in some dimly lit cell, throwing sharp remarks at his captors, refusing to take them seriously.
Chuuya’s grip on the throttle tightened.
He didn’t like the idea of Ranpo alone in that den of wolves.
He didn’t like the idea of anyone in that den.
The closer he got to the Mafia’s district, the darker the city became. Streets emptied, shadows thickened, and the sound of his engine became the only heartbeat in the night.
“Just hold on a little longer,” he whispered to no one in particular.
The map in his head replayed Fukuzawa’s words — industrial district, southern docks, abandoned storage blocks — all Mafia territory. But something else lingered in Fukuzawa’s tone. That warning.
The youngest executive in the Port Mafia’s history is involved.
Chuuya didn’t know the name personally, but it was one that carried whispers even in the Agency: Dazai Osamu.
A prodigy, a strategist, a ghost with a smile.
And tonight, Chuuya was driving straight into his territory.
He smirked beneath his helmet, the rush of adrenaline overpowering the hesitation. “Bring it on, executive.”
__
The docks were quieter than they should’ve been. Too quiet.
Chuuya killed the engine a few blocks away, letting the bike roll to a stop behind a row of rusted shipping containers. The smell of salt, iron, and old oil filled the air. Every sound echoed too loud — the drip of leaking pipes, the faint whistle of the wind through broken glass.
He tugged off his helmet, running a gloved hand through his hair as his eyes scanned the horizon. The night was thick with fog, the kind that blurred light and sound into a muffled haze. Somewhere beyond it, Ranpo was waiting.
Chuuya crouched, unzipping a side pouch from his jacket — compact knife, stun grenade, communicator. All checked. He slipped the earpiece in, testing the static. “HQ, I’m at the coordinates,” he whispered. “No sign of activity yet.”
Static. Then Fukuzawa’s low voice, calm as ever. “Understood. Support team is ten minutes behind. Proceed carefully, but do not engage if you spot multiple hostiles.”
“Copy that.”
He moved like a shadow, stepping between the containers with practiced quiet. The deeper he went, the clearer it became that this wasn’t just a random hideout. Crates marked with coded symbols lined the paths — weapons, contraband, things that screamed Mafia operations.
So Ranpo really did stumble into the lion’s den.
Every instinct told him to stay low, but curiosity tugged at him when he saw a light flicker in a warehouse ahead. A faint silhouette moved across the frosted window — tall, lean, unhurried.
Chuuya froze, watching.
Whoever it was didn’t move like a guard. There was a kind of deliberate stillness in the figure’s posture, the kind that came from control — someone used to commanding a room without saying a word.
Executive?
Chuuya’s hand brushed the handle of his knife. He inched closer, keeping his steps silent. From this angle, he could see through a gap in the warehouse door — a dimly lit space filled with armed men, all surrounding a chair at the center.
A man sat in that chair, calm despite the gun aimed at him. Round glasses glinted under the bulb’s yellow light.
“Ranpo…” Chuuya breathed, jaw tightening.
He was alive — tied up but very much himself, the faintest smirk curling at his lips as if this whole situation amused him.
Of course he’s smirking. Bastard probably insulted them ten times already.
But Chuuya’s gaze shifted when the tall silhouette stepped into the light.
The young man’s voice carried easily, smooth and disarmingly calm. “Mr. Edogawa, you really shouldn’t talk to dangerous people like that. It gives them ideas.”
“Dangerous?” Ranpo tilted his head, unbothered. “You’re a kid playing executive, aren’t you? Maybe I should be scared.”
A few men laughed nervously — but the one in charge didn’t. He just smiled, that thin, unreadable curve of lips.
“Well, I was hoping for a civilized conversation,” the man said, tilting his head. “But I suppose you detectives enjoy testing your luck.”
The name escaped one of the guards, like a whisper that made Chuuya’s blood run cold. “Boss Dazai…”
Dazai Osamu.
The youngest executive.
Chuuya’s pulse quickened. He had expected a ruthless, arrogant crime lord — not this. Dazai looked too young, too composed, too... calm. That smile wasn’t cruel, but it was wrong in a way Chuuya couldn’t name.
For a second, their eyes met through the narrow crack in the door.
Chuuya’s breath caught.
He was sure Dazai couldn’t have seen him — the angle, the distance — but for one fleeting heartbeat, it felt like Dazai’s gaze found him anyway.
A sharp, curious glint. The kind that says, I see you.
Then Dazai turned away, as if nothing had happened. “Bring me the file,” he told one of his men. “Let’s see if our guest knows what he’s gotten himself into.”
Chuuya forced himself to move, stepping back into the shadows. His chest felt tight with adrenaline.
He had no time to waste. Ranpo’s calm could only last so long before his mouth got him in deeper trouble.
Hold on, Ranpo. I’m coming.
Chuuya darted around the warehouse’s perimeter, searching for a back entry.
The back of the warehouse was barely guarded — a single door, half rusted, its lock hanging by one hinge. Chuuya crouched low, listening. No footsteps. No voices. Just the hum of machinery and the faint murmur of men talking on the other side.
He drew a breath, slid the knife through the lock, and slipped in.
Inside, the air was thicker — a mix of gun oil, sweat, and cigarette smoke. Dim bulbs buzzed overhead, throwing uneven light across rows of crates. Shadows stretched and twisted as he moved silently through the maze.
Voices drifted from the center of the room.
“Still no answer?” Dazai’s tone was smooth, conversational. “Pity. I was hoping you’d tell me why the ADA is poking its nose into Mafia territory.”
Ranpo’s laughter was light, mocking. “Why don’t you guess? You seem to enjoy puzzles.”
Of course he’s provoking him.
Chuuya grit his teeth, scanning the floor for a path forward. He spotted a support beam behind Dazai’s men — tall enough to hide behind, close enough to reach Ranpo if he moved fast.
He crouched, waited for the guard rotation to shift — one, two, three steps — and bolted.
His boots hit the ground silently. A clean move. He was halfway across before—
“...You can come out now.”
Chuuya froze.
The voice wasn’t directed at Ranpo this time. It was soft, almost amused.
Dazai turned his head slightly, eyes half-lidded as if bored. “You’ve been crouching behind that pillar for three minutes,” he said lazily. “You’re good, but not invisible.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Every gun in the room shifted toward the shadows.
Chuuya cursed under his breath — too sharp, too instinctive — and stepped out before anyone else could act.
“Well,” he said, tone biting. “You’re sharper than you look.”
“Mm.” Dazai’s gaze flicked down, then up again — assessing, amused. “And you’re shorter than I expected.”
The guards laughed, uncertain.
Chuuya’s brow twitched. “Keep talking, and I’ll make sure you’re shorter too.”
That earned him a real grin. “Ah, temper. Interesting.”
“Let him go,” Chuuya said, stepping forward. His voice cut through the air like a blade.
Dazai didn’t move. He only studied him, the faintest glint of curiosity in his eyes. “You must be from the Agency. No one else walks into a Mafia stronghold that stupidly confident.”
“You talk a lot for someone surrounded by explosives,” Chuuya muttered, rolling his wrist.
Dazai’s eyes narrowed — not in fear, but intrigue. “Explosives?”
Chuuya’s foot slid against the concrete. A faint pulse shimmered in the air — gravitational energy humming like static. The floor beneath one of the guards cracked, crates rattling.
A few men flinched back. Dazai didn’t.
His gaze stayed locked on Chuuya, lips curling slightly. “So it’s true,” he murmured. “You’re the failed experiment from the labs.”
The words hit harder than a bullet.
Chuuya’s jaw clenched. The air around him shifted — invisible pressure building. The light above flickered violently.
“Careful,” he warned, voice low. “You don’t get to say that.”
But Dazai only smiled, stepping closer, his tone soft and deliberate. “You were supposed to be a weapon, weren’t you? Funny how the Agency turned you into a hero instead. How does it feel, pretending to be human?”
The ground cracked. A crate burst open as gravity warped around Chuuya’s boots.
“I said— shut up.”
“Or what?” Dazai asked, stopping just a few feet away. “You’ll lose control in front of your friend?”
That did it.
The pulse of For the Tainted Sorrow tore through the room like a shockwave. The nearest men went flying — guns clattering, air bending, floor buckling beneath the weight of Chuuya’s unleashed power.
Dust and smoke filled the air. Ranpo ducked his head just before a piece of metal whizzed past.
Dazai didn’t move. He just stood there, coat fluttering in the aftershock, eyes gleaming with fascination instead of fear.
“Beautiful,” he whispered. “You really are the monster they said you were.”
Chuuya’s teeth bared. “Keep calling me that and I’ll show you how much of a monster I can be.”
“Promise?” Dazai’s tone was maddeningly soft — like he wanted to see it.
Chuuya lunged forward, gravity surging — the floor cratering under his boots as he closed the distance. But before the blow could land, Dazai’s hand brushed his wrist. Just a touch.
The energy vanished instantly.
The sudden silence was deafening.
Chuuya’s ability — gone, smothered like a flame in water. His eyes widened as he stumbled a step back, heart thudding. “What the—”
“Nullification,” Dazai said quietly, eyes still locked on his. “I guess that makes us even.”
For a second, the world narrowed — just the two of them, standing in the dust and dim light, staring each other down.
Then Ranpo’s voice broke the tension. “As much as I love this pissing contest, I’d rather not die tonight.”
Dazai’s attention flicked to him, and in that instant, Chuuya moved — fast. He grabbed Ranpo by the arm, kicked the chair backward, and threw a flash grenade at Dazai’s feet.
Light exploded across the room. Men shouted, blinded.
And through the chaos, Dazai smiled — eyes glowing in the white flare, whispering to no one in particular: “Run all you want, Nakahara Chuuya. You’ll come back.”
By the time the light faded, they were gone — a red streak vanishing into the fog outside, leaving chaos in their wake.
Dazai stood still amid the mess, one hand brushing dust off his coat. His men looked to him, uncertain.
“Boss?” one asked. “Should we chase them?”
Dazai’s smile returned — faint, almost thoughtful. “No. Let him have his victory.”
He turned toward the shattered door, eyes lingering on the darkness beyond.
“After all,” he murmured, “we’ve only just met.”
The night exploded behind them.
Chuuya’s boots hit the ground hard as he and Ranpo sprinted through the narrow alleyways, the echo of gunfire ringing in their wake. The flash grenade had bought them seconds — maybe less — before the Mafia regrouped.
“Keep your head down!” Chuuya barked, pulling Ranpo forward.
“I’d rather keep my glasses on, thanks,” Ranpo huffed, dodging a chunk of falling debris. “You do realize running straight through a hail of bullets isn’t subtle, right?”
“Neither is getting kidnapped by the Mafia,” Chuuya shot back.
Ranpo only grinned, his breath fogging in the cold night air. “Fair point.”
The two rounded a corner just as the first burst of machine gun fire tore through the crates behind them. Splinters flew past. Chuuya ducked, cursing under his breath, then pulled a small metallic orb from his belt.
“Cover your ears.”
“Wait, is that—”
The grenade detonated midair, releasing a concussive blast that threw two pursuing men backward. Chuuya didn’t look back to check.
He grabbed Ranpo’s arm tighter and kept running until the maze of alleyways opened to the docks, the roar of the ocean masking the chaos behind them. His bike gleamed faintly under a flickering streetlight — salvation.
“Get on!”
Ranpo slid behind him, holding tight as Chuuya gunned the engine. The bike roared to life, tires screeching against the wet pavement as they shot off into the night.
The wind whipped at their faces, salt and smoke mixing in the air. Chuuya didn’t speak — his mind still replaying every second of that warehouse.
That look. Those eyes.
Dazai Osamu had stared at him like he was something rare — not an enemy, not prey, but fascination incarnate.
It had unnerved him more than the guns.
“Chuuya,” Ranpo said after a while, voice raised over the wind. “He was watching you.”
Chuuya scowled, not taking his eyes off the road. “Yeah, no kidding. He was about to shoot me.”
“No,” Ranpo drawled. “Not like that. He was studying you. Like he wanted to figure you out.”
“Or kill me.”
Ranpo hummed, leaning closer. “Maybe both.”
Chuuya shot him a glare over his shoulder. “You’re real helpful, you know that?”
“Hey, I’m just saying. The guy had a look in his eye. The kind that says, ‘I’m either about to destroy you or fall in love with you.’”
Chuuya nearly missed a turn. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Ranpo smirked. “You didn’t notice? He recognized you. Not just your ability — you. Like he’d been waiting to meet you.”
Chuuya gripped the handlebars tighter. “Don’t read into it. He’s Mafia — he probably has files on all of us.”
“Sure,” Ranpo said, voice laced with amusement. “If that helps you sleep tonight.”
Chuuya didn’t respond. The engine’s growl filled the silence as they sped through the empty streets, the city lights flashing past like ghosts.
But Ranpo’s words clung to him.
He had noticed something strange in Dazai’s eyes — that moment when his ability was nullified, when their faces were inches apart. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t mockery. It was something far worse.
Interest.
As if Dazai had already decided Chuuya was a puzzle worth solving.
He hated that thought.
By the time they reached the outskirts, the gunfire was long gone, replaced by the faint hum of crickets and the steady rhythm of the bike’s engine.
Ranpo finally loosened his hold, sighing dramatically. “Well, that was fun.”
“Fun?” Chuuya snapped. “You almost got killed!”
Ranpo chuckled. “Almost.”
Chuuya pulled over under an overpass, cutting the engine. The sudden quiet hit hard. For a long moment, he just sat there, helmet resting in his hands, trying to steady his breathing.
The adrenaline was fading, but the memory of Dazai’s calm voice lingered — like the echo of a gunshot.
Nullification. That’s what he’d called it.
A man who could erase abilities with a touch.
And yet, Dazai hadn’t used it to kill him. He could have. Easily.
Instead, he’d smiled.
Chuuya’s fingers curled around the handlebar. “Next time,” he muttered under his breath, “I’ll finish what I started.”
Ranpo leaned back on the seat, grinning faintly. “Oh, I don’t think you’ll get rid of him that easily. He looked… hooked.”
“Ranpo—”
“What? I’m right.” Ranpo tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Trust me, that boy’s not done with you.”
Chuuya stared at the dark road ahead — the city lights flickering in the distance — and for once, he couldn’t come up with a comeback.
The Agency was quiet when they finally returned. It was late — the kind of late where the city outside went half-silent, half-sleepless. Dim lights painted long shadows across the office walls as Chuuya pushed the door open, Ranpo trailing behind him with that lazy grin that hadn’t faltered even once through the chaos.
“Home sweet home,” Ranpo muttered, stretching his arms behind his head.
“Home my ass,” Chuuya shot back, throwing his helmet onto his desk. “You could’ve died back there, you idiot.”
Ranpo plopped himself onto the nearest chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Relax, Chuuya. You act like I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Chuuya turned sharply to face him, still breathing hard from the adrenaline that hadn’t quite faded. “You got kidnapped, Ranpo. That’s not knowing what you’re doing — that’s asking for a bullet to the head.”
Ranpo only smiled wider. “But I didn’t get one, did I?”
Chuuya pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly through his teeth. “Why, Ranpo? Why the hell did you let them take you in the first place?”
The question hung in the air, heavier than expected. Ranpo’s grin softened, replaced by something quieter, something almost… thoughtful.
“Because of him,” he said simply.
Chuuya blinked. “Him?”
Ranpo’s gaze flicked up to meet his. “Dazai Osamu.”
The name hit like a punch to the chest.
Chuuya’s jaw tightened. “What about him?”
Ranpo leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. “He’s been off the radar for months. Some said he went overseas, others thought he was dead. The Mafia’s been restless, moving without their youngest executive for too long. When I caught wind that he’d returned, I wanted confirmation.”
“So you thought getting yourself captured was a good idea?”
Ranpo shrugged lightly. “I knew Fukuzawa-san would send someone reliable for me.” He tilted his head with a knowing smile. “I knew he’d send you.”
Chuuya glared at him, half exasperated, half relieved. “That’s dumb as fuck, Ranpo. You could’ve picked a hundred better ways to confirm it.”
“Maybe.” Ranpo smirked, eyes glinting behind his glasses. “But then you wouldn’t have met him, would you?”
Chuuya froze. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, nothing.” Ranpo’s grin returned — sharp, teasing. “Just saying, fate works in weird ways. You save me, you meet him, he stares at you like you’re the only person in the room… I’d call that destiny.”
“Or disaster,” Chuuya muttered.
Ranpo chuckled. “Same thing sometimes.”
Chuuya turned away, pretending to busy himself with his coat, but Ranpo’s words gnawed at him. The memory of Dazai’s gaze flickered again — cold, curious, almost intimate in its intensity.
It wasn’t just a look. It had weight. And Chuuya couldn’t shake the feeling that it hadn’t been the last time he’d see it.
He sighed, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it by the open window. “You’re unbelievable, Ranpo.”
“Yeah, but you still saved me.”
“Because Fukuzawa would’ve skinned me alive if I didn’t,” Chuuya grumbled, smoke curling from his lips.
Ranpo chuckled softly. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that, Chuuya.”
The detective didn’t answer — just stared out at the night, city lights flickering below.
It was finally quiet now. Or not.
The sound of hurried footsteps broke the heavy silence.
Chuuya barely had time to turn around before the rest of the Agency members flooded through the door — Kunikida first, papers in hand and worry etched into every line of his face.
“Ranpo-san!” he called out, rushing forward. “Are you alright? We lost contact hours ago!”
Atsushi followed close behind, eyes wide. “We thought— we thought something happened!”
Yosano appeared a heartbeat later, her heels clicking against the floor as she crossed her arms. “You better not have done anything reckless again, Ranpo.”
“Reckless?” Ranpo grinned, still lounging comfortably in his chair. “Me? Never.”
“Don’t lie,” Kunikida snapped, pushing his glasses up with a scowl. “You had us all worried sick! Fukuzawa-san was ready to send half the Agency after you!”
Chuuya leaned back in his chair, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
Atsushi’s eyes widened as he noticed him. “Chuuya-san! You brought him back?”
“Someone had to,” Chuuya said, shrugging like it was nothing — though the faint ache in his shoulder and the soot on his gloves told another story.
Yosano gave him a once-over and clicked her tongue. “You’re covered in dust. Sit down before you collapse, hero.”
“Not your patient,” Chuuya muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
Before any of them could respond, the office door slid open again. The atmosphere shifted immediately.
Fukuzawa Yukichi stepped inside, composed as ever, his quiet authority filling the room. His sharp eyes moved from Ranpo to Chuuya, reading the scene in seconds.
“Ranpo,” he said, voice calm but edged with something deeper — relief. “You’re unharmed.”
“Of course,” Ranpo replied lightly. “Chuuya handled it.”
Fukuzawa’s gaze shifted toward him. For a moment, it softened. “Well done, Chuuya. You completed the mission efficiently and ensured Ranpo’s safety. You have my thanks.”
Chuuya straightened instinctively, then rubbed the back of his neck, looking almost embarrassed. “Just doing my job, sir.”
Kunikida sighed. “Your job apparently includes blowing up half a warehouse now.”
Chuuya snorted. “Hey, I didn’t blow it up. They did.”
Ranpo lifted a hand lazily. “Technically, he did make a few things… float.”
“Ranpo,” Chuuya warned, narrowing his eyes.
The room filled with laughter — light, relieved, genuine. Even Yosano cracked a small smile. For a moment, the Agency felt like what it always was at its best — a strange, chaotic family bound by trust and shared scars.
But as the laughter faded, Chuuya’s gaze drifted toward the window again. The city lights outside blinked faintly in the dark, and somewhere out there, he knew he was moving too — the shadowed figure who’d locked eyes with him like they shared a secret.
Dazai Osamu.
The name still echoed in his chest like a pulse he couldn’t steady.
Fukuzawa’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Rest for tonight, both of you. Tomorrow, we’ll discuss the next steps.”
Chuuya nodded, though his mind was already elsewhere — replaying the battle, the way Dazai had smiled through the smoke.
The others began to disperse — Kunikida scolding Ranpo half-heartedly, Atsushi offering to make tea, Yosano warning them not to bleed on the floor.
And amidst the warmth, Chuuya found himself quieter than usual, lost in thought.
Because for the first time in a long while, he felt something dangerous blooming in his chest — something that didn’t belong in the safe walls of the Agency.
Curiosity. And beneath it… a strange, unwelcome pull.
The next morning, the Agency was quiet — unusually so.
Chuuya pushed the door open with a yawn, the familiar smell of old paper, coffee, and the faint scent of Yosano’s antiseptic welcoming him like a strange sort of comfort. He glanced around.
Only two people were inside.
Kunikida, already seated with his notebook open, scribbling with the kind of intensity that suggested he’d been awake for hours.
And Ranpo… sprawled across the couch, munching on a bag of snacks as if he hadn’t been kidnapped less than twenty-four hours ago.
“Morning,” Chuuya muttered, running a hand through his hair as he headed for his desk.
“You’re early,” Kunikida observed without looking up. “Unusual.”
“Didn’t sleep much,” Chuuya replied, tossing his coat onto the back of his chair. He didn’t add because I kept thinking about an executive with a stupid smug smile. He wasn’t about to give Kunikida a reason to lecture him.
Instead, he sat down and pulled out the stack of unfinished paperwork from yesterday — the very same pile he abandoned the second Ranpo decided to get himself kidnapped.
He clicked his pen and got to work.
The scratching sound joined Kunikida’s scribbling, creating the soft morning rhythm of the Agency.
Ranpo looked over at him from the couch, a chip halfway to his mouth.
“No injuries?” Chuuya asked without looking up.
“Nope!” Ranpo chirped. “Yosano wouldn’t even let me pretend to be injured. Something about ‘not wasting her time.’”
Chuuya snorted. “Figures.”
Ranpo raised an eyebrow. “You’re awfully grumpy for someone who got praised yesterday.”
Chuuya ignored him, flipping a page. “Someone has to finish all this crap. And since someone won’t lift a finger—”
“Not my job,” Ranpo said cheerfully, popping another chip into his mouth.
Kunikida sighed loudly — the kind of sigh that carried the weight of the universe. “Ranpo-san, please refrain from antagonizing the person who saved your life.”
Ranpo smiled innocently. “I wasn’t antagonizing him. Just motivating him.”
“That’s worse,” Kunikida muttered.
Chuuya leaned back in his chair for a moment, stretching his shoulder with a slight wince. The ache from yesterday’s fight still lingered, a dull reminder of how close things had gotten.
But his mind wasn’t on the injury.
It was on a pair of dark eyes watching him through the smoke. On the faint smile that shouldn’t have been charming but somehow was. On the way his pulse had jumped in a way he refused to acknowledge.
He clicked his pen again, forcing his thoughts back onto the paperwork.
Ranpo’s voice cut through the silence. “He’s thinking about him.”
Chuuya’s pen stopped.
Kunikida froze. “About who?”
“No one,” Chuuya snapped immediately.
Ranpo smirked without looking at him. “Sure. No one. A very tall, very smug no one who looked like he wanted to eat you alive.”
“Ranpo,” Chuuya warned, but his ears were already warm.
Kunikida looked between them slowly, calculating. “You mean the Port Mafia executive? Dazai Osamu?”
“I SAID,” Chuuya growled, “I’m not— thinking about anyone.”
Ranpo stretched lazily. “If you say so.”
Chuuya grumbled under his breath and stabbed his pen into the paper a little too hard.
Kunikida watched them for another few seconds before shaking his head. “Whatever personal distractions you two are indulging in, end them quickly. Fukuzawa-san said there would be an important brief meeting today.”
Chuuya’s hand paused again.
A meeting? Right after Ranpo’s rescue? Right after that encounter?
Yeah—he knew exactly what this was going to be about.
Ranpo snickered behind him.
Chuuya didn’t turn around. Didn’t give him the satisfaction.
After a moment the office door slid open with a soft shhk, instantly shifting the atmosphere. Fukuzawa stepped inside with the calm weight of a storm that hadn’t hit yet.
Kunikida snapped to attention. Ranpo stayed sprawled on the couch. Chuuya sat up straighter but kept his pen poised over the paperwork, pretending he wasn’t listening too hard.
“Good morning,” Fukuzawa said, his voice low but steady. “I see you’re all early today.”
“Kunikida dragged us into a productive start,” Ranpo said around a mouthful of snacks.
“I did no such thing,” Kunikida protested. “Some of us simply understand punctuality.”
Chuuya smirked faintly, but Fukuzawa’s next words wiped it away.
“I called for an early meeting because last night’s events have confirmed something important.”
Both Chuuya and Kunikida looked up. Ranpo only hummed quietly, already knowing.
Fukuzawa took a few steps into the room, folding his hands behind his back.
“As of yesterday, it is officially confirmed that Dazai Osamu has returned to Yokohama.”
Chuuya felt his chest tighten — just slightly, annoyingly.
Kunikida exhaled sharply. “So Ranpo’s information was accurate.”
“I told you,” Ranpo sing-songed.
Fukuzawa nodded. “His reappearance changes the power balance within the Port Mafia. Their movements have grown erratic. Last night’s kidnapping attempt on Ranpo may have been a test — or a distraction.”
Chuuya leaned forward. “A distraction from what?”
Fukuzawa met his eyes. “That is what we intend to find out.”
The room fell silent.
Kunikida adjusted his glasses. “Do we have any leads on where Dazai might be operating from?”
“Not yet,” Fukuzawa said. “But I intend to send a small, discreet team to gather intelligence before the Mafia realizes how much we know.”
Ranpo looked over at Chuuya, smiling knowingly.
Chuuya ignored him. He focused on Fukuzawa, though his jaw tightened with an instinct he didn’t understand yet.
“Who’s on the team?” Kunikida asked.
Fukuzawa didn’t hesitate.
“Chuuya.”
The room froze.
Chuuya’s brows shot up before he caught himself. “Me? Why?”
Fukuzawa’s gaze was steady, unreadable. “You are the only one who saw him face to face yesterday. You can identify him reliably. And you’re one of our strongest field agents.”
Ranpo added, “Also because you two stared at each other so intensely that I thought I was interrupting something.”
Chuuya ignored him again. Harder.
Fukuzawa continued, “The mission is reconnaissance only. Avoid confrontation unless absolutely necessary. You leave tonight.”
Chuuya swallowed — subtle, but not subtle enough. “Got it.”
Kunikida nodded approvingly. “Chuuya is the right choice. His ability makes him ideal for infiltration and escape.”
Ranpo grinned. “And he’s cute enough that even Dazai paused to stare.”
Chuuya whipped a pen at him.
Ranpo dodged effortlessly.
Fukuzawa cleared his throat, bringing them back. “Chuuya, debrief with me at noon. Kunikida, prepare the initial intel file. Ranpo…”
Ranpo blinked slowly.
“…behave.”
“No promises,” Ranpo responded cheerfully.
The office settled into a heavy silence after Fukuzawa assigned the mission.
Chuuya’s heartbeat thudded louder in his ears than he liked to admit.
Recon. Port Mafia territory. And him.
Fukuzawa gave his final orders — Kunikida to gather intel, Ranpo to assist from the Agency — then turned, sliding the door open to leave.
But before stepping out, he paused.
“Chuuya,” he said without turning his head, “be careful. Dazai Osamu is not someone you can read easily. Don’t underestimate him.”
Chuuya stiffened. “I won’t.”
Fukuzawa nodded once and left, the door closing behind him with a quiet click.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Ranpo sat up slowly on the couch, eyes hazy but sharp — too sharp.
“You should listen to Fukuzawa-san,” he said, voice uncharacteristically soft. “Dazai isn’t… normal.”
Chuuya scoffed. “Yeah, I figured that out when he smiled at me in a burning warehouse.”
“No.” Ranpo shook his head. “I mean it, Chuuya.” His eyes fixed on him — serious, unnervingly serious. “He’s unpredictable. Brilliant. Dangerous. And once he sets his eyes on something…” He paused. “…he doesn’t let it go.”
Chuuya frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Ranpo didn’t answer immediately. He just watched him — searching, almost pitying.
Then:
“Just don’t go alone tonight.”
Chuuya blinked. “What? Fukuzawa said—”
But Ranpo cut him off, his voice suddenly cold.
“Things are already moving on their side. Faster than you think.”
Kunikida froze. “Ranpo… what did you see?”
Ranpo crumpled his empty snack bag slowly, eyes drifting to the window like something — someone — was already out there waiting.
“I saw,” Ranpo murmured, “that you’re not the only one preparing for tonight.”
Chuuya’s stomach tightened. “What does that mean?” he demanded.
Ranpo’s gaze slid back to him, sharp as a blade.
“It means,” he said quietly, “Dazai knows you’re coming.”
Chuuya’s breath caught.
“And he’s waiting for you.”
Silence. Heavy. Cold. Electric.
The air in the room shifted — thick enough to choke on.
Kunikida muttered, “This escalates things…”
But Chuuya didn’t hear him.
All he heard was the echo of Ranpo’s warning.
He’s waiting for you.
A chill crawled up his spine. But beneath it, a spark — unwanted, unwelcome — flickered in his chest.
And before he could shut it down, deny it, crush it—
The room dimmed as a cloud passed over the morning light.
Chuuya stared at the door Fukuzawa had exited through, heart pounding with a mix of dread and something he refused to name.
And that was when he finally realized—
Tonight, he wouldn’t be the hunter. He’d be the one walking straight into someone else’s crosshairs.
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