Chapter Text
The restaurant is on the thirtieth floor of a tower in the middle of Tokyo. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch along every wall, showing the city from above — neon lights, crowded streets, and glowing signs.
Red lanterns hang low over dark tables. Bonsai trees sit along the sides, shaped and trimmed too perfectly for Chuuya’s taste. Too angular.
Just like Chuuya himself, every guest is dressed in tailored suits or dresses, the air filled with murmured conversations and the clinking of glasses.
Chuuya walks over to the third table from the left, to a middle-aged man with graying hair and a thin smile that appears as soon as he sees him approach. Like most of the people here, the man is an important person.
Shigemori Takeda.
A politician. One of the leading heads of the conservative National Unity Party.
A party that, if Chuuya were allowed to vote, he’d never vote for. But in his line of work, it’s rare that he likes his clients.
Without a bow or a nod, Chuuya sits down on the chair across from the politician, looking him up and down.
On the surface, Shigemori looks calm, professional — his smile the same polished one he shows the press, his face showing fewer wrinkles than it should at his age, and his golden cufflinks matching perfectly with his wedding ring and watch.
But his eyes tell a different story. As they should.
If he weren’t at least a little bit afraid of Chuuya, he wouldn’t just be an awful and bigoted person — he’d be stupid, too.
Chuuya leans back slightly, hat dipping lower over his eyes that never leave the man across him.
“Mr. Shigemori... what an honor meeting you.”
The man swallows visibly before giving a small bow of his head.
“Arahabaki, I guess?”
Chuuya raises an eyebrow.
“No, he wasn’t free, so he sent me instead. I’m actually a boy band member here to ask you to support my new shampoo advertisement gig.”
Shigemori opens his mouth, then closes it again, obviously unsure what Chuuya is playing at. Chuuya uses the silence to wave a waiter over and order a wine — the most expensive one on the menu. After all, he’s not planning to pay.
When the wine comes and Shigemori still hasn’t spoken, Chuuya rolls his eyes, clicking his tongue in disappointment.
“Clearly I’m Arahabaki. Or are you waiting on another man to get rid of whatever problem you have?”
Shigemori blinks. Once. Twice. Then he seems to get his head back on straight.
“Right,” he mumbles. “I just — I thought you’d be taller.”
The man is lucky Chuuya is having a good day. Who tries to hire a hitman — the best in Japan, not that Chuuya would brag — and insults him first thing? He thought politicians were supposed to be sneaky.
Shigemori seems to realize his mistake, too, as a blush creeps onto his face.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Just tell me what you want, and I’ll tell you the price. Small talk doesn’t seem to be your strong suit.”
A beat passes before Shigemori recovers enough to give a curt nod.
“Right.”
Then he pulls a file from his jacket, looking around far too obviously for a man who’s evaded that much tax. His hands tremble slightly as he hands it over.
Chuuya flips the file open, and his eyes widen — just slightly — at the photo inside.
It shows a young man. He’s thin, just a few pounds away from underweight, but he’s no less attractive for it — with artfully tousled hair, dark eyes and delicate features. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his coat as he walks through a crowded street.
Chuuya knows the man. But then again, so does everyone else in the country.
Dazai Osamu. Japan’s golden boy.
A smirk curls at Chuuya’s lips as he closes the file again.
“Well,” he says slowly, “that’s really gonna cost you.”
//
Tokyo Morning Dispatch
March 14th
”The Young Face of Reform: Who is Dazai Osamu?”
By Reiko Yamada, Staff Reporter
At just 24 years old, Dazai Osamu has already become a name to watch in Japan’s evolving political landscape. With a background in international law, a reputation for sharp negotiation, and a charisma that’s captivated both his peers and the press, Dazai is quickly emerging as a symbol of the country’s political future — young, strategic, and unafraid of change.
Representing the progressive Next Generation Party, Dazai gained national attention last year after a televised debate in which he calmly dismantled three senior lawmakers from opposing parties. His proposals — focused on diplomatic conflict resolution, education reform, and economic transparency — have earned him both praise and scrutiny in equal measure.
"He's not just here to talk," says political analyst Hideo Kanda. "He’s here to shift the game."
Born in Yokohama and educated in Europe, Dazai returned to Japan at 21 and has since moved with astonishing speed through the political ranks. Though critics call him “too young” or “too theatrical,” others argue that his confidence and unorthodox methods are exactly what the country needs.
"Dazai Osamu is a disruptor," Kanda adds. "And that makes him dangerous — to the old guard, at least."
//
Dazai looks down from the balcony. He’s on the fifth floor.
The garden stretching beneath him is beautiful — all marble statues and hedge labyrinths. Not really his taste, but he respects it more than the man who owns it.
If Dazai had even a shred of religion in him, he might think Fyodor Dostoyevsky was an actual demon.
But he doesn’t.
So he knows Fyodor is just a pathetic little man with a god complex and too much money — someone who should never be allowed to host a political fundraising gala with this many influential figures under one roof, as he does tonight.
No billionaire should have access to — let alone influence over — this many politicians.
And worse than Fyodor’s despicable character is the little obsession he seems to have with Dazai — which Dazai hadn’t even known about until tonight.
The man had invited him to his mansion before the actual gala began — to talk about the wealth tax Dazai has been trying to push through for over a year now. Dazai hadn’t wanted to come. But Kunikida had insisted, arguing that having a real billionaire — one who’d actually be affected by the law — in their corner might finally be what shifts public opinion.
Unfortunately, Ranpo and Yosano had agreed.
Dazai wishes he’d listened to his instincts that told him Fyodor would never be interested in supporting them.
Instead, Fyodor had wanted to talk about Dazai — not his politics, but his life. Somehow, he’s under the impression they’re the same.
Dazai really hopes there isn’t a speck of truth in that.
Otherwise, he might as well jump off this balcony. Fifth floor sounds like a pretty certain end.
It had taken almost an hour for Fyodor to figure out that Dazai wasn’t buyable. Neither his political views — nor the rest of him.
Luckily, before Dazai gave in to the urge to gouge out either his own or Fyodor’s eyes with one of the man’s solid gold teaspoons, Fyodor had been called away for some emergency at one of his companies.
Dazai had taken that chance to flee onto the balcony. If he’s found, he’ll just say he had to take an important call.
He kind of wishes he actually had to take an important call — anything would be better than a night of socializing with some of the worst people in Japan.
Sighing, he leans on the railing. It’s beautiful — white stone with filigree ridges. In the center sits a delicate ashtray made of cut glass, glittering in the evening sun.
If only Yosano hadn’t made him stop smoking. A cigarette would really help right now.
His eyes drift down to the garden again. The grass looks soft — a nice place to discover his corpse. Especially if his intestines poisoned the roots of Fyodor’s overpriced orchids.
A voice behind him snaps him out of his thoughts.
“So, are you going to jump or not?”
A grin spreads across Dazai’s face as he turns to find an unimpressed twenty-year-old standing behind him with crossed arms.
“How could I not, Ryuu-chan! I’d look just like Snow White — lying in nature, drifting into my endless sleep~!”
Akutagawa raises an eyebrow, lips refusing to even twitch. Rude.
“That was Sleeping Beauty, not Snow White. And you’d look like a splatter of guts and blood. Not like a princess.”
Dazai pouts.
“So mean!”
Akutagawa rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, yeah, and you’re incredibly annoying. Especially when you don’t listen to us. What did Atsushi and I say about not standing in places as easily accessible as balconies? How are we supposed to protect you if you won’t cooperate?”
Over the past few months, Dazai’s received a handful of death threats — in his opinion, no more than usual for a politician — but it’s made his two young bodyguards go from overprotective to outright paranoid.
Dazai finds it as bothersome as it is endearing, so he offers only a token protest when Akutagawa grabs his arm to tug him inside.
“No, no, no,” he whines. “I’m not going back in! If I have to hear one more word out of Fyodor’s mouth, I really will kill myself. And wouldn’t that be just as bad for your record as me getting shot?”
Akutagawa’s eyes narrow at the mention of the billionaire.
He and Atsushi had been guarding the door during his meeting with Fyodor. Dazai’s sure they were eavesdropping.
“It’s just tonight. We’ll make sure you don’t have to deal with him again,” Akutagawa mutters. “Besides, the other guests are arriving. He’ll be busy. Probably.”
Dazai grimaces at the not-so-comforting words before checking his watch. True to Akutagawa’s word, it’s time for the gala to begin — the start of an evening filled with hypocrisy and pretending to care about what the other side says.
Fun.
Still, he nods, casting one last wistful glance at the ground below before summoning his best politician smile.
“Then let’s go, Ryuu-chan~! Lead me into my misery!”
Akutagawa rolls his eyes again.
//
Chuuya doesn’t like suits.
They’re itchy, stiff, and completely impractical for movement. He’s never understood why hitmen in movies insist on wearing them — especially with a stuffy black coat.
Still, he’s wearing one tonight. Not even a nice one, but a waiter’s tuxedo — trousers a bit too long, jacket a bit too tight.
But being a waiter is the perfect cover. No one notices a waiter. Not at a gala like the one Fyodor Dostoyevsky is hosting — where everyone’s too busy flaunting their wealth, boasting their success, and chasing the next connection.
Normally, Chuuya doesn’t bother getting this close to his targets. But Dazai Osamu is a special case. The man is surrounded — always — by bodyguards, advisors, or cameras. Shooting him from a distance? Practically impossible. Chuuya’s been watching for over two weeks now. He’d know.
Two weeks that made him start to wonder if killing the man is even necessary — or if his body will just give up on him sometime soon.
Because Dazai has the worst self-care of any target Chuuya’s ever had.
No sleep. No breaks. Not even a hint of work-life balance. Every lifestyle guru in existence would pass out just looking at his schedule...
A ripple of polite laughter snaps Chuuya back to attention. One of the gala guests had just made a joke — probably a bad one, judging by the forced smiles.
Time to focus.
He lets his gaze drift across the crowd, over the glittering ballroom and golden chandeliers. He’s not sure whether the furniture or the guests’ plastic surgeries cost more. Either way, both are tasteless.
Then someone taps his shoulder. Chuuya turns — and comes face to face with Dazai Osamu.
Who is even prettier in person — and looks even more worn out.
“Hello,” Dazai smiles. “Could I get one of those?”
He points at the tray of champagne flutes in Chuuya’s hands. He’s the first guest to ask instead of just taking one.
“Sure,” Chuuya replies, holding the tray out.
“Thank God. I don’t think I can survive another minute of this night without getting drunk,” Dazai mutters, before downing the champagne in one go.
Then he glances around, wary. Chuuya notices that the man’s usual shadows are missing. This would be the perfect moment for an attempt, if Chuuya had brought poison or a knife.
But he only has a gun — and a silencer.
“I think I lost him,” Dazai sighs with relief, already reaching for a second glass.
Chuuya blinks. Lost who?
“Who?”
“Fyodor,” Dazai groans. “I sent ‘Sushi and Ryuu off to have some fun — well, I might’ve forced them, actually. But young people deserve a little freedom, right? Anyway, now I don’t have anyone to hide behind.”
He pauses, head tilted as he gives Chuuya a considering look.
“Actually… are you free right now?”
“Uhm. What?”
Dazai hums, frowning slightly. “Though… you might be a bit too short. Don’t take it personally.”
Chuuya absolutely takes it personally.
“It’s just— if I have to suffer through one more flirting attempt or hear about someone’s latest crypto scheme or startup, I might have to ascend to another dimension.”
I can help you with that, Chuuya thinks dryly.
“Flirting attempt?” he asks aloud.
Dazai downs the last champagne flute from the tray and shudders. “Don’t even ask.”
“Right...” Chuuya says slowly.
Then Dazai’s eyes widen, staring at something just past Chuuya’s shoulder.
“I have to go. Right now,” he says. “Thanks for the drink.”
Chuuya turns his head just in time to spot tonight’s host scanning the crowd like he’s looking for someone. Fyodor’s some asshole with too much money and way too much free time if Chuuya remembers correctly.
He hates him on principle.
When he turns back, Dazai is already gone. Chuuya curses under his breath.
It takes half an hour, some shoving, and more than a few complaints about him walking around with an empty tray before Chuuya finally manages to slip up one of the closed-off granite staircases to the empty second floor. From here, an open landing with silver railings gives him a perfect view of the ballroom below — and everyone in it.
From up here, without having to hear their snobby conversations, Chuuya can at least admit that some of the dresses and suits are objectively beautiful. Still, the sooner he can get away from this crowd and back to the calming solitude of his apartment — broken only by his dog — the better.
He spots Dazai on the far left side of the room, another drink in hand. This time it looks more like whiskey than champagne. The evening must not be going well if he’s switched to hard liquor.
There’s a crowd around him, hanging on every word he says. Fyodor stands beside him, a little closer than socially acceptable.
Dazai is smiling, gesturing animatedly — but there’s no real candor in his movements. He looks miserable.
Chuuya hums under his breath, pulling out his gun and screwing the silencer onto the barrel with practiced ease.
Normally, he likes it when his targets get one last good moment — a brief second of happiness before the end. But well, you can’t have everything.
At least Dazai wouldn’t have to stay here any longer.
He raises the gun slowly, lining up the shot. One breath in, one out — the world narrowing to just the man below. Chuuya aims for the heart. No need to ruin that pretty face.
But just as he’s about to pull the trigger, Dazai laughs — not the polite kind reserved for awful party jokes, but a full, genuine laugh at something whispered into his ear by one of his bodyguards. They must have rejoined him at some point during the evening. Dazai turns to the boy, ruffles his white hair, and Chuuya’s hand trembles.
And for the first time in his career, he misses the shot.
The muted crack of the silenced bullet is barely audible over the music, but it echoes in Chuuya’s head. The round embeds itself in the wall behind Dazai — who spins around, shocked, just before his bodyguard tackles him to the ground.
Chuuya grits his teeth in his frustration. He knows he won’t get a second chance tonight.
Fuck.
//
The Urban Standard
April 4th
“He Gave Me a Future”: A Bodyguard’s Story
By Aiko Tanaka, Senior Features Reporter
When you picture a bodyguard, you might imagine someone older. Broader. Less polite.
But Nakajima Atsushi, 20, is none of those things — and yet, he’s the one protecting Japan’s most polarizing young politician. Two nights ago, there was an attempt on Dazai Osamu’s life, and headlines quickly credited Nakajima for saving him. Calling him a hero.
Still, when I meet him the next morning, sitting stiffly in the back corner of a quiet café, it’s not his heroic feat he talks about.
It’s Dazai.
“I was sixteen,” he says. “And I thought I’d already messed up my life. I didn’t really have anything. Anyone.”
His voice is quiet. Careful.
“I didn’t know who Dazai was — not really. I just knew he was... important. But when he found me, he didn’t act like I was worthless. Instead, he gave me a job.”
There’s no dramatics to the way Nakajima says it. No self-pity. Just fact.
When asked if he ever imagined working in politics, he laughs softly. “I didn’t think I’d end up living at all.”
Dazai, he explains, didn’t just hire him.
“He took me in. Gave me a home. Paid for my schooling, even though I told him I didn’t need it.” Nakajima pauses, then adds, “Sometimes I think he sees something in me that I still don’t.”
He also mentions Akutagawa, his fellow bodyguard — and the other person Dazai brought in around the same time.
“We’re very different,” Nakajima admits. “But... we’re a good team. We work well together.” He chuckles. “I don’t think either of us could handle Dazai alone.”
About the shooting, he shrugs. “Honestly, I didn’t even really save him. The bullet missed.” He hesitates, then adds, “But I would’ve taken it if it hadn’t.”
The relationship between Dazai and his bodyguards seems to blur the line between colleagues and family — at times, it’s unclear who’s protecting whom.
When asked for comment, Dazai responded via text with: “Ah yes, my cult of emotionally repressed orphans. I’m very proud.”
Whether he’s joking is — as usual — unclear.
//
Chuuya sits on his couch, a glass of wine in his hand — not a good one. He hasn’t earned that. Good wine is for a job well done.
Which tonight’s most certainly wasn’t.
He has no idea what came over him. In all his twenty-five years of living, he’s never had the problem of developing a sudden conscience — and for good reason. He’s never had a life where that would fit.
He takes a sip of wine and grimaces. Maybe gas station wine is taking the self-torture a bit too far.
With a groan, he leans forward, burying his face in the fur of the dog curled up on his lap.
“Boba,” he whines.
The Pomeranian looks up to him and barks, his tail wagging happily.
Chuuya pouts. “No, don’t be happy. You’re supposed to be disappointed. Your owner was really stupid tonight.”
Boba barks again.
Chuuya sighs and pets him.
“You’re right. It’s just one mistake. I can easily fix this, huh?”
Though this failure will definitely damage his good reputation — or his bad one.
Softly, Chuuya runs his hand through Boba’s fur, scratching behind his ears.
“It’s just... you know, not killing someone because they have a nice smile? What the fuck is wrong with me?”
Bark.
//
Chuuya hates hospitals.
Well, most people do — but he reserves a special kind of hatred for them. Because for him being admitted into a hospital would mean going to prison.
Which he has absolutely no interest in.
Still, today, entering one hasn’t been avoidable.
Because Dazai Osamu, Chuuya’s increasingly annoying target, has decided to spend his afternoon playing pediatric hero at a children’s hospital in Shinjuku.
He’s here to promote some new health initiative his party proposed — expanded funding for underfunded public hospitals, free screenings, better working conditions for nurses. Reformist fluff. The kind Chuuya normally couldn’t care less about.
But a hospital is a public place, and you can’t bring too much security with you without it being weird — so it’s a perfect place for Chuuya to try again at killing Dazai.
The only problems are the cameras — the whole thing clearly doubles as a publicity stunt — and the kids, who swarm Dazai with weird adoration, like he’s a teen idol instead of a politician.
Chuuya doesn’t think he even knew any politician’s name as a child – never mind liking them.
“Isn’t he dreamy?” a nurse standing beside Chuuya sighs.
For a second, Chuuya’s confused why she’s talking to him — before he remembers the scrubs he’s wearing. The woman thinks they’re colleagues.
Nurse isn’t as good a cover as waiter — mostly because he has zero medical knowledge, and one wrong conversation could blow it — but at least he doesn’t have to wear a tuxedo. And blue really is his color.
“I don’t think some publicity stunt is all that impressive,” he grunts.
The nurse gives him a confused look.
“Publicity stunt?”
Chuuya raises an eyebrow. He’s not a fan of naivety. In his eyes, that’s just another word for stupidity — at least if you’re over ten.
“Yeah, obviously. What do you think this is?”
The nurse frowns, confused, then her eyes light up in realization.
“Ah, you’re new, right?”
“Yeah…?” Chuuya says slowly, unsure what his (fake) new guy status has to do with anything.
“He’s not here for publicity,” she explains, then pauses. “Well — not just for that. Our boss, Yosano? She’s one of his closest advisors. He drops by every few weeks to have lunch with her. He always visits the kids.”
Chuuya blinks.
That hadn’t come up in his research.
He knew about Yosano Akiko, obviously. Everyone who’s looked into the Next Generation Party does. But since he started tracking Dazai, this hospital hadn’t come up.
“Oh.”
The nurse hums, still watching Dazai.
“Do you think he’d like some coffee?”
Chuuya briefly considers explaining that giving hot drinks to a man currently buried in toddlers is a horrible idea, but he holds his tongue. It fits his plan.
“Sure,” he says. “You should totally get him some coffee.”
The woman nods, determined. “Right. I’ll get right on it.”
Chuuya watches her march off like a woman on a mission and rolls his eyes. Then he leans against the doorframe behind him, considering the scene in front of him.
Dazai is sitting on a stretcher, rolled out onto the floor for him, saying something Chuuya can’t hear — first to the children, then to the camera. One kid is clinging to his hand. Another hands him a picture.
When the man laughs, he doesn’t look half as miserable as he did at the gala.
It’s frankly an adorable scene.
“It’s disgusting, isn’t it?” a new voice says.
Chuuya turns. There’s a doctor standing beside him, disdain written all over his face.
“What?”
“This,” the man replies, gesturing toward Dazai and the kids. “It’s a woman’s job. Not normal for men to handle children. That’s for the softer gender. The weaker one, you know?”
Chuuya blinks. He thinks of Kouyou — his colleague, his maybe-friend, and the only person in the world he actually respects. She would eat that guy for breakfast.
“Uh-huh,” he says flatly, already missing the infatuated nurse.
Fortunately, the answer is enough to satisfy the man. Unfortunately, he doesn’t walk away. Just keeps standing beside Chuuya.
Doesn’t anyone in this hospital have to work?
Then the woman from before returns, coffee in one hand, milk in the other. She looks nervous.
“Should I just give it to him?” she asks, wide-eyed.
If Chuuya were a good (and real) colleague, he’d tell her not to walk into the camera line. But he isn’t.
So instead, he nods and steps slightly closer — just enough to look like he’s letting her through. In reality, he drops a capsule into the coffee.
Ricin. A slow but lethal poison, hard to trace and easy to overlook. Just a few subtle symptoms before it kills. It’s the perfect setup.
By the time it takes effect, Chuuya will be long gone — and if someone manages to trace it back to the hospital coffee, well... someone else handed it to Dazai.
As clearly seen on camera.
//
Dazai is tired, and everything is just a bit too loud.
He hopes the shadows under his eyes won’t be too visible on camera — Yosano would kill him.
“And then I accidentally flushed my goldfish down the toilet!” Tani — a ten-year-old with a chronic heart condition — finishes his story, grinning almost proudly.
“Well, that’s… something,” Dazai chuckles.
“Does that mean the fish died?” Piko, Tani’s younger roommate, asks, lip wobbling slightly.
Tani opens his mouth again, but Dazai cuts in before he can really make Piko cry. It happens often — not maliciously, but the two boys are just very different.
“Oh, no, don’t worry,” Dazai says quickly. “I’m sure it’s not dead! It probably met the Ninja Turtles and now they fight crime together!”
It’s a lie. The fish is definitely dead. But there are moments where lying is the right thing to do. No matter what Kunikida says.
“Really?” Tani asks, eyes wide.
“Really,” Dazai repeats, ruffling the boy’s hair. He reminds him of Atsushi.
“Do you think fish ever get bored of swimming?” Yuki asks, tugging at Dazai’s sleeve — he hasn’t given her attention in nearly three minutes.
She’s only seven and has been in the hospital as long as Dazai can remember visiting.
He blinks, putting a thoughtful hand to his chin: “Hm… I don’t know, Yuki. Do you ever get bored of walking?”
Yuki frowns. Then nods. “Yes.”
Dazai laughs. “Me too.”
Then he lifts his head, spotting a nurse approaching from behind the girl. She looks a bit older than Dazai himself, and is holding a cup of coffee. She flushes bright red when she realizes he’s looking at her.
“Can I help you?” he asks, smiling.
He knows the nurse — he’s met her before during previous visits — but for the life of him, he can’t remember her name.
“Ah, no,” she says, blushing harder. “I mean yes! I mean, do you want some coffee?”
And honestly, coffee sounds like heaven right now. Though maybe not while surrounded by a group of wriggling children.
Dazai waves to the camera crew. “Let’s finish for today, yeah?”
He gets a few nods and some thumbs up. They’ve been filming for over an hour now and already have more than enough footage, even though half of it will need to be deleted — like the bit about killing pet fish, or when one kid started picking his nose.
Then Dazai stands up from the stretcher, smiling at the kids. “I’ll be back in a moment, okay?”
There are a few pouts, but most of the children are already crowding around the camera crew, trying to get a peek at the footage.
“You are a gift sent from the heavens,” Dazai tells the nurse solemnly as he takes the coffee.
Her eyes go wide, and she starts stammering something completely unintelligible. Dazai tilts his head, halfway to asking if she’s all right — when another voice interrupts.
“Do you really believe that stuff you’re saying?”
Dazai turns. There’s a doctor standing nearby — vaguely familiar — and beside him, another nurse. Short. Red-haired. Dazai has definitely seen him before, though he doesn’t think it was here at the hospital...
“Excuse me?” he asks.
The doctor shrugs, nodding toward the nurse.
“Well, she’s terrible at inserting IVs, her coffee’s barely drinkable, and now she seems to have trouble forming a sentence. You really think closing the gender pay gap is the solution?”
He makes air quotes as he says gender pay gap, like it’s a myth or a joke. The poor nurse beside Dazai flushes an even deeper red.
Dazai blinks. How did this asshole make it through a job interview with Yosano?
“Thank you so much for your opinion. I really appreciate it,” Dazai says sweetly, narrowing his eyes as he steps closer to the doctor.
He’s delighted to realize he’s at least an inch taller.
“Nevertheless,” he continues, “I’d appreciate it even more if you never shared your opinion again.”
Then he smiles brightly.
“And so would probably your dick — because if your boss ever hears you talk to one of her employees like that, she’s going to cut it off.”
The doctor stares, aghast. So do both nurses.
“You can’t just say—”
“Oh, but I can,” Dazai interrupts, waving a hand. “Now off you go. I prefer to spend my breaks with people who don’t make me want to strangle them or myself — non-kinkily, that is.”
He winks at the slack faced doctor before making another shooing motion. Then he turns back to his coffee, which still hasn’t gotten the attention it deserves.
Just as he lifts it to his lips, someone tugs at his shirt. He looks down. Yuki.
Sighing Dazai puts the cup down. The girl deserves his attention even more than the coffee. Especially if that asshole works on her floor.
Dazai really needs to tell Yosano to fire that guy.
“Are you coming to dinner later?” Yuki asks.
She’s pouting exaggeratedly, giving him enormous puppy-dog eyes. Dazai grins at the theatrics and ruffles her hair.
“You don’t have to play it up like that. As if I’d miss your birthday dinner.”
In a flash, her expression shifts into smug satisfaction. She nods once, firmly.
“Good,” she declares, and walks off.
Dazai shakes his head, laughing softly. Then finally turns back to the cup in his hand.
Only to have someone stumble into him.
Dazai catches the person — just in time — but the coffee cup hits the ground and shatters. A true tragedy. He’d mourn its loss more… if he weren’t staring at the man in his arms.
It’s the red haired nurse who’s not only unfairly beautiful, but now close up Dazai also remembers where he’s seen him before.
“Aren’t you that waiter from—”
“Nope,” the man interrupts quickly, and shoves Dazai back.
Dazai stumbles and nearly slips on the spilled coffee.
“Watch it,” the nurse snaps, grabbing Dazai’s arm to steady him — like he hadn’t just walked into him.
They hold eye contact for a moment. Idly, Dazai wonders if that fluffy red hair is as soft as it looks.
Then the man huffs, muttering, “My shift’s over,” before turning on his heel and stomping off.
Dazai stares after him.
As far as he knows, the afternoon shift just started.
//
“Don’t give me that look!” Chuuya snaps at Boba, who only tilts his head at the outburst.
Once again, they’re on the couch in Chuuya’s living room — Chuuya drunk, Boba excited… and definitely judgmental. It’s written all over those big, dopey, trusting eyes.
“He would’ve died during a chronically ill kid’s birthday dinner! Even I’m not that evil.”
Chuuya downs the rest of his wine. Tonight it’s not the cheap kind — he’d learned his lesson last time, after the hangover tried to kill him harder than he’d ever killed anyone.
“I’ll just have to try again,” he mutters, lifting the wine bottle only to find it empty. He sighs. “I mean, three’s the magic number, right?”
Boba licks his face enthusiastically.
//
Kensei Journal
Mai 18th
“Doctor, Destroyer, Reformer”
By Kisaragi Mio, Political Features
Yosano Akiko has made grown men cry in Parliament without raising her voice. Once a trauma surgeon, now the razor-sharp policy architect behind the Next Generation Party, Yosano is redefining what power looks like in a lab coat.
She’s not interested in applause — she’s interested in structural change. And she’s very, very good at it.
“She can recite three decades of malpractice data like it’s a bedtime story,” says Dazai Osamu, her most high-profile ally. “Also, she terrifies me.”
Yosano drafted the first national bill to cap nurse overtime and designed the framework for the gender pay equity audit that passed last year — both accomplished without a single press conference.
“She’s terrifying,” says a Next Gen staffer. “But she’s also always right.”
Not everyone is a fan. Her blunt takes and refusal to soften her voice for media optics have drawn their share of criticism. When I ask if any of it keeps her up at night, she only shrugs.
“I sleep just fine,” she says. “The real question is: why aren’t the rest of you panicking more?”
//
Dazai likes his job.
Mostly.
At least sometimes.
Or maybe liking is saying too much.
It’s more that Dazai likes feeling as if he’s making a difference. Maybe even actually making one.
But what Dazai likes even more are evenings like tonight — at home, surrounded by the only people he voluntarily spends time with. And who, miraculously, can stand spending time with him for longer than half an hour without wanting to strangle him.
The kitchen table is cluttered — takeout boxes, half-filled glasses, a printout someone spilled soy sauce on. Atsushi and Akutagawa are arguing over spring rolls while Kunikida tries to meditate.
Beside Dazai sit Yosano and Ranpo — his two oldest friends, who, along with him, founded the Next Generation Party.
They had met at university. Yosano was studying medicine, Ranpo criminology, Dazai law — all of them a bit too clever for their own good, and all sharing the same unfortunate preference for alcohol and weed.
It had started with Yosano — too stoned to even remember her own name — giving an impromptu lecture on feminism.
And somehow, it had led here: to Dazai being the figurehead of Japan’s second-largest political party.
“Can I have your tiramisu?” Ranpo asks, nodding at Dazai’s plate.
Dazai shrugs and slides it over. He’s never been big on sweets — the whiskey in his hand is far more appealing.
Technically, it’s a work night. But they have a rule: no unpleasant topics until after dinner. Mostly because of Dazai and his habit of forgetting pesky things like food.
So they eat first. Ranpo finishes the tiramisu in record time. Atsushi steals the last spring roll from Akutagawa.
Before Yosano, with a sigh, pushes the now-empty takeout boxes aside, revealing the soy-sauce-stained printouts in the center of the table.
“Ranpo and I got an anonymous tip yesterday,” Yosano begins, “about the situation between Serakei and Kharuna.”
The room shifts at once. The loose, easy atmosphere straightens like a pulled wire. Even Akutagawa stops threatening Atsushi with his chopsticks.
Serakei and Kharuna — two smaller nations with, at best, unstable and, at worst, openly corrupt governments.
Their conflict has been teetering on the edge of war for months.
Not exactly surprising. Tensions between the neighboring countries have simmered for years — but the recent escalation was sharp. Sudden. With no clear trigger.
“As we suspected, there may be external influences at work,” Ranpo adds, licking the last of the tiramisu from his spoon as Yosano begins passing out documents — the kind they probably shouldn’t have.
Dazai’s hands tighten around the pages as his eyes flicker over them, widening with every line.
“Can we back this with proof?” he asks, gaze darting between Yosano and Ranpo. If this is real, they might actually be able to prevent a war…
Ranpo shakes his head.
“No.”
He turns to Kunikida. “We might need Taguchi. You think he’ll help?”
Kunikida doesn’t look up from the page he’s reading — just nods, slow and deliberate. “If there’s even a grain of truth to this,” he says, “I’ll make him help.”
Dazai frowns. “But this is big. Even if Taguchi digs something up, it might not be enough…”
“No,” Ranpo agrees. “We might have to poke the topic — and the people involved — where it hurts. To get something with more substance.”
“You mean bluffing?” Dazai says, raising an eyebrow. “Bluffing with two countries on the brink of war and some of the most powerful men in the country involved?”
He sets the documents aside, a sharp grin tugging at his lips.
“That sounds like the stupidest thing we’ve ever done.”
He lifts his glass.
“Count me in.”
//
Half an hour later, Dazai stands outside on the balcony, a cigarette trembling between his fingers — one Yosano reluctantly allowed him.
He’s not sure if it’s fear or anticipation making his hands shake. Maybe both. All he knows is he hasn’t felt this alive in years — and the plans they made haven’t even started yet.
He chuckles under his breath and exhales, smoke curling into the thick Tokyo night.
Then —
A prickling at the back of his neck — the sharp, specific kind of sensation that only ever comes with being watched.
He turns to the skyscraper to the left of him and catches a glimmer — something reflecting moonlight.
Just for a second.
Or maybe he’s imagining it.
Dazai narrows his gaze, squinting into the dark. Slowly he takes another drag.
But whatever he might have seen is gone.
And then someone barrels into his back.
“Dazaiiii,” Atsushi exclaims, slurring slightly, definitely having had one glass too many. “What did we say about standing in open places?”
His voice is whiny and annoyed — so different from the timid boy Dazai found four years ago, the one who’d been too scared to speak.
Dazai laughs and turns to face his pout.
“Sorry, sorry, but Yosano allowed me a cigarette. I had to take the chance.”
“Then smoke inside,” Atsushi demands, sagging against him.
Dazai raises an eyebrow. “Smoking inside is disgusting. And you’d all wake up with headaches.”
Though, from how Atsushi is clinging to him — and how much he smells like sake — Dazai figures that headache is coming either way.
Atsushi hums, blinking up at him with wide, glassy eyes.
“I’d rather have a headache for the rest of my life than have you be dead.”
Dazai stares down at him.
His arm tightens slightly around the boy as Atsushi’s weight leans heavier.
He swallows.
“…Oh.”
//
Across the street, Chuuya lowers his gun.
He’s too far away to hear what the two men on the balcony are saying — but it doesn’t matter.
What matters is finally admitting to himself that he’s not going to kill Dazai Osamu.
Coming here had been a mistake anyway. Chuuya doesn’t kill people in their homes — it’s one of his rules. A weird one, according to Kouyou, who always rolls her eyes when he mentions it. After all, honor isn’t exactly part of their job description.
Still. Killing someone in their home feels wrong. It’s their safe space. And more often than not, it means their family is the one to find the body.
But Chuuya had been frustrated. And Dazai has a stupidly easy-to-access apartment.
So he watched.
Watched as Dazai had dinner with his closest advisors and bodyguards.
Watched as it became more and more obvious that they weren’t just coworkers. They were family. And with every passing minute, Chuuya’s resolve weakened.
And then — finally — the perfect opportunity. The man alone, out in the open, no cover, no way to miss.
And then that stupid kid — Nakajima, the bodyguard — had to come out.
Clearly intoxicated and very clingy.
And Chuuya just… couldn’t take the shot.
Boba Fett would never let him live this down.
And Kouyou?
She’ll never take him seriously again.