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"Where is he?"
The words dripped through Atsushi's consciousness like water down a clogged drain. His head was too heavy, his mouth so dry he could hardly swallow. There were dull aches in his shoulder and hip and his wrists burned. His eyes blinked open, giving him a glimpse of black, polished shoes.
The shoe drew back and Atsushi felt panic rise, knees drawing up instinctively to defend himself, but too late. He took a kick to the gut and groaned, curling around his middle.
Disoriented, he tried to get his bearings. The feeling of being bound on a concrete floor was unmistakable. He couldn't remember what he'd done, just that he had obviously earned himself another punishment and was about to endure a night alone in a cold cell once the headmaster finished with him.
"You listening now?"
Atsushi wanted to say that he was, he was trying to cooperate, but he needed a moment to catch his breath.
He remembered now. Miko had stolen candy and Atsushi had watched him. Miko was nowhere in sight, maybe in hiding to avoid punishment. Atsushi would take it in Miko's place, not for the first time.
“I don’t know where Miko is,“ he coughed out. “Please, headmaster.”
“Who the hell is Miko?” the voice whispered. Atsushi lifted his face at the unexpected pause of violence. A man with close-cropped hair knelt beside him, looking the other direction. "I think he’s losing it.”
“The serum can do that when it first kicks in, just keep going.” A different voice spoke. This one was unnervingly calm but Atsushi couldn't see who it belonged to.
The man turned back to Atsushi. He sighed and ran a hand over his nearly-bald head. “All right then, where's Dazai? I know he was slinking along behind you. Where is he now?"
Atsushi’s thoughts were disjointed, it took a minute for him to situate himself in the present. Taking stock of his bound hands, the sluggish feel of his body, and the two men staring at him, he knew his situation wasn’t good, but a glimmer of hope rushed through him when he realized this wasn’t the orphanage. He was Nakajima Atsushi of the Armed Detective Agency, not a child locked up in a cell.
"We got split up." Atsushi's voice was hoarse. Clearing his throat, he improvised, trying to gain the favor of his captors. "I need to find him too. Maybe we can help each other if you let me up."
There was a pause, just long enough for Atsushi to hope. Then the man grabbed a fistful of Atsushi's hair, hope bursting as he was dragged to a sitting position, pain streaking across his scalp.
“Do you really want to help?” the man asked.
“Of course,” he said, eyes watering when the man shook him by his hair.
Pulling Atsushi’s phone out of his pocket, the man called Dazai’s number. “Tell him you need him to come for you.”
As the line beeped on the other side, Atsushi did his best to piece together the facts from the past few days. A painting had gone missing from a museum only to turn up in the apartment of a museum worker, which was strange because that woman had been reported missing the week prior and foul play was suspected.
Dazai had recognized the recovered painting as a forgery done by someone he'd known in his mafia days and he'd thought dead, except his description of the painter matched a dangerous ability user in the Special Division's wanted fugitive list.
Soon after that, Dazai had gone off on his own and been away two days so far. Kunikida sent the rest of them to follow the steps of the museum worker while Ranpo investigated the museum itself.
With a list of addresses in hand, Atsushi had visited the missing woman's friends and family, arriving at one home where the door drifted open when he knocked. He feared the worst when he registered the smell of paint inside. Next he was waking up to being kicked on the concrete floor.
The phone kept beeping but no one answered. Atsushi puzzled over why these men had taken him when Dazai was the real target. That made Atsushi, what? A mistaken kidnapping? Collateral damage?
"Maybe he doesn't care to save you." The short-haired man said it so casually, like Atsushi could be cast aside without a second thought.
Rubbing his wrists against his bonds, Atsushi told himself he was testing them rather than giving himself a different pain to focus on. He didn't want to wonder whether there was truth in the kidnapper's words. Of course Dazai cared what happened to Atsushi. Dazai had been the one to save him when Atsushi was completely alone, discarded like an unwanted puppy.
The other kids stood in a semicircle while Katsuko shoved him against the wall with her arm against his chest. He began to protest. He hadn't done anything wrong. Miko had invited Atsushi to play and they'd been having fun until they'd been discovered. The other children had accused Atsushi of taking toys that weren't his.
Where was Miko? If he would explain—this was just a misunderstanding.
Atsushi sought Miko in the group around him, gathered like a jury. Finding him, their eyes met briefly, Miko's expression cold, and then Miko took a step back, blending with the others and making his loyalty clear.
It took a moment for Atsushi to understand. What had been a game to him, one of the happiest hours in his memory, had been a trick?
Katsuko wound Atsushi's hair around her fist, yanking his head down to hiss into his ear, "Did you think you'd made a friend?"
Atsushi tried to clear his head. Maybe he could escape his bindings and get out of here before he put anyone else from the Agency in danger from a rescue attempt. Trusting the strength that had protected the people he cared about so many times, he focused his breathing, stretched his fingers, and waited for the tiger within to course through them and turn them into claws.
The short-haired man called Dazai again. The line beeped, long enough for Atsushi to realize there was something wrong with his ability. No matter what he did, nothing happened. His ability wasn’t working.
His captors looked at each other for a minute.
“Maybe Dazai-kun needs an incentive,” the man with the calm voice said. He rose from his seat and grabbed an iron bar from the floor, dragging it across the concrete. As he came closer, Atsushi saw he had a thin face framed by oily hair. “Let's see if we can draw him out. I’ll take the pictures,” he said serenely, trading Atsushi's phone for the bar, which he placed in the other man's hands.
His attacker hefted the heavy bar, adjusting his grip.
Dread settled in Atsushi's gut alongside the ache from being kicked. Not an accidental kidnapping then. No, Atsushi was bait.
He braced himself for more pain to come.
Katsuko held him down while the gathered children took turns hitting and kicking him. Miko took a turn too and it was the final straw in Atsushi accepting that he'd been wrong to think anyone wanted him. Katsuko's weight was no longer necessary to hold him down. He knew his place and he was right where he belonged.
"I held back, I swear. I didn't think that'd be enough to do him in." The sound of metal on concrete vibrated near Atsushi's head, which throbbed.
“He’s not responding." A pause, then a finger pressed against his throat. “No, he’s not dead. Fine. I’ll put you on. Be quick.”
“Atsushi? Wake up.”
Tears welled in Atsushi’s eyes at the sound of a familiar voice.
“Kunikida-san,” he let out briefly, trying not to lose his composure and worry him.
“Atsushi, we can’t find Dazai,” Kunikida said. “But we will. Please, be patient. Katai is helping.”
“Yeah,” he said helplessly.
“And if you know anything, do what you must to do. You’re a detective from the Armed Detective Agency. Don’t hold back.”
“Kunikida-san, really, I don’t know anything, and I think they want to hurt him. You can’t trade him for me!”
“It’s not our problem, he resigned.”
Atsushi stared blankly into the phone.
“Do as you’re told, you hear me?”
“Yes, Kunikida-san,” he said, dismayed to the point of exhaustion. Dazai had abandoned them. Abandoned him.
Atsushi pushed the thought aside and gauged the meaning behind Kunikida’s words. No one knew where Dazai was, and no one knew where Atsushi was. The Agency wasn’t trying to find Dazai, they were trying to find Atsushi.
“Do what you must to do.” That simply meant he had to fend for himself and hold out until the Agency arrived, even if Dazai wouldn't be with them.
The watch of the thin-faced man made a loud noise and he walked away into the corner of the room, searching through a duffel bag.
This was his chance. There was no other choice. Again, Atsushi tried to focus on the image of the tiger lurking within him. He caught the sensation of its presence, like a stray hair brushing against his cheek.
A small faint patch of fur started covering his knuckles.
Then the man returned.
“You tried, I’ll give you that,” he said, stepping on Atsushi's forearm, a syringe in one hand while the other pulled a strap from his breast pocket. Atsushi recognized that kind of band and his heart sank. He needed to struggle, needed to fight back, needed to use the rest of his strength to stop this. In the back of his mind, he knew this was how they’d kept his ability suppressed, some kind of chemical that acted like Dazai’s ability.
The thin-faced man put the syringe between his teeth while he tied the elastic strap around Atsushi's arm. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the syringe and it drained the fight from him. Resisting would only make it worse.
“Don’t move,” the man said, tightening the strap.
Atsushi nodded limply as the blood rushed from his head. As he saw the needle’s sharp, irrevocable edge.
“Stay awake,” the headmaster said as the needle punctured his vein. “Watch, or suffer the consequences.”
He had tried, and had failed. This was their routine. It never got easier. The needle always scared him, even more than the beatings that came after.
"You were left on the doorstep in a trash bag." The headmaster finished the injection, looming over Atsushi who huddled on the floor, making himself small so he'd be less of a target. "You know what that means?"
Atsushi didn't. The headmaster paused, a sign that he expected a response, and Atsushi scrambled to say something.
"Do you?" With the bare needle still in the headmaster's hand, Atsushi couldn't think past his fear. His chest heaved, a sob instead of the reply that might have saved him. The headmaster gave a disappointed sigh and Atsushi knew pain would follow. "Why do you make me do this to you?"
The headmaster placed a palm on Atsushi's cheek. He flinched, and then relaxed, another sob leaking from him at the gentle touch he hadn't expected.
"It means you are worthless. It means no one will ever want you, not Miko, not Katsusko; they did the right thing, betraying you. In life, pain is the only constant, and you must learn to face it alone if you want to survive.”
Atsushi looked up into the face of the headmaster, confused by the tenderness in his tone and touch but hungry for it.
“I am simply trying to educate you."
The headmaster lifted his hand from Atsushi's cheek, and then returned in a flash, connecting so hard Atsushi's head jerked to the side.
He spit blood. Memory and reality blended for a moment.
Not the headmaster. The short-haired man shook out his hand from the blow he'd landed.
“This isn’t working,” he said, and Atsushi detected a hint of panic in it. “And I think his Agency friends have ditched him. It’s getting late.”
“You have no patience for the process,” came the serene voice that made Atsushi’s skin crawl.
Light steps approached him. A shoe pushed under his chin and turned his head upwards. One side of his face was hot, the faint air current in the room enough to set it aching like a thousand needles were pushing into his skull, but he kept his face relaxed, mouth slack. He needed to focus on surviving. He wasn’t in the orphanage, he’d gone through worse than this. Atsushi could take it. He needed time to think.
He’d play dead, he was good at it. It was the only way the headmaster left him alone.
The short-haired man scoffed, a metal chair scrapped against the floor as he dropped heavily into it. “He’s just a kid, all skin and bones.”
“Seems quite tough to me,” the thin-faced man said from overhead, his shoe still tilting Atsushi's face upward, the damp hem of his pant leg brushing Atsushi's cheek. Silence stretched and Atsushi struggled to stay relaxed under the eyes of his assailant.
Then a sour taste rose through his throat as he smelled the man’s breath near him, the sweat of his body mingled with thinner and paint, a sickly hint of alcohol. A sticky hand traced a line through the edges of his swollen face, then brushed his lips. “Nice acting,” the voice said softly, “you would’ve made a fine model.”
A palm now pressed fully against his cheek and something almost tender swept over him. The nurse sneaked into his cell again, pressed some ice into his swollen cheek. Gave him a warm bun of bread, softened in milk and honey. Said Miko was sorry. Miko was sorry.
“Thank you,” Atsushi breathed out. He was safe, he could open his eyes.
The headmaster was wrong. He had friends. It had only been a misunderstanding.
A smile welcomed him. “Look at those eyes,” his savior said, tongue peeking out as he peered closer.
Atsushi blinked, frustrated by the memories that left him disoriented. There was no nurse, no ice. Looking at the man's face more closely, he realized this was the one they were looking for, an ability user who had stolen the painting and might responsible for the missing museum worker.
“I wonder if Dazai-kun has ever mentioned me,” the thin-faced man said. “My name is Oscar Wilde. Do you know who I am?”
Atsushi nodded. “A criminal. An ability user.”
Wilde laughed. “A painter. I had a long fruitful career. My portraits are everywhere, if you know where to look. I’ve had a strange condition since I was young, and painting was the only way to soothe it. Would you like to see? I won’t hurt you.”
His reassurance sounded genuine, but instinct told Atsushi it was a trap. Either way, he had no choice, he couldn’t move. “Show me,” he said quietly.
Grinning, Wilde pulled out a knife from his breast pocket. Atsushi’s mind reeled, until Wilde directed the sharp edge towards his own face, slicing his cheek deeply, not even wincing. A faint red stripe appeared in the knife's wake, only to disappear immediately after, leaving no trace on Wilde's skin.
Wonder briefly pushed off the despair inside Atsushi. Wilde was like him. He’d never met anyone else like him.
“Your body heals itself,” Atsushi left out the “like me” from the sentence. “That is your ability.”
Wilde shook his head amiably. “Not exactly. Like I said, first and foremost, I am a painter, particularly of portraits. In portraits, people obsess over portraying the finest image of their lives. They protect a lie from the erosion of memory and old age. Smooth skin, elegant clothes, an image so wonderful and unreal it will make strangers cry at the loss of never meeting them. How honorable! How beautiful! How good!”
A flush covered Wilde’s face. He smiled, almost relaxed.
“But my art exists beyond such nonsense. It does the unimaginable. It portrays truth. My best work is a portrait of myself I began when I was at the height of my youth and my skill. It will be a work in progress until the day I die, or by defect, until time or an enemy hand destroys it. If you could look at it now, you’d see the little scratch I just made. All the blemishes that might afflict me are instead captured by my portrait.”
Wilde seemed to like talking about himself and Atsushi thought if he asked more questions, maybe he could keep Wilde talking, buy time. Only his muddled mind was struggling to come up with more questions and, now that he wasn’t being continuously beaten, he became aware of the damage to his body. Even breathing was a torment, and he didn’t think he was getting enough air. “Does it hurt?” he asked, hoping the question made sense.
“Nowadays, not truly. A scrape on the knee, an accidental nick from the box cutter while adjusting the canvas. Sprained ankles. I still felt all of those before I met Dazai-kun, no matter how short the damage lasted,” his eyes glimmered suddenly, a wild excitement took over them.
Danger, Atsushi’s body screamed.
“His touch taught me all that I’d been missing. One could call what I experienced, torture. My colleagues said it ruined me as an artist. I’d say it transfigured me. Few people in this world can see themselves as they truly are.”
“Get on with it,” the short-haired man groaned.
Wilde scoffed. “Excuse him, Atsushi,” he said softly, “but he does have fair a point.”
The short-haired man approached again and Wilde brought the knife toward Atsushi. He tried to arch away but then the man took hold of his head, pain exploding at the pressure.
Wilde traced a line over Atsushi's temple to the corner of his eye. “We can make you look like him if we cut right here.”
Understanding dawned and Atsushi strained against his bonds, jerking back out of reflex, but then the other man's fists wrung through his hair, forcing him still.
The knife plunged in.
He couldn't get up. The headmaster stared at Atsushi with disgust, promising worse if he didn't stand. He just couldn't. His body had taken all it was able and he lay in a heap, tears streaking his face and dripping to the floor.
The wet running down his cheek was too thick to be tears. He screamed. He couldn't endure. Not this. Not anymore.
"Where's Dazai?" The one holding his head shook him a little, each motion a new outburst of blinding pain.
"I don't think he knows." Wilde sounded thoughtful, which was worse than the agitation of the one holding him. “I think they only said that to keep us from killing him.”
His head bounced against the floor when the hold on his hair suddenly receded.
“See, this is how I always imagined Dazai-kun looked under those bandages,” his attacker sighed. “Hours of hard work, and he couldn’t even have the courage to take that bandage off. To see, fully, what he did.”
The door opened, bringing soft footsteps and a new voice. Female, if Atsushi had to guess. "No sign of anyone looking for him. You want me to drop some kind of signal? A clue to lead him here?"
“Let’s just dump him,” the other man said. “We have plenty of pictures. I’ve been sending them to Dazai and his friends this whole time. If they're not coming for him, we take a new target. Save the last batch of the serum for them and see if they can draw Dazai here.”
A finger traced the edge of Atsushi's jaw, sending an unnerving shiver through him. He wanted to jerk away but couldn't tell if he'd moved at all.
"No, it's good that we have time." Wilde leaned in, brushed a lock of hair out of Atsushi's face. "Maybe I'll paint you like this. I hadn't intended to, but you're beautiful when you're broken. I’ll give you the gift of seeing it for yourself."
In the hours that followed, Atsushi gave up all sense of himself, blood pooling under his head as his body was further maimed to Wilde’s satisfaction. Time went still. When he ventured to open his eyes, it was dark on one side of the world, but on the other, the colors on the canvas slid up and down in mysterious motions, senseless. Bright, under the warm light of the sun.
Without fear, pain was simple, something to be endured. Like hunger. Like cold. It was a little like returning to a familiar embrace, and to get there he just needed a small push.
“It’s not finished yet, but do you like it?” Wilde asked, his voice like the trickle of a stream in the woods, too distant to track where it came from.
In the swirl of colors under Wilde’s hand, Atsushi saw himself the way he never had before. Wounded and maimed. He wasn’t healing, but the horror would end soon enough, and so would the loneliness. Unlike his heart, the endless persistence of his body had finally found a limit and he’d be free. The headmaster wouldn’t open the locked cage door. Dazai wouldn’t come to help him. Yosano would not fix him. His friends wouldn’t come back to wrap clean clothes on his body.
He didn’t feel anything, he was numb.
The sun set on the horizon. The wood of the paintbrush handles clattered against a glass. A breeze grazed the skin of his bare thigh under the broken seam of his pants. Paint, mingled with a sweetness of an origin he couldn’t pin, wafted through the air of the room, drowning the smell of blood.
This time, when that beeping sound came, and the needle punctured his vein, he barely felt it.
Atsushi was warm, content, and he could almost see Kyouka smiling, setting a crepe on his hand. All he had to do was go to sleep.
He tried to, but the smell of cleaning spray inside his cell was too strong. The floor was damp as he tested the movement of his fingers. The steps of the headmaster still lingered in the doorway. For a moment, Atsushi thought he’d speak and ask again about the candy he did not steal, but he only stood there, quiet. Atsushi waited with dread and anticipation what would happen next: keys clinking in the air, the familiar sound of the lock being turned, and the long stretch of silence that always followed the headmaster’s absence. A silence that could last for hours or for days.
Atsushi curled up into himself, seeking a bit of warmth in the cold concrete, but all he found was pain from the beating he’d received earlier. He retched. Nothing came up, and he counted this as a small blessing because he didn’t like sleeping in his own vomit. It made him feel lonely, like that dying puppy that once found its way to the orphanage, its belly bloated with worms, its eyes gummy and lost. Its carcass degrading under the sun as Atsushi watched, day after day, from behind the iron fence.
Wilde nudged Atsushi with his foot the way one might turn over an animal to check if it's dead.
“This was not part of the deal. We were supposed to bring Dazai to our buyer.”
“You know what they say about making plans,” Wilde laughed. “Like you said, we have other targets. We'll just try again.”
“How? You finished the last batch of the serum. Why the hell did you do that?”
“Just buy another batch.”
“Do you have any idea how expensive the serum is?”
“Fine, I’ll give you a couple from my personal stash. Dazai-kun’s bounty will be more than enough to cover their replacement.”
“Why do you keep a personal stash?”
“Recreational purposes.”
A sigh. A cursory kick to his shoulder. “He really was useless,” the man said with disgust.
“All art is quite useless.” Wilde knelt beside Atsushi and a cold sensation traced the edge of where his eye had been. It didn’t hurt anymore. “It’s not meant to be used, but admired.”
“Look, I don’t care. Just tell me what to do with his body.”
“I know, let’s make it public. We’ll string him up at our other location.” Wilde's breath tickled the scab forming along Atsushi's ear in a whisper. "Dazai didn’t appreciate you. But I promise everyone else will see you, they will see how beautiful you are.”
They always saw him. The little shining eyes beyond the bars of his cell, curiously staring at his disfigured body on the floor. “He's not moving." "Is he dead?" Voices whispered, moved closer, the lock on the door turned. Atsushi tried to tell them that he was still alive, his small wrists struggling against the chains. The sound of plastic, its slippery texture brushing his foot and catching under his toe.
One of them cut Atsushi's bindings, freeing his hands, then he was being dragged.
"Pick him up."
“I don’t want to touch him.”
Someone gagged. The smell of vomit sharpened Atsushi’s senses.
“Are you kidding me?” The short-haired man.
“I’m sorry. I’ve never done this before,” the woman said, reaching toward him.
He braced himself for another blow. He had taken so many. His head, which had felt clouded, started to clear. Pain receded like a wave rushing back into the sea. Cuts knit together, bruises lost their color. As he healed, his body no longer felt like his own. Faster than thought, he grabbed at the bare skin of the woman's arm that extended in front of him. The tiger's mouth clamped down and pulled. His ears did not hear the woman's scream but his tongue felt blood run warm and sweet. Letting go, Atsushi's feet ran, but not for the door.
A presence he’d shoved down burst forth and with it, the terrifying realization that the serum had only been part of what kept it at bay. He was afraid to set the tiger free, but might be too late to muzzle it now.
The wind bowed, obedient under his swift body. This was who he was always meant to be. Fearsome and fearless. Moonlight shimmering along his white fur, above the sweet scent of fresh rabbit meat. He was no longer trapped between dark walls. Trapped inside shaky taut skin, reeking of fear. Trapped inside the body of prey.
The prey watched him in his slumber, hiding. Weak little creature. The gold and violet of his eyes, stolen.
He leapt against the dark walls, strong hind legs propelling him downwards. His paws landed on his prey’s chest, knocked him to the ground. Blood oozed, rich and warm, from under his claws. The prey squirmed underneath him, whined, water poured from its eyes and mouth. Fear. A good predator knows to kill before fear can deepen the pain and ruin the meat.
"Please, it hurts," the prey said.
"I have to save them. I can’t kill them."
"Why?"
"If I don’t save them, I have no right to keep living."
"And why do you wish to earn that right, if you will discard our life again for them?"
He’d been here before, a white room with no ceiling. White fur in his mouth and air bubbling out of his throat, red staining the tiger’s ears. In a different place and time, Miko and the others hugged each other, terrified, watching from behind iron bars. In another, his small feet were being wrapped up in plastic. Later, he’d blocked the path of a bomb with his body. Countless events spread before him and the tiger had always come back to save him, even when nobody else did. Only one time he’d asked for the tiger’s help, and it was because he had a job to do.
“You have chosen to be alone. Forsaken us for them.”
"But I have to save them,” Atsushi said, his voice sounding small, childish, “or he'll punish me.”
Tiger eyes searched his. The fury within them receded, the fury that had always terrified Atsushi so much. It leaned down, Atsushi squirmed, but it only poked his cheek with its wet snout.
“He’s dead, little creature. He is the one who lies under the earth, who feeds the worms and the trees.”
Atsushi’s limbs felt weak, his body now dwarfed before the tiger’s head. Blood stopped leaking from his wound. The tiger settled next to him and set his giant paw atop his chest, soft and comforting, not painful. Protective.
In the distance, he heard the click of a safe being undone. The scent of gunpowder, pointed his way.
"I have to protect them," he said one last time, though he lacked conviction, curling beneath the tiger’s shoulder. He was wearing his orphanage uniform, the one that had been burned when the headmaster branded his belly with the hot sticks. Atsushi hid his face within the tiger’s warm fur. He didn’t want to look. “But I don’t want to die.”
Atsushi faded, unwilling or unable to maintain awareness of his surroundings. Like listening through a poorly tuned radio, he caught snatches of what followed. A weapon, clutched in a twitching hand, the terrified breathing of cornered prey. Bone that ground between teeth before giving way with a snap. Atsushi didn't even try to track how many he took down, didn't want to know. He sunk inside himself, hardly feeling the flash of pain when the short-haired man slashed the tiger’s shoulder with a knife. The gash knit back together as he—or the tiger—ripped into the man's calf, dropping him.
“Atsushi,” a voice said. The tiger felt the boy stir within him. He growled at the man that he recognized as an ally. “It’s me. You made quick work of those ones and I took care of this, so the day is ours." His ally was dragging something behind him. The one who smelled of paint.
The tiger's hackles rose, his bloody muzzle salivated at the scent of betrayal. That one would die for stealing his prey.
"You don't have to growl about it. Take a bigger share of the credit if you like."
The ally's eyes widened in surprise as the tiger lunged.
On contact, the tiger disappeared and the broken boy latched onto Dazai, human teeth gnawing uselessly at the bandaged arm.
"What's this?" he sounded surprised. "What's gotten into you?"
Atsushi couldn't answer, he just knew he'd had enough. He couldn't take any more of their taunting laughter, led by Katsuko. What hurt far more though was what Miko had done. They had played together. Miko had even invited Atsushi to join in when he'd been playing alone. Atsushi had started to think of Miko as a friend only to have Miko turn his back on Atsushi when the other kids were looking. It was one thing to be alone. It was another to be betrayed.
The beating he took for Miko almost killed him.
Enough. He'd had enough.
Atsushi hit and slapped at the one holding him. The headmaster was going to skin him for this, but he didn't care.
"Miko, why won't you tell them?" he shouted, spit flying, hair matted to his face with his own blood. "You said you wanted me!"
He swung, fists hitting ineffectually at the person standing in front of him. His tormentor. Why was no one stopping him? Where was the headmaster?
"I'm here to help."
No. No one has ever helped me.
The room spun and he stumbled, then was steadied by the figure standing in front of him. Friend or foe? The wrong shape to be the headmaster, too tall to be Katsuko. But Atsushi had never had a friend.
The thought soured with the taste of a lie, not matching memories of clothes given to him from several closets and meals eaten around a crowded table, chatter spilling over their bowls. Confused, Atsushi choked on a sob he didn't want to let out.
He pounded his fist on the figure's chest and pushed off, righting himself. His vision was black around the edges, threatening to dim completely.
You didn’t abandon me. You came. You came for me.
"Nap time, tiger."
Atsushi gave in, collapsing into arms he knew wouldn't let him fall.
A minute or a week later, Atsushi's ears awoke before the rest of him. Disjointed words brought him back to the present. Paintings. Captured. Art dealers.
Panicked, Atsushi stirred, the floor hard against his hip, his hands remembering being bound. His body wasn't working, but he had to escape. They meant to capture Dazai.
“Go back to sleep,” someone said softly to his ear. “Atsushi-kun, you’re safe, go back to sleep.”
Atsushi stilled, memory catching up as he huddled closer to Dazai’s damp coat that smelled like home. Like the Agency and the detergent they all shared in the dorms. “They’re looking for you. I think they want to hurt you.”
“I know. We caught them, no one will hurt me. You did a good job, Atsushi-kun.”
“I did?”
“Of course,” Dazai said, setting his palm on Atsushi's head, ruffling his hair as he sometimes did when he was proud of him, or when he filled out his paperwork. He wanted to bask in the affection, but something was wrong. He didn’t know what.
“Why are you holding me? I think I can move.”
A hand he hadn’t perceived before squeezed his. “You got hurt during the case,” Kyouka said, there was a slight trembling in her voice. It scared him. “Your tiger healing is still catching up.”
Vaguely, he thought of the sliver of skin of Dazai’s neck on his forehead. Of the gentle motions of his fingers on his hair. He thought they would hinder his healing, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.
In the distance, he heard the voices of the rest of the Agency detectives. As he drifted off to sleep, he felt hands touching his head, comforting him for something he did not remember.
Before he finally lost consciousness, he heard Yosano’s voice. She said she’d handle everything. She said he'd done nothing wrong.
The darkness in that small nook where he’d made his bed since he left the orphanage had never been more comforting. Within it, he could choose not to be awake, letting hours slip into days. Even if he’d already slept too much for total oblivion to take him, he could pretend to forget and sink into the silence as long as no one spoke to him. But Atsushi couldn’t be this selfish forever.
A soft tap from the other side of his closet reminded him of that.
He gripped the edge of the wooden door and the pale light of sunrise was almost enough to blind him. Gentle fingers wrapped his knuckles firmly, interrupting him from fully sliding the door open.
“I only wanted to tell you there’s food on the fridge,” Kyouka said quietly, “just reheat it when you wake up. I’m leaving for work now. Do you need anything?”
“No. I’m coming too.”
The words left Atsushi’s mouth before he contemplated them, oddly rough, in a manner he had never spoken to her before. “Thank you for taking care of me, Kyouka-chan,” he tried to mend his brusqueness, pushing the door open to see Kyouka’s face, to look into her eyes and tell her he was fine.
Her hair was pulled into a bun, only decorated by one instead of two flowers. She wore the same stoic expression she carried in her first days at the Agency, a distant veil that remained after her training and her loses—after the guilt. Thirty five people. Some of them children. It took a long time for Kyouka to move past these memories, even though they had been the product of her skills being used against her will, and the number of lives she saved every day far exceeded them. The unshakable weight of her past threatened to pull her under constantly, but she faced it bravely and had already built a new life with her own hands.
Atsushi had brought that look on her face back. He had no right to ask why, or maybe he didn’t want to confirm that she wasn’t worried, but scared and disappointed in what he'd done. Kyouka was the closest thing to a family he’d ever had. Atsushi didn’t think he could take it if she hated him.
“The President said you should take your time,” she insisted.
“I will be okay now. I’m sorry for leaving everything to you this week.”
Kyouka’s eyes turned watery, she rubbed them before tears sneaked out of them. They stirred something in Atsushi that felt really far away, buried beneath a dark weight that had settled inside his chest. Foreign, and yet, so perfectly fitting for reasons he couldn’t understand. Atsushi wanted to reach out to hold her and tell her there was nothing else she could’ve done, that he would take it all, again and again, if it meant she and everyone else would be safe.
The words felt unnatural in his mouth. “It’s not your fault,” he managed, because it wasn’t. It was that simple.
If it was anyone’s fault it was his. If he’d been more attentive when he visited the address assigned to him, none of this would’ve happened. A stronger person would’ve overpowered his attackers in a moment of distraction; a braver one would’ve taken the syringe out of their hands with ease.
The Agency had given him a place to belong when he’d had nowhere to go. They had trained him, they had supplied him with a way to control his ability and protect others. In return, Atsushi had surrendered to the fear that his friends had abandoned him to his luck. He gave up on everything he believed in to hurt others. Yosano had told the truth. His victims were all healed now, alive. But Atsushi would’ve killed them if the Agency hadn’t arrived.
Clearly, Atsushi could only blame himself for losing control.
He didn’t know why when he told Kyouka it had not been her fault, his words felt hollow. Atsushi knew minds could be irrational when put through the unthinkable.
So he decided he’d try not to think.
Atsushi decided to smile when everyone welcomed him on his first day back, to eat every bowl of chazuke they put in front of him, to return every hug and listen to every kind word.
He indulged Kenji when he said he needed help at his farm and all he did was let Atsushi take naps in the sun. He drank every cup of coffee that Tanizaki brought to him, and then every single one that Montgomery added on the house. He endured Kunikida’s worried lectures when Atsushi punched him a little too hard during his training and then broke down crying. Every pat on his back by the President, every impromptu examination by Yosano, every grocery run Ranpo sent him on that ended with Atsushi’s pockets filled with more candy than he could ever eat.
He took all of it and it did nothing. The dark mass inside him got darker, and heavier, until the cases piled up and Kunikida finally decided to put him to work.
To be useful, that’s what he needed to feel normal again.
It worked so well, that a few weeks later, when Wilde and the injured criminals that Yosano had healed were finally put to trial, Atsushi insisted on helping the Special Division’s investigation.
The President had argued that the Special Division had enough information to act, but Ango had come to the Agency himself, asking for help. Ango said there was a chance they could get away with a small sentence for lack of evidence, and that they still hadn’t been able to track down the serum Atsushi mentioned. They wanted to question him again.
Kunikida had picked their main meeting room for the questioning. Atsushi had spent so many hours working here with the rest of the detectives. It was a little cramped with everyone together, but it had always felt safe and homely, even in the worst situations. He took his place at the corner of the table, Kunikida and Ranpo sat opposite of him, leaving a space in the middle for Ango.
When Dazai arrived and sat next to him, he was initially grateful for having company on his side of the long table, until Dazai set his hand on Atsushi’s arm.
Everyone at the Agency had made sure to tell him that what Atsushi had done was necessary, that he should be proud that he’d managed to lock his attackers away. Everyone reminded him that there had been others before Atsushi, tortured to within an inch of their lives, and that there would’ve been more.
Dazai’s hand on Atsushi’s arm was the elephant in the room, the bitter reminder that he’d been alone and no one would understand what he went through. They didn’t see what he saw, feel what he felt. They didn’t know what had brought Atsushi to unleashing the tiger. His friends probably thought he only felt guilty and scared, and he did, but it was more than that and not even he understood it.
No one understood and it made him so feel isolated.
“It’s never a pleasure to see you, Ango,” Dazai sighed, squeezing Atsushi’s arm. “Make it quick. Atsushi-kun’s heart is racing because he dislikes you so much.”
Atsushi tried to relax his breathing. The wink Dazai gave him only made the feelings in his gut churn with more force. What was happening to him?
Kunikida glared across the table at Dazai. “Shut it, Dazai. All of this happened because you disappeared in the middle of an ongoing case.”
He shrugged, an easy smile on his face. "You should have more faith in Atsushi-kun! I knew he could do it."
Atsushi’s jaw clenched. Ranpo’s eyes were fixed on his. “He’s a good detective. A good detective does what they must,” he said, “even when all else fails.”
The words echoed through Atsushi’s mind, the words Kunikida said to him through the phone. Ranpo had been there. Something inside him settled. He took a deep breath. “I’m ready,” Atsushi said, “and I don’t hate you, Ango-san.”
“I know,” Ango stretched his palm along a thick folder, hesitant before slipping a single sheet of paper out of it, “and I am sorry for putting you through this again. I’ll try to be quick.”
The questioning went smoothly. Explaining what had happened again wasn’t as difficult as he’d thought. It was like telling the plot of a movie he’d seen on a Sunday evening when he and Kyouka were doing chores for the week to come. Atsushi remembered details he’d forgotten the first time; Wilde’s mentioning of a painting that was linked to his ability, Dazai’s impact on his art. He also remembered that when they were planning to be rid of his body, Wilde told one of his attackers he had a personal stash of the serum.
“Did the serum have any fun side-effects, Atsushi-kun?” Dazai asked.
Atsushi shuffled in his chair, remembering Wilde’s rambling before the worst came. He didn’t quite understand Wilde’s words, but he had a feeling that he knew the answer to Dazai’s question. “I think he uses it to stop his self-healing,” he said, and hoped no more questions were asked. He didn’t have the courage to ask what Dazai had done to Wilde in the past, or to say that whatever it had been, Atsushi thought Wilde had been trying to recreate it. The only important part from that was that he had a personal supply of the serum somewhere in his belongings, which meant the Special Division would be able to study it.
No one asked more about the serum, or about what Atsushi did to his attackers. They didn’t ask about was done to him either. Atsushi couldn’t tell how he felt about that. He only knew that helping Ango and his friends felt good.
“One more thing,” Ango said, screwing his pen shut and sliding his notes back into its folder. “The painting he made that day, he has requested it to be sent to you in exchange for one of his contacts, and has asked for a handwritten letter from you in response.” He took off his glasses, rubbed his temple. “We usually don’t do this sort of thing, but Dazai-kun manufactured a believable reply. It’s nonsense anyway. Tomorrow we’ll pick up the painting to send it to a storage room in our facilities. I just thought you should know that you don’t have to look at it, and that only Dazai-kun and some of our technicians have seen it.”
Ranpo leaned back on his chair with a snort. “Take it with you. We don’t want his crappy art, it’s boring.”
“You’d be surprised at how well they sell,” Ango explained. “I keep getting calls from untraceable numbers, offering large sums of money for them.”
“A painting?” Atsushi asked, his mouth dry.
Ango stood from his chair and left the room. When he returned with a frame covered by a sheet tucked under his arm, the smell of paint made Atsushi's stomach turn. Flashes of that day flicked through his mind. The image of Wilde painting him was so surreal, he’d thought it had been a dream.
Atsushi clenched his fist on the chair. “Why would anyone want this?” he asked.
Fear, like he hadn’t felt in weeks, overwhelmed him. It was right in front of him, innocently covered in a pristine white sheet, leaning against the only empty chair in the room. Like another witness, waiting to show everything Atsushi had gone through.
Dazai's calculating gaze met Atsushi's panic and softened, his hand sliding down to rest atop his. It made Atsushi remember being held while reassurances dripped into his ears like water down a parched throat. Had that been a dream imagined from wishing he had not been abandoned? Or had that also been true?
"Wilde has built a name for himself. He was an art dealer in the underground," Ango said. "He would steal original works, paint them—"
"In that unique way of his," Kunikida muttered darkly, giving Atsushi a pitiful look. “I’ve seen some of the others.”
“Boring,” Ranpo unwrapped a piece of candy and shoved it into his mouth. “So boring he should be tried for it.”
"Though he can paint up a dead ringer for an original when he set his mind to it," Dazai chimed in.
“Could,” Kunikida corrected, standing from his seat, indicating the end of the meeting. “His painting days are over.”
The room cleared around him but Atsushi stayed where he was, not even pretending to be busy. Talking through what had happened to him that day felt similar to how his body felt when he healed, pain reversing. It was incomplete though. Deeper hurt remained, and not of the sort his healing could touch even if Dazai's hand wasn't still on his.
“Do you want to see it?”
“I don’t know. Dazai-san, I need to tell you something.”
Dazai released him from his touch and turned to face him. Atsushi laced his fingers together, now cold without his friend’s. Because Dazai was his friend, there was no question about it. If anyone knew what was wrong with him, it was Dazai.
“I’m not sure where to start.”
“You could start by telling me who Miko is. You mentioned that name when I found you.”
Atsushi never considered telling another soul about that, but the mention of Miko’s name was like a finger poking awake that darkness inside his chest. Like when he got sick and Doctor Yosano poked him and poked him until he winced and she said “oh, there it is.”
“He was a kid at the orphanage.”
“A friend?” Dazai asked, voice so gentle Atsushi had to take a deep breath to calm himself down. He didn’t want Dazai to leave like he did when they talked about the headmaster. He didn’t want to cry about Miko because it had been such a long time ago. Why did he care? They were just children, and by now, he’d gone through so much worse. Why was he still so angry about that?
“Yes, he was a friend,” Atsushi said, because he remembered how it all started. The headmaster had dragged him away in front of everyone to beat him up. When he woke up, Miko was on the other side of his cell, asking if he was okay. No one had ever done such a thing for him. After that, he’d let him play with his toys, spend time with him. Atsushi finally had a friend to talk to and it made him so happy. “He was good to me, in the beginning.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know,” Atsushi sniffled, rage rising within him. “He started breaking things and stealing candy from the kitchen. I didn’t want him to get hurt, so when the headmaster blamed me for it, I didn’t say anything.” Not that it would’ve mattered. The headmaster knew it wasn’t Atsushi’s fault and still beat him for it.
"Doesn't sound like he deserved your protection."
Spare time and candy had been more restricted after that. Then Miko befriended a group of bullies and they beat Atsushi when he tried to talk to Miko again. He let them, and then everyone decided who to blame for the new rules.
“No, they were just children,” he said, even though bile rose to his throat at the memory of their faces. He couldn’t keep his voice even anymore. “I can’t be angry at them, it was hell, nothing made sense. And the headmaster was right to isolate me. I could’ve killed them.”
Dazai folded his arms, probably in disappointment because he was still upset about the headmaster. It just made Atsushi feel worse. “There is no evidence you ever hurt anyone,” Dazai said.
Atsushi sobbed, it was no use. “I wanted to. I really did. Everyone who ever stood there to watch.” He hid his face on his hands, the words pouring out of him with no order. “Miko. Katsuko. The nurse,” he hiccuped, “and the other teachers. They left me to my luck, and I became so used to it.”
The silence of Dazai was unbearable, so he kept talking.
“The headmaster said I should learn to endure pain because I would always be alone. I don’t think I ever truly believed it until Kunikida-san said you’d resigned.”
“Atsushi, I never resigned, Kunikida wanted to try to have them release you, if the Agency pretended to break ties—”
“I know,” Atsushi said. But how could he tell Dazai that it had felt like something finally made sense in his life. He could finally stop resisting the painful words of the headmaster and accept they were true. It was a relief, it was heartbreak. “I know, but I’d thought you’d abandoned me, you and Kyouka-chan and everyone. I’d thought you’d left me alone to die there."
“Oh, that explains this,” Dazai laughed, drawing Atsushi’s attention as he pulled down the bandages on one arm to show a purple bruise, outlined with teeth marks.
Atsushi stared at him blankly. “I could’ve killed you,” he said, “and I would’ve proved the headmaster right.”
“Did you want to?” Dazai asked curiously. “To kill me?”
The answer was no. Atsushi would’ve never forgiven himself for it, he wouldn’t have been able to live with himself if he had killed Miko, or killed his attackers either. The few portions that he remembered from what he did to them sickened him; the vague taste of human flesh, the helpless screaming and begging. Doing that to his friends was unthinkable, and yet, he didn’t regret it.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I did what I did.”
Atsushi tried to breathe, worried he’d lose control of his ability again, feeling that he really didn’t know himself at all.
Dazai wrapped his arm again with the bandage, and settled it on the table, his palm open towards him. “Here. I trust you, but I know you don’t trust yourself right now.”
Atsushi took his hand, almost tender as it squeezed back.
“Why did you want to kill me, Atsushi-kun? Because you are a wild stupid beast? Or was it something else?”
The way he spoke about the tiger was wrong, and it was the first time in Atsushi's life he thought of the tiger as anything other than a fearsome beast. With his hand on Dazai’s wrist, it was easy to sense him within. Calm, the tiger swished his tale, grooming himself like a cat. Atsushi remembered being comforted and protected like something extremely precious, worth treasuring.
The tiger, who was simply another part of himself.
“Because I didn’t deserve it. I didn’t deserve to be abandoned.”
Another relief, a new pain, but this time like the first breath after being underwater too long. A wave of exhaustion washed over him and he leaned his head on the table. He let go of Dazai’s arm, knowing he had nothing to fear. As he closed his eyes, he sensed the tiger chuffing at him. Happy.
“No one does,” Dazai set his palm atop Atsushi’s head. “You’ve said it yourself many times.”
He nodded.
“And I would’ve deserved to have my arm chewed off for letting my mistakes cost your life. I count myself lucky for getting away with a little bite. I’m sorry. The wild stupid beast has my thanks, I’m glad you’re alive.”
Atsushi looked at him, the heaviness in his chest was lighter now, but not light enough to ask Dazai what he’d done to Wilde. Yet, manageable enough to tell him what he sincerely believed. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Dazai smiled at him thoughtfully. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“But would you mind telling that to Kunikida?” he whined theatrically. “He wants to microchip me, Atsushi-kun.”
“I think he should,” he said, enjoying the small lapse of normalcy between them. “I’ll see what I can do, if you do something else for me.”
Dazai’s eyes twinkled with interest.
“Can you burn that painting?”
Dazai grinned, Atsushi had meant it figuratively, but it was too late. “Arson, Ango is gonna love it! I can’t wait.”
Atsushi groaned, kicking himself for starting Dazai on a monologue about suicide by fire. He listened for as long as he could, but it was hard to stay awake with Dazai’s hand on his hair, knowing what it truly was. Not control or judgment, but affection. Atsushi drifted to sleep, accepting he was no longer alone.