cover art

pages 1-5

On my porch, there was a young man lying down, covered in blood.

I look down at the dead body, then look in front of my home.

It’s a quiet morning. The apartment across cast a dark, long shadow on the paved road below. From the hedge grew Campsis grandiflora, the wind shakes them lightly, and whispers words that humans could never understand. Somewhere far, you could hear the long-haul trucks scraping against the road.

And at the bottom of my vision, on the stairs, was a dead body.

A dead body.

In any case, it is an exaggeration of existence that makes it seem strange and wonderful. But this time was different. The corpse blended into the background, like it was a normal part of a stable morning.

After a bit, I realized the reason for it. The chest of the corpse was slowly heaving up and down.

It isn’t a corpse. It’s alive.

I observed the man. He was covered in black. In addition to the thick black hair he had, he wore a high-collar jacket in black, a black three piece, and a black necktie. The only things that weren't black were his shirt and the bandages that wrapped around his head. Though it was red and white. The colors made me think about how it would be considered an unlucky fortune in China.

The man collapsed on the last step of the porch. Beneath the cracking steps, there is a trail of blood that goes on and on.

The problem. The near-corpse right beneath me--what should I do about it?

Easy. If I grab his foot and push with my body weight, he would roll to the ground, just like that. Then his body would belong on the public streets, not my house. It will become government property. All who are in need of help on the government’s land should receive care from the government. A normal mailman like me should go home and eat breakfast.

I am a cold and merciless person, therefore, I have no need to do anything. It is essential for survival. The wounds on the man are clearly gun wounds. It seemed like he was covered in injuries from head to toe. There may be more on his body than the eye can see here. And then lastly, in his left hand, there were a bundle of banknotes clutched tightly in his hand.

What does this mean? Anything. The existence of someone like him is already an abominable matter, if I exclude the vision of interacting with him, it means nothing.

This means that he is clearly not a person that normal citizens should tie themselves with. If someone with a normal mental state even saw him, the situation would be that they would run to the neighbouring street. Just like when Jonas of the Bible was spit out by the giant fish in the storm for the second time.

I look at the young man, look at the road, look at the sky, and look at the man once more.

Then I started to move. First I went near the man and supported his weight so as to lift him up. I pulled him into my home while dragging his ankle, and laid him down on the bed next to the wall. He’s way lighter than he looks, so it was easy to bring him in by myself. I check the states of the wounds next. There are a lot of deep injuries, but the amount of blood was not a critical quantity, he should heal up just fine if treated with the right first-aid methods.

From the deep corners of my closet, I take out a first-aid-kit, and start doing some simple emergency treatment. I cover his lower half of his torso with a towel. I cut open his clothes with a pair of scissors to see the wounds, and confirm that there were no bullets left in him. I pressed a few spots to stop the bleeding--beneath the armpit, the inside of the elbow, the ankle, and behind his knee, then used a clean cloth to tie a tight knot on them respectively. After that, I used a sanitized tourniquet to stop the bleeding of his injuries. Luckily for him, I could perform these emergency treatments with my eyes closed.

More or less after the treatment was done, I looked down on the young man and crossed my arms together. His breathing was steadying out. It seemed like there were no injuries to the bones or the respiratory system. But he doesn’t look like he’s about to wake up. In my head, a voice commanded me, ‘just throw him out!’ To patch up such a suspicious person had no other word than idiotic to describe it. I should follow the command of the voice. That person is the smarter one.

Before obeying that angel’s warning, I observed the young man once again.

He doesn’t wake up. Doesn’t look like a friend either. By ‘either’, I mean, half of his face was covered in bandages, there is no way for me to identify. But still, he looks younger than I first thought. Might even qualify as a young boy.

pages 6-10

Then, I remember the banknotes he was holding so tightly. If the amount I see was correct, it would be like inheritance money for someone in a miserable state with low income like me. ‘Seeing the situation and the fact that I saved his life, it should be fine if I moved the money into my breast pocket.’I thought as I took the money from his hand.

And finally, I realize the most foolish thing in this street

The taste of bile spread in my mouth.

This was an entirely new banknote that had not been used at all. Though blood was stained everywhere on the banknote, there was a paper strap that proved as evidence that it was new. On the strap, there was no printing of the bank’s name. None.

And on the bills, there were beautiful lines of lined up numbers.

It felt like I got punched in the stomach.

There are two possibilities that I could think of. Before this bundle of bank notes unraveled into the official banks, the factory put them into a reserve bank. That would mean that this young man would be a pest. There was no chance a normal person would be able to get that into their hands. Japan Mint would first send it to the Ministry of Finance, where the bills will get scanned and have numbers printed on them so are able to be used. Then, it would be delivered by a specialized truck to a reserve bank. After, it would be distributed to different banks in the city in small portions. At that time, the paper strap would already be changed to one of the city banks’.

But his has no printing on his strap. To get a stack in this state, there is no other way than stealing from the reserve banks. If I consider the worst case scenario, the armoured car would have been bombed or attacked.

Did he attack an armoured car and plan to go home?

But, if that was true, then I should be relieved while patting my chest, and should have returned to the kitchen to boil my coffee. Though I am in the company of a armoured car robber, he is only a violent person. Violence cannot stir up a storm

There is one more possibility.

That is, that this is a stack of fake bills.

I retrieve a magnifying glass from inside my room and analyze the bundle in my hand. My fingertips tingle as they brush against the side of the notes. I compare them with a bill I found in my wallet. I couldn’t find any errors at all.

A perfect counterfeit.

My vision starts to go dizzy.

The situation has transformed into this, and the thing I hold could probably be exchanged with a small grenade.

Counterfeits were just like bows and arrows, used as weapons in war. Enemies often distributed fake currency, causing the money going in and out of the city more and eventually causing the currency to have less value, which would lead to inflation. A country can be meant as a currency in some ways. If the distrust of the currency spreads, the economy will be unstable, and the destruction of the country is possible.

That’s why the national security organization always has its eyes on fake money.

If fake bills this detailed appeared on the market, the ones that come after won’t just be the city police. It would be more advanced. National security organization, or the army.

I place the bills on my desk like I was going to throw them out. I don’t want to have any of my fingerprints on it. Then I turn towards the telephone. If I report it now, the local office might consider the circumstances and advocate for a lesser sentence to an extent. At this point, I didn’t have any more doubts.

As I lift the receiver to my ear , a hoarse voice that wasn’t from the speaker speaks up.

“Put down the receiver.”

I turn towards the direction of the voice. At some point, the young man had opened his eyes and looked over.

I look at the receiver and back at the young man. Then I said, “What if I don’t?”

“I’ll kill you.”

It was a sentence as mediocre as the leftover packs at a prepared-food store. At least, to the young man. If you looked at his eyes, then you would understand. To him, ‘I’ll kill you’ was no more than a word he says daily. Like cutting your nails or buying cigarettes.

“How?” I remove the receiver but I did not put it back onto the telephone. “Your whole body is covered in holes, and you can’t go anywhere, your whole body is on the cliff of death. And you don’t have a gun. If you wanted to kill me in that state, you would need two hundred people.”

“There is no need for that.”The young man speaks in a chilly tone. “I am part of Port Mafia.”

“Port Mafia,” I repeat while choosing my words carefully. “Then I have no choice but to follow.”

I slowly and quietly put down the receiver while buying time.

“Good.”He smiles faintly.

If he was truly Port Mafia, then I shall need to be careful of my actions in front of him. They were an acronym for darkness and violence. If you were to become the enemy of Port Mafia, even if you were to run to report it, you wouldn’t know how you would be dealt with. A human has around two hundred pieces of bone, but it isn’t rare for it to be cut into thin pieces along with the flesh.

I look at him for three seconds. Then I head towards the kitchen. The door was wide open and I could see the young man.

I start to prepare my coffee. I put the kettle on the stove and wet the rod with water. I put in coffee powder and let it boil.

“If calling the police isn’t allowed, what about a doctor?” I didn’t move my eyes from the water. “I only did some emergency treatment. If you don’t go properly see a doctor, you’ll die.”

“There’s no need for you to mind,” his tone had almost no emotion in it. “This is nothing. I’m used to getting injured.

pages 11-16

“Is that so? Then I’ll follow.” I stir the coffee and set a timer. “Which should I choose, to become an enemy of one of the monsters in the Port Mafia, an ordinary delivery man like me doesn’t even have a chance to rebel against.”

“It’s good that you’re obedient. Next--”

At that word, he coughed and spit out blood.

I quickly run over and make the young man’s throat face upwards without clogging it.

I inspect the inside of his mouth. Where the bleeding was happening, I could not identify in this situation. It may just be because he cut the inside of his mouth, or it could be that his organs are injured. I do not know.

“Go to the hospital. You’re getting treatment. You’ll really die,” I say,

“Perfect,” the young man mumbled. “Let me die like this.”

It was as if a cool breeze escaped the room.

I look at the young man. The young man looks at the wall of the room. There was no emotion, no meaning on his face, as if he had just told me his age.

I could not believe my eyes. It was impossible that there was a human there. If this was not a refreshing morning but deep into the night, I would have thought that he was a ghost or a hallucination.

Today is a terrible day. My life has probably never been so screwed up.

“Fine,” I say. “You can die if you want. It’s your life, I won’t stop you. But if you die here, it will be troubling. If you die here, it will be impossible to say that I was not the one who inflicted the injuries onto you. I will be arrested.”

“Would you rather be arrested or killed by the mafia?”

I observe the other seriously and say, “that is a difficult question.”

Then I return to the kitchen and put out the fire beneath the coffee. Then I take out a can of cream and say, “Do you want to drink coffee?”

No reply.

“Why did you faint in front of my house?”

No reply to this either.

“What was with the bundle of money that was in your hand?”

Of course, there was no response.

It was like having the spirit of the wind as a companion. A peaceful and tranquil morning, and an unexpected visit from someone in a kids’ book. But they were covered in blood, on the verge of dying.

I put two shots of coffee into my cup and pour in cream. As I watch the steam, it mixes and stirs with time. Then, I come to the realization that the person from the neighboring room disappeared. I couldn’t even hear the breathing. Not the floating air of death either.

The coffee stays in my hand while I look into the doorway.

The young man is about to head towards the genkan.

If he moved his feet he could’ve got out of the door, but it seemed that his strength had not returned yet. His wrists are on the floor, and he is crawling forward. Like the escape of a prisoner in an old war movie.

The young man notices my gaze and gives up, then a smile that seemed to be mocking me appears on his face. Then he spoke up. “You’ll be concerned if I die in this house, right? Then, if I get out of this house, you aren’t related. I don’t need your help. Neither do I need your worries. Just watch there.”

I remain my hold on the cup and say, “You want to die that bad?”

“Of course. Even after joining the Port Mafia, I didn’t have anything.” He says it like his soul was disappearing. “I have nothing more to wish for than death.”

Then he continues advancing.

I sip on my coffee as I watch. The young man’s advancement was slow and pathetic. I drink another sip of coffee. The young man continues without a break. Maybe he doesn’t want to look at me anymore.

There is one thing I ought to do.

“It’s no use even if you stop me.”Even though the young man noticed my movements, he continues to go forward. “No one can defy the Port Mafia. And no one in the Port Mafia defies me. That means no one--%&$#@!?!?”

I pick up the young man.

I wrap the young man in the bed sheet, lift him up, twist the ends closed like a candy wrapper, and then hoist him upside down and carry him.

“Ow, ow, it hurts! The wound’s going to open! What are you doing you blockhead, do you want to get killed!”

“I don’t want to get killed. But, I’ll also be troubled if you die. If you leave like that, you’ll really die. When you get better, create a death story where I’m not in it.”

The young man had a sour face, so I decide to shake the lump.

“Ah it hurts! Stop! I hate pain!”

“Then will you recosider your choices?”

“No!”

I think of a counterattack---to tie him to the bed.

I drop the young man onto the bed and unwrap the bundle. I bring over a wide towel and wrap his arms, which were in front of his chest, and his entire torso. I take off the accessory at the genkan, tie his feet together, and knot it to the fitting at the edge of the bed. I make the pillow higher, change the futon, and open the window for fresh air.

“For now, until your wounds close, you’ll be like that.” I say and look down at the young man. “Is there anything you want?”

“My nose itches.”As his bound wrists shuffle under the material, the young man looks at me with hate in his eyes.

“I feel sorry for you.” I return to the kitchen to drink my coffee.

From behind me, the young man shouted a few impolite things. But it is pretty sparse in this neighbourhood, so I have no concerns about bothering people. I was satisfied with my coffee.

Just like that, the fascinating yet short joint life between Dazai and I started.

Dazai was an incredibly weird boy.

His eyes remind me of a black cat who was burnt to death, his body reminds me of a black cat burned to death, and his aura reminds me of a black cat burnt to death. Wherever he is, he sounds like he dropped into a hellhole, and that he believes that the sun will never rise again. Not even his words, that voice sounded like he refuses to understand both sides from the beginning. No one can decipher his actions, and there won’t be a person who can in the future. He knows that himself. His voice was like that.

He really wanted to die. Even the basics to survive, in his eyes, they are just as worthless and unappealing as iron shavings. I don’t understand that either. I’m afraid I will only understand when forever somes. But on his side, it seemed like he already understands it.

That’s why he wanted to go out. To make the wounds get more painful, to get his ‘Big Sleep,’he needed to get out of my house. But I stopped his escape, and he was stopped of his attempt.

And there, Dazai put a complaint on my existence itself.

He really has too many complaints. Eat, sleep, and using other hours for entertainment. He, on one end, was constantly criticizing and disparaging my nursing care. There was nothing that escaped his criticism. Just like a tyrant king. And it would not be surprising if I was a nine year old girl crying.

But I was actually fine with it. For some reason. It was because I know that Dazai’s complaints was nothing more than a performance for his goal. It is my reason to fight. In the end, he wants to make me feel down and fed up, to tell him to just leave and release him. That’s his condition for victory. So I don’t mind whatever he says. In reality, to him, he must be amazed at how efficiently I take care of him.

Just like this.

“Hey, you! The congee is hot! I can’t eat this!”

“Hey, it’s really hot! I can’t use my hands, you know? No, look, don’t force it into my  mouth--hot! It’s hot!”

pages 17-20

“I’m eating, I’m eating! Don’t give me the next bite yet! Wai…t…don’t move…it got in my eye! Ow, it’s hot, ow!”

“Wait…can you do something about limiting my toilet trips to two times a day? Even a prisoner of the mafia gets better treatment that this…”

“Hey, I told you to do something because it boring, but reading aloud to me, is it something to do to someone my age? And it’s always the same book! Even more, the last few pages aren’t there, I don’t know the ending! Is this an interrogation? Is it a beginner’s interrogation?!”

It was a very realistic performance.

I ignore him, and continue to tend to him.

As a result of my devotion, after a few days, the young man looked dead on the inside and said roughly, “It’s not use...my words aren’t reaching him...This person, he’s an airhead...”

I didn’t really understand his words, but after that, Dazai started to follow some of my instructions.

After that, Dazai changed his direction. In exchange for following my word, he demanded more meals--especially on what foods. His goal was to make me raise my voice, but I’m the type of person who endures and is consistent. And still, to a human whose wrists are tied to a bed to prevent his escape, it takes an equal amount of amusement. I became a friendly cook.

His first request was the sashimi of puffer fish organs. It’s a rare ingredient. I went to the fish market to look for it, but the owner of the port said, “are you stupid?” And I gave up.

After that was an unglazed poison ivy. It’s a type of mushroom. I heard it was a white and beautiful mushroom. I went to look for it on a mountain, but I didn’t find any. Humans shouldn’t eat it, so I thought there would be a lot left on the mountain, but unfortunately. When I took out some stir-fried that I happened to find, Dazai looked at me with hate that could kill and said, “delicious.”

Lastly, it was salad of potato sprout. It was easy to get the the ingredients. But there wasn’t enough time to wait for it to sprout, and there wasn’t enough to make a salad, so I put them into a sandwich-making tool instead and gave it to him. Dazai, surprisingly, happily ate them, but as he threw up that night he shouted, “there wasn’t enough!”If he wanted to eat the thing that made him throw up, he must like it very much. It was like my hard work was rewarded.

Again, on another day, I received a complaint.

“Say, I came to the realization that you have no other intention than to nurse me back to health.” Dazai finally got his freedome and flapped his arms around. His legs are still tied to the bed. “It’s too boring! I can’t read or call, I can’t watch voice or video recordings, there are only a few songs that are recorded! Is there, say, something more? True entertainment?”

“None.”

“An immediate answer…Just how do you live every day...” Dazai looked at me with a scared expression.

“What about a game, then?” I sat down. “I’ve got a trump card deck from the family who lived here before me.”

“I know, it’s on the top of the shelf.” He said doubtfully. “But even to a ten year old, a trump card deck won’t become entertainment.”

“Then, how about gambling something?”I took out the cards from the box.

Dazai’s eyes, in an instant, turned as sharp as a sword. “Fun. But do you even have anything to bet? You don’t look like you have that much money.”

He’s right, I don’t have a lot of resources.

“What about this?” I took out a chess plate. Sixteen white pieces, sixteen black pieces, all lined up. “These are our chips. They will be our gambling chips. Rule is Texas Hold’em. A small blind is one chess piece. There’s no limit to how many pieces you can gamble. If you can win all of my pieces, you are free from this house.”

“Mn,” Dazai’s eyes narrowed. “Really? That’s a lot of confidence. What if you win? Do I have to give you my private property?”

“We won’t be using things that aren’t here as betting money. There’s no way for me to confirm the amount of money you have.”

“Then this stack of fake bills--”

“I do not want that.”I pushed it back into Dazai’s hand. So they were fake bills after all. “I got it. If you lose all sixteen pieces, you have to expose a secret of your own, how’s that?”

“A secret.” Dazai smiles thinly. “You thought about it well.”

That was my idea.

The problem right now, is if Dazai is released after fully recovering, there is a possibility that he might come back for revenge. And I have nothing to fight them back with. There is no wall to defeat Port Mafia’s defences. If it comes to that, I will need measures. At least something that looks like measures taken.

If I know more about he himself, his secrets, his intentions, it might help with protecting myself. Of course, even if I ask him about his secrets, I have no way of corrobaorating this. So it’s just to comfort me. If I ask how complicated the secret would be, just how deep would that comfort be?

pages 21-25

“Haha, interesting. You think you’ll be able to get secrets from out of me?” Dazai smiled distortedly. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve wanted to win someone so bad!”

“I’m glad you want to play.” I said as I distributed the cards. “Ready?”

“Anytime.”

Heads up. In front of me, I have two cards, and Dazia has two cards in front of him. I distributed the cards facing down. Before checking the number of cards, Dazai spoke up. “You look like you’re a fair person. So let me give you a tip.”

“Tip?”

“This game, though you are the host, I would become the guide.” Dazai looked at me with a deep silence in his eyes. “I’ve only confirmed that you have a trump deck on your bookshelf, and there’s nothing else to get me out of my boredom. We both have little to bet, I can see that it will eventually come to risking my freedom. If it comes to a different conclusion, I can just die. Then you will get what you wished for in this bet.”

“I see,” I stared at his expression. “So that means, there’s a chance for me to win.”

“Yes,” it was like Dazai’s grin slowly appeared from darkness. “There’s no way I would lose.”

There was not the slightest hint of bravado nor humor. He was serious.

“That’s why.” Dazai pushed out a chess piece as his first bet. “You will never be able to get a secret out of me.”

…Thirty minutes later…

“The Port Mafia emergency weapon storage room’s passcode is…7280285E…”

Dazai looked dead as he laid his head on the table.

“You really do have many secrets.” I said in an admiring tone.

“Of course I do! I’m Boss’ special operations director!”He cried out. “Ahh, what is this, almost all of my personal information’s exposed! This is humiliation…!”

The game was to 18 rounds, and I won all of them. His address, his underlings’ abilities, when he got into the mafia, total amount of money he has, trades in the mafia, his favorite food, where the secret safe was, the current boss Mori’s past as a mafia doctor…

With the 18 secrets Dazai spoke of, it was fully believable that he was an important person in the Port Mafia. Anyway, it seems like I’ve asked too much. That Mount Taishan of Yokohama a.k.a. Port Mafia’s boss’ past, there was almost no one who knew about it, probably. Much less someone who’s living after learning of it.

Dazai let out a sigh and collapsed face down on the desk. He really did have faith in himself.

“You…tricked me, didn’t you?”

Dazai looked at me with a gaze as thick as mud. “Tricked you?”

“I realized mid-game. It’s an ability. You have some ability that allows you to foresee the game. At first I was careless because I thought it wouldn’t work on me. But, if it wasn’t used on me, that creepy precognition also explains it.”

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to hide it from you.” I said as I shuffled the cards.

My ability allows me to see an incredibly near future. That time is longer than five seconds, but less than six seconds. For that, I would know every next step, every next bet, and the numbers of the next cards.

On rare occasions, there were months when I was short on money, and I’d go to a casino to get a bunch of money.

“Right, it wasn’t fair.” I admitted. “Same as you, I’ve never lost with these hands. Let’s not count this round. My goal from the beginning was to dissolve your boredom.”

“I can’t just not count it.” He protested as he looked at me. “Even if it was possible, it’s impossible. This is different from money, this is intel. Do you mean that you can completely forget everything you saw and heard?”

“There’s no other way, I’ll do my best.”

“Hah…?” Dazai looked at me tiredly. “Your jokes aren’t quite right. Whatever you do, you do it with a straight face, and I really can’t tell if it’s a joke or not.”

I tilted my head. “I didn’t specify it as a joke.”

“Alright, alright.” Dazai looked away with a sulky expression. “Ah seriously, I exposed all the organization’s secrets to you, Mori-san will scold me.”

I thought for a bit then asked. “Mori-san? Who’s that?”

Dazai made a shocked face. “You really forgot about it…?”

Just like that, a few days passed.

Dazai’s injury passed its peak, and he was quickly recovering. There was supposed to be pain with the fever’s pain, but surprisingly, Dazai was careless. I don’t understand the reason. It seemed like he didn’t have the urge to run away anymore. So I untied his ankles. But the key on the genkan was still put away.

It was a pleasant autumn evening. The fallen leaves on the street whispered memories of the time when they were high up in the trees. From somewhere, I could smell the fragrance of kinmokusei (type of plant). A fragrance that would change into past memories, and vague and beautiful memories.

By the window, I thought about my hateful past. While my coffee boils. It was a luxury way of using time.

“What are you thinking about?”

Dazai asked at his bed.

“When I quit my old job. At the time, the osmanthus were also blooming.”

“Your previous job?”

I glanced at him from the kitchen cabinet. It would take some more time for the hot water to boil. At that time, I must have been pretty crazy. It should be fine to do a little talking while the water boils.

“It wasn’t an important job,” I said as I walked towards Dazai. It was a rough job, but it provided.”

“What kind of rough?”

I didn’t answer.

For a while, the room was silent. Somewhere, you could hear a pair of parent and child’s voices.

“So you don’t want to talk about it. That’s fine,” Dazai said as if he was giving up. “When my wounds heal, I leave. We are only at that kind of relationship.”

pages 26-30

I didn’t say anything to that. In the kitchen, thin steam was coming out of the kettle.

“It is as you said. When you completely heal, you leave. Then end your live somewhere. May I make a deduction?”

“About?”

“Why you want to die.”

“Huh?”

In a certain tone, I said this. “You want to die because you are foolish.”

Dazai looked at me with a startled gaze.

The room fell into silence. Dazai was shifting on the floor, so there were sounds of the floor creaking. Somewhere far, a walking dog barked towards a tree.

“Interesting.”

Dazai’s eyes, having finally said that, looked different from any human being. Much less any living thing.

There was an injury. A black darkness looms on the one injury on his face.

“For a delivery man, you can sure say a lot. There have been many people that called me foolish. As to why they said that, I wouldn’t know. Because they’re all dead.”Dazai’s expression was as if you reached the end of a tunnel, you couldn’t go anywhere else, and it made me think of a dead-end black wall

“Is that so. But at least, anyone who dies before going to that place, I can’t say anything but that they are foolish. I can say that with certainty.”

“Hmm. That place?”

 “It is a quiet place. It’s not that far. When you enter, you don’t need identification or license, anyone can enjoy the true price of the place, unlimited.”

“It seems like a riddle,” Dazai laughs dryly. “Is this a hint at a secret to get my attention?”

“There’s no point in plotting against you, is there?”

“That’s true,” he turned his face the other way. “Seriously, you say all the unexpected things.”

Dazai kept his face turned to the other side as he looked at me, then looked at the genkan and laughed. It seemed like he was laughing not at me, but at the current situation.

The gravity in the room lessened a little.

“Fine. As a reward for the treatment, I’ll play your games. You said that dying is foolish, right? Then I have a question. If death is foolish, why must humans die?”

I looked at Dazai.

Dazai just stands there in tranquility, like an ancient document waiting for the answers to be unravelled.

“The action of living has a death rate of 100%.” That voice was like an immortal who has lived for a few millennium. “But if we look at all the living things, there are things that don’t die. Also things that don’t have a lifespan. In other words, human death is nothing more than one of the functions contained in life, nothing more than a finale-like promise written into the story of life.”

I thought about that. “So life is not something to treasure?”

“No, even worse. Not caring about their promise with death, all humans have a wish of ‘I don’t want to die,’as a preset when they were born. This is 100%. Consequently, that wish definitely will not be fulfilled.”

There was a hollowness to it, like reading a script that had been repeated thousands of times. No matter how many times have passed, no matter how much whining, it is a fixed cliche.

“This is because the act of desire itself is a tool, a cheap, far cry from the truth, we are simply nothing more than followers, who merely follow the hypothetical thesis that our ancestors lived, so we should live too. How will you debate this dark theory?”

I looked at Dazai.

I thought of a few remarks. Like, from the beginning, wishes were wishes because they were hard to fulfill. But Dazai has not yet revealed even a ten-thousandth of his true intentions, I sensed. Even if I returned the debate, he would have another one ready. That, too, is a topic that he has discussed to the fullest extent in his mind. That’s because it’s an overused topic. And a rebuttal to that rebuttal has already been prepared. Like an infinite staircase leading down to the underworld, Dazai's dark reason is bottomless.

I glanced at the kitchen. The kettle has started to steam.

“Is it your reason for wanting to die?” I asked.

Dazai shook his head. “No. I won’t play too much with words. There are things that cannot be said through words. Those things that aren’t possible.”

“So I can’t stay silent,” I continued Dazai’s words. “That’s right. Only you can understand your world. But even so, the fact that you are foolish will not change. That I can say with certainty.”

“Yes, yes,” Dazai sighed and laid down on the bed. It's like a teacher who has lost patience with a group of mischievous children. “Though I don’t want to correct that. Just now you told me about ‘that place’?”

“If you go, you’ll understand,” I said and stared out of the window. The roads were bright and quiet.

“Try to explain here and now?”

“Stop that. For these situations, no, in most cases, words won’t do.”

“Hmm. So you say. Do you like novels?” Dazai glanced at the bookshelf.

“That’s right. That’s why I’m troubled,” I said directly.

Dazai looked at me for a moment and chuckled. Until now, that was the most natural. “Interesting,” He said. “You’re humble. I don’t hate that.”

In the kitchen, the kettle started to steam.

“I don’t hate living in this house. Less than I thought I would.”

At that moment, someone knocked the genkan door.

My eyes met with Dazai’s.

“Excuse me, I am from S River police station. A report notified us that there was a bleeding man nearby. Could I ask you a few questions?”

Through the window for natural light, I could see the man’s shadow.

A city police patrol officer. People who enforce the country’s rules.

Since meeting Dazai, my luck kept declining, and it finally reached the bottom.

Those knocks without a care shook the genkan door. The door should be locked

pages 31-35

What should I do.

Dazai looked at me, and I put a finger to my lips to tell him to be quiet.

So, I can only choose to pretend to be out. But why? It’s not as if they’re here to arrest me. I have nothing to hide.

 I thought for a moment. For example, I open the door and say ‘hey’ to the officer. If I only open the door halfway, then they won’t be able to Dazai inside. The officer will probably ask about the bloody man. In that situation, should I talk about Dazai directly, or should I stay silent?

If I stay silent, the officer will leave. In that situation, that’s good. But after that? If Dazai committed some crime (I’m 100% sure he has), I would get interrogated for hiding a criminal. Depending on how things go, I may be tried as an accessory, and in that case, I’ll be sent off to a pleasant life in a state-run inn with all meals included.

Then, what if I tell the officer about Dazai?

In this case, it’s almost certain that Dazai would be arrested. Even so, his entire body is suspicious. Even though he had gun wounds, he didn’t go to the hospital, and it would become of interest for the authorities. I might end up on the wanted list. Or the police officers could be here just to arrest Dazai in the first place.

In this situation, I could also be accused of being an accessory. It doesn’t look like saying “I didn’t know the criminal and helped him” would work in this case, and for the authorities to believe it, Dazai would need to prove to the court that it was true. I don’t think that would be possible, and with Dazai’s personality, I have no idea if it would be possible.

I looked at Dazai with a glimmer of hope.  Dazai had a face of a child’s playful smile, but added fifty times of darkness. It probably will not work.

That expression was telling me that he was thinking about something dangerous. I tell the police, sell him out, and there’s a chance that the Port Mafia will come for revenge. If it comes to that, my house will disappear like a sand castle.

Conclusion.

I have no choice but to pretend.

I quietly moved to hide behind the bed. Beside Dazai. In the house, as uncaring as the howls of a wild dog, the sounds of the knock echoed within the house.

I didn’t do anything, and counted my breaths. Ten times, twenty times. At twenty-eight times, the knocking stopped.

“Maybe they’re pretending to be out?” A man with a lower voice said.

“Perhaps,” another man agreed. This one was quite young.

If we remain silent, the officers will leave. Then peace will return to this world.

Apparently that wasn’t going to happen.

Dazai tapped me on the shoulder twice quickly. His expression was hard. Then pointed at the opposite direction of the door.

I looked at the direction and understood his meaning. It’s the kitchen.

The kettle was starting to steam more. For the coffee, I turned on the stove earlier. According to the steam, it looks like it’s about to boil.

That’s bad. My kettle was the whistling type, if the internal pressure reaches a certain level, there would be quite a lot of steam from the top. That sound might be as loud as a woodwind player, and you could hear it across the street.

No matter how you try to hide it, the cops will still know someone is home.

I looked around. There was nothing that could help me. The distance from here to the kitchen is around eight meters. The creaking of the wooden floorboards would stand out. And it would give it away to the officers.

I looked at Dazai again. Dazai hesitated for a moment, then made a bunch of gestures.

He pointed at the kitchen then at me. He held his palm up in front of me and placed his other hand on top of it with his fingers facing downwards. He clenched his fingers, leaving only his index and middle fingers, and slowly moved each finger forward in turn. Then he placed his index finger on his lips, stuck his thumb up, smiled, and nodded.

I also nodded.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Quiet!” He whisper-shouted. “Did you not understand it? Sneak towards the kitchen, turn off the fire! I can’t walk well in this condition...”

“Let’s do that.” I nodded again. “There’s not much time before it starts to boil. I should hurry.”

“Hey, you, are you really panicking?” Dazai looked at me suspiciously. “Your expression didn’t change, so I don’t know...”

I quietly stepped out. The floorboards were amber and thin for a cheap price, if you apply just a little bit of weight, it would definitely squeak. I carefully walked across the floor.

I took one step at a time, thinking that my toes were like soft, falling cloth. Here, too, my ability came in handy. I was able to check which one would squeak if I applied pressure onto them carefully.

One second was like one hour. The kettle hasn’t rang out yet. The officers on the other side of the door were talking about what to do. I used 30 seconds to get halfway to the kitchen. This is going well.

By the way, in this world there is a word for hopeful observations. At that time, it was a situation that could easily be described as ‘wishful thinking’ in the dictionary. Noun. Something that would describe Oda Sakunosuke just now.

I predicted the future of the kettle screaming.

It was a high-pitched sound, and somehow even joyous. Which means there is only five more seconds before my death penalty is announced. My heart was leaping out of my chest. I wanted to jump right to the kettle, but I held myself back.

I placed both my fingers on the floor and began to move horizontally, quietly creeping my limbs across the floor, like a water strider floating silently on the water in midsummer.

From the back, Dazai laughed at my actions.

Dazai’s right. If my movements were filmed and put on the newspapers, I would probably move to another street. I glared straight ahead as I floated just above the floor, my body glided behind. The limbs act as independent driving forces, running busily around the floor.

One second, two seconds. The results of the unstoppable march was paying off. Almost there at the kettle. There are a few more seconds before the kettle cries as I got to the stove.

But my expectations were again betrayed. I had forgotten about the strange object that existed in this house.

That was Dazai. He was the most unpredictable out of all the people I’ve met. For example, if you did a three-legged race towards the destination, Dazai would suddenly turn the other way.

pages 36-40

In another sense, if you climb a cliff with your life on the line, he’ll suddenly say that he wants to jump off the cliff and die. A man who is separated from the logic of this world. Our beloved trickster.

Dazai suddenly stood up and said this. “If I suddenly jump out with a gun in my hand, will I be able to kill the surprised officer?”

I turned my head to look at him. I should be making a quite idiotic face right now. Just how many things have to happen today before he’s satisfied?

“There are no guns in this house.” I said.

“Oh, really? Then a kitchen knife will work.”

Dazai said as he moved across me with a swoosh. The me who was struggling with walking on all fours.

As a series of entertaining comedy routines, of course the officers at the door heard as well. “Hey, there’s someone inside!” A rough voice shouted.

“Please open your door?”

I cannot with this complicated situation.

Dazai skipped to the kitchen. If he gets his hand onto the knife, the situation will go in the opposite of the way I want it to. I can’t stop him. I wanted to throw myself at someone and cry, but there aren’t other humans to stop him.

I bent my limbs and jumped, getting right in front of Dazai. He spun half a circle with a whirl and fell beautifully. His eyes and mouth were opened, as big as a perfect circle. I grabbed his head, got on my back, and used the inner parts of my elbow to put him in a chokehold.

The flapping fight of Dazai and I on the floor.

The officer yelling at the door.

The kettle that started to do a high-pitched cry.

It’s a festival.

Dazai flapped his legs happily on the floor, and hit the kitchen sink beautifully. Something on the sink rattled. Another hit. I heard something life-threatening slip on the sink. But, the me who was becoming one with the floor didn’t see anything.

At the moment I realized that the kicking was intentional, I saw the future. I wish I didn’t see it, I thought.

It was the future of Dazai being able to obtain the kitchen knife and a future where we are unable to withstand the vibrations and fall. There’s no way for me to stop it. There’s no way I was going to let go of Dazai’s chokehold.

I narrowly escaped the route of the falling knife with my ability. The knife pierces the floor with small, satisfying sounds.

“Don’t struggle,” I repeated, “Don’t struggle. It’s not scary. It won’t hurt.”

Even I myself didn’t know what I was saying.

“It’s a lie! Mori-san says the same things when he’s doing an injection!”He continued to struggle in my grip. That means outside of me, there is someone else that Dazai has trouble with. I wonder who Mori-san is.

Dazai continued to kick the sink. It made a sound that I hate. The sound of the kettle slipping off.

Of course, that wouldn’t become a joke.

This was something I hadn’t experienced in my life. A kettle on top of my head, a kitchen knife beside my face, fake bills somewhere in my house, and police at the door. And I am holding the man I met days ago in a chokehold. If the kettle drops, boiling water will go everywhere. Its explosive range is incomparable to a kitchen knife’s. I might get burns, and regardless of where the water touches, there’s still a chance of death.

At the door, the officers were about to kick the door open. They’ve probably heard the battle going on indoors. In my arms, Dazai laughed for a bit and lost consciousness. The kettle looked like it would fall down the next second.

I pulled out the knife from the floor and threw it.

I threw the knife diagonally and caught on the handle of the falling kettle. The knife was pierced into the legs of the stand, supported the kettle by the handle, and shook. Some water still dripped. A few of the drops landed on my hand. It was hot.

The officers stepped in.

Just like me, the officers have likely not experienced anything like this in their lives. It’s impossible not to have their eyes opened wide like this. In an invaded house, on the floor was a man who had an injured person in a chokehold. The unconscious injured looked like he had a fun time. A knife was stuck in the kitchen wall, and the kettle was being held up as if it had been brought there.

Silence.

The officers gazed down at us, as if they didn’t know what to say.

It couldn’t be predicted that the first arrest of my life would be in this kind of situation. Maybe it was because of that, I said something stupid.

“Take your shoes off.”

The police officers looked at each other. The senior officer exchanged glances with the younger one. They were wearing the caps and uniform according to the rules.

“Ah, yes,” the older officer nodded. “It seems like today’s case will become quite a weird one.”

“I understand you,” I replied.

A lot of strange things have happened today, but the most bizarre thing of all of these has yet to happen. It was what happened afterwards.

pages 41-45

I said I understood their feelings. That was a lie. I didn't understand. What they are thinking about, or about what happened later.

The officers brought out hidden gas masks and put them on themselves.

Then something fell from their hands. I looked at it. It was a gas grenade.

From there, white sleeping gas started to seep out of the grenade, and I finally understood the situation. Officers can't use gas to sedate their suspects, no matter how noisy they might be. These people aren't officers.

I saw the future, but it was already too late.

I jumped up. I could have kicked the both of them and run, but I didn't do that. The policeman took out a gun and aimed it towards Dazai. If you resist, we will shoot. Even through the gas mask, I could see their will to kill.

I fisted my hands.

Then I thought about this through my thin consciousness.

That morning, I should have kicked Dazai, who was laying down on my porch, down the stairs. Even if I hadn't done this, regrets await my path of life. There will be more regrets added after this, it's not a big deal.

I lost conscious.

I saw a nonsensical vision float then disappear.

A cafe. The blue rain, hitting the store's glass. A series that only had the first and second books.

Regret. Blood stains on the walls.

—-There is no forgiving in this world.

My voice when I was young.

And it was so. No one will forgive me. I will not forgive myself.

The last book of the series.

—-To write a novel, is to write a human.

A man with a beard. That voice echoed in my mind. As if I wanted to believe it.

I am on a long journey to find the answer to the question.

Some day, in a house that can see the ocean, facing the desk…

When I woke up, I didn't know where this was immediately.

A wall in front of me. Exposed concrete walls. A thin darkness, and walls corrupted by black mold from the water. I don't see anything else. Even if I turn my head, I didn't see anything. I couldn't move my body.

I was tied to a chair.

"Before we start, there's something I'd like to tell you," A voice from behind me said. I vaguely remember this voice. "I don't like violence."

I remember the owner of this voice. It was the older policeman who visited my house.

"I don't like people using violence, or using violence myself. So think about this the business way."

The sound of air breaking.

Instantly after, I felt a great pain through my back.

It scratched my skin, messed up some bones.

He threw something hard at my back. Be it a metal bat, gun holder, or a leather bat.

Even so, the attacker's body remained outside my vision. The pain went through my nerves and connected to my brain.

"Did it work?" The old man's voice said. It was gentle, like he was teaching a child. "I went easy on you. I know the best about how much pain a human can take, until where they can stand. After all, I've been swinging this thing around for decades."

"There's something you don't know." I said.

The man was silent for a second. Then he said with a hard voice. "What is it?"

"You don't know how to interrogate people." I said. "If you wanted to inflict pain on the other, you should interrogate them first. You will only tire each other out if you inflict pain before asking."

He snorted.

Once again, he hit me, but near the the neck. Sparks bounced around my body. It was a pain that felt like the nerves in my body got teared out. Stronger than last time.

"It is as you say, young man. This is not the textbook definition of interrogation." The voice behind me said. "But there are times that the textbook definition is best, and times where it is not. I am well aware of that. Right now, I am preparing you for a lip exercise. Don't worry."

"I'm not worried, then." I remained facing the wall. "Then let's get back to the original topic. Regarding the fake bills, I don't know anything."

The fake bills Dazai had. The origin of everything. The big bomb the messenger of disaster, Dazai, rolled in.

Fake bills with that detail could relate to spies from other countries.

But, the man's reaction betrayed my predictions.

"…Fake bills?"

That voice had a question mark stuck to it, floating away, disappearing into the air.

This was genuine.

"You don't know about the fake bills?" I asked. "You weren't here for Dazai and the fake money?"

"Oh, so your friend's name was Dazai. What kind of guy is he?"

I was about to answer Port Mafia, but I swallowed the words down my throat. If the fake stack of money wasn't the goal, then I can't talk about his real identity.

"It seems like there's been a misunderstanding. Let me clear this up quickly. We are looking for you."

"What?"

"Where is 'the art'?"

The man used a commanding voice while asking me this question. I quietly thought about the meaning of that. Then I answered. "what art?"

"You should know about it."

His voice was firm, and solemn. Like someone who was about to push a person off the cliff.

"In the past, you visited a house during a job and stole the 'art'. We are looking for that."

"I don't know what you're talking about." I said. "Are you mistaking me with someone else?"

I hadn't even finished speaking, another hit landed. This time it was on my shoulder. It was like my blood veins were getting cut. From the base of my neck to the tip of my fingers, there was a prickly feeling all over.

pages 46-50

"You're not wrong. We don't make that kind of mistake." The man spoke. The voice of someone supressing my emotions and willpower. "You used to belong to an organization, in the past. Killing people in exchange for money, it's an organizaion with no tears and blood. I don't know what kind of jobs you did there. Anyway, considering the current situation where you're working as a mailman with no luck, you probably had some connections. But that organization was large. It's fine if you say it's just a legend. Until their sudden disappearance seven years ago, the name was the replacement of the word fear in the underworld. We investigated the organization, and found your existence. The other members all disappeared. Like they didn't exist in the first place.

I said, "I don't want to talk about that organization."

"We'll talk soon, young man. Whether you want it or not." He played with the bat in his hand, making some light 'pong, pong' sounds with it. "That piece of art is worth five hundred million. If we do it right, it could sell for a billion. If you need it, we can split. You probably won't be able to handle it anyway."

"You're wrong." I said quietly. "Yes, you know about the organization. I was once registered as a citizen. But, I don't know anything about the art. Not one thing."

"If you don't know about it, is there a possibility other members of the organization hid it?"

"A large possibility."

The man sighed. Beneath that voice, it was like he became five years older. "It's always like this. Like we're some kind of hungry, wild dog, following the smell of food. Once we think we've gotten somewhere, the food gets moved to another place. We use our noses to track the smell again. And repeat."

"I feel bad for you."

In reality, it was only half-true sympathy. They still took Dazai with me, even though he just happened to be there. Dazai is not someone to be sold off like a bonus. Absolutely not. He's part of the Port Mafia, that may be imagination, but he is a very important person.

Now that he had been kidnapped, it was too late to do anything. Even if they washed his body thoroughly, mended his clothes, restored him to a shiny new state, and humbly returned him to the Port Mafia, they would still not forgive them. They would robably flatten the backs of their head with an electric digger as they knelt and apologized.

That's why the kidnappers will want to confirm our deaths. It's certain that they will get rid of Dazai and me after.

I can't talk about the Port Mafia. Anything but that. If they knew Dazai was part of the Port Mafia, they will literally shrink. Then cover up their foolishness with other foolishness. In other words, that means Dazai and I will be buried beneath the concrete, and run to the other end of the earth until the end of time. There's no other road.

That's why I dubbed Dazai as 'the mysterious friend'.

"Now that all the background information has been explained in detail," coldness seeped into the man's voice. "I will only need you to beautifully chirp later. If you need some help, I won't hesitate to shatter your bones."

The man said happily. I heard the sound of the bat hitting against my hand. If this goes on, I will be the one with a broken body.

"If I don't talk?" I questioned.

"You'll regret it. A criminal with a warrant will make you wish you talked."

I was about to reply, but the intercom interrupted me.

"What is it," the man picked up the intercom. I couldn't hear the contents of the conversation, but I heard the tension in the air. "I got it. I'll come now. Put handcuffs on that guy."

He cut off the intercom and I heard the sound of footsteps going away. After a few steps, the man spoke from afar. "I'll give you some time to think." He said.

"Don't look forward to rescue. This is an emergency bunker used in wars. Almost no one knows about it. It's time for you to choose. To become a billionaire, or to become a corpse and be chewed on by mice. For the sake of everyone's happiness, I hope you will make the right decision."

I was handcuffed in a solitary cell and inspected the shape of my fingernaisl on both hands about fifty times when Dazai returned.

"Hey, long time no see." Dazai stood in front of me with his unchanging, settling smile.

I observed Dazai. "Did you not get questioned?"

"Questioned? Oh, that was an interrogation?" It seemed like his internal weather was bright and sunny. "I was locked up and surrounded by two men, but before they could interrogate me, they both left. They were dragged away by their comrades. I gave them some helpful advice, and they started crying and hitting each other, saying they didn't want to die."

"Oh, I see. What they you talk about?"

"I can talk about it…but do you want to know?" A smile like the monsters of the sea floated onto Dazai's face.

I thought for a bit. "It's fine."

It was a dorm for the confinement of prisioners.

It used to be a bunker facility for protecting people, with simple rooms for sleeping. It was about as big as a room in a hotel, with the bed nailed to the floor. The entrance door has been replaced with a fresh iron door that still bears that marks of welding, and a thick chain used for morring boats and a huge lock are hanging from the doorknob.

There were a couple of black power distribution lines lined up against the wall, the murky cage in the back leads to a light. That was the only source of light. There was no air conditioning, so the air in the room was cloudy at best.

"Who do you think they are?" I asked.

"A criminal organization." Dazai answered while played with my handcuffs. "But, unlike a big organization like the Port Mafia, they're a tiny business. I didn't have any interest in that originally anyway. Does the name '48' ring a bell?"

I thought a little and shook my head. "No."

"This is also my first time meeting them. They are harder to crack down on than any other criminal organization. Scratch that, it's actually impossible. If the a great extermination happens, making Yokohama a clean heaven, they would probably still be doing crimes. The reason is because they were former police officers."

I narrowed my eyes.

pages 51-55

"A police inspector at a local police station. A member of a special forces unit who was dishonorably discharged. A corrupt police officer who was arrested and released from prison. An officer listed on the ban notice. Though they fell from being police-related due to various reasons, they still had the people and knowledge to build a small organization. There's a story as to why they were named '48', the strongest one being after police arrests, there are 48 hours to decide whether to refer a person to the prosecution after an arrest."

"So that means that the fake police that visited my house, they were originally real police." I said as I recalled the event. "But, how did you know?"

"Did you not know? There are hints of their past jobs in their actions. Other than that, when they speak, they use slangs used by police."

I tried to remember.

Now that he brought it up, as the man who tortured me was leaving, he said, "it's like a criminal with a warrant who regrets not confessing while in prison." (A/N: Since this next part is actually police slang, I'm going to include the original text here: 〝令状を取られた犯罪者が、任同のうちにうたえばよかったと後悔するみたいにな〟と云った。任同とは〝任意同行〟の略語だし、〝うたう〟は〝自白する〟という警察系の隠語だ。使い慣れた言葉はなかなか洗い落とせない。") Now "任同" means voluntary accompaniment, and "うたう" was to confess, and they were police slangs. They can't get rid of habits they're used to.

"The gang is good at using their past connections to threaten people, transportation of seized items, and leaking inner circle information. They're called fallen heroes. Their area of work is small, but there are a lot of people in their gang with training. Counting all the criminal organizations in Yokohama, from police organizations to criminal organizations, the most hated would be '48'."

"You know a lot."

"Not really. Sadly, I don't know their goal." Dazai said as he sat down with his back against the wall. "They said they were looking for a drawing. Do you know anything about it?"

I looked at Dazai and said. "No."

Dazai looked at me. In those eyes, it was like the bottomless sea at night. Dark, quiet, cruel, sucking in people and not letting them go.

Those eyes looked at every corner of my expression. Like he was observing every single cell in my body.

I wonder how long we were silent. Suddenly, Dazai opened his mouth and said seriously. "You know something, right?"

I let my eyes wander in the air. Then I looked at the nonexistent scenery from the past. I had an uncontrollable urge to smoke a cigarette. "Mn."

"Why did you keep silent?"

"Because there's no connection." I said, sitting down next to Dazai. "Whatever the gang says, that drawing won't go to anyone's hands. It's somewhere it can't be moved. At least while I'm alive, there's no way the drawing will go anywhere."

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

Dazai was about to say something, but stayed silent. Then he looked somewhere else. Like he was searching for an answer somewhere.

"Understood," Dazai said as he faced forwards. "Then this topic has ended. Let's talk about something else."

I was surprised that Dazai backed off so easily. If I say where the drawing is, Dazai will be able to get out of here without a scratch. But Dazai's eyes were quiet, and there was the gentle indifference that is typical of people who have already made up their minds. Though I don't understand why.

"So. What should we do now?"

"We're going to break out of here." I said decisively. "There's no reason for us to stay here."

"What a good idea," Dazai said, holding up both his hands. "Though, how?"

My hands and Dazai's were still cuffed together. It wasn't a toy or a model, but actual handcuffs used by police. Furthermore, the room's entrance was locked.

"There's a way to break out of here," I said. "But, there are also some things that can't be helped. Reason."

"Reason?"

"You don't want to get out of here, do you?"

Dazai looked at me blankly and said. "Are you planning to help me?"

"I was going to do so, but you don't have a motive. To come with me and break out of here."

Dazai looked around me. "You're right, you can still kill yourself in here. So don't mind me, and break out by yourself—"

"Even if I have to wrap a rope around your neck, I'll get you out."

Dazai looked at me with a flabbergasted expression.

"You…did you have such a strong personality?"

"When it's related to my decisions." I said, and focused on sensing people outside. It doesn't seem like there's anyone on the other side of the door.

"So, if I ask for you to come, will you come with me?"

"Hmm, I don't know. I'm not someone who easily gives in to people's requests. Everyone has a hard time getting me to do anything. What can you offer?"

If I was being truthful, that surprised me. "Do you think I can give you what you want?"

"I don't know," Dazai gave a smile of resignation. "I really don't know. It's my first time meeting someone like you. That's why I'm asking."

I thought for a bit.

I had an idea of what Dazai wanted. But I don't have the money to offer it.

But.

—There's nothing else I want other than to die.

—Why must people die?

"Dazai," I said. "When we get out of here, we'll go to 'that place'. Immediately. It's not very far."

Dazai's eyes widened. "'That place'—the place where it would be foolish to die before going there, that place?"

"Yes."

Dazai looked at me. I looked back at him.

I don't know why, but I remembered something from my past. From when I was a teenager.

"Dazai—you're right. There's no good or bad to wanting to die. The world seems full of important things, but in reality, nothing is important. Life and death, it all doesn't matter. The place we're going to probably won't live up to your expectations. You'll find nothing there but pebbles and scrapt of paper and things of that value."

He looked at me with a vacant expression. Like he didn't believe what was going on in front of his eyes.

pages 56-60

I looked at my own palm. I touched it with my finger, and verified the touch. I touched a few places to pass the time, and said.

"But…what if I'm wrong?"

Silence befell the room.

I've never tried to get so close with someone else's heart, and there wasn't a feeling of it going well. But what's fascinating, is I don't really regret it. Even if I don't say it now, I will say this to Dazai somewhere, someday. I had that feeling.

Dazai didn't say anything. He only sighed and looked thoughtfully into the distance and clasped his hands behind his head. The chains rattled. "I've been caught by people who say dumb things, huh." He hid his expression by looking to the side, and glanced at me. "The secret place…if you really wanted me to come that badly, I suppose I'll come with you…"

I raised my eyebrow. "You're not being honest."

"Not in particular! It's not that I'm not honest or anything. You can expect that much from me!"

Scratching my head, I said, "Then let's do this. If you die here, I'll make a tombstone for you. On the tombstone, I will engrave 'Here lies the man, Dazai, that didn't manage to win Oda Sakunosuke once in poker.'"

Dazai looked at me in shock. Then, with his mouth round, he said, "T-that would be troubling! Okay, it can't be helped, I'll escape the prison!"

Dazai stood up and snapped his fingers.

The handcuff should have been securely locked, but it slipped off his wrists like it was a magic trick.

"You had it unlocked from the beginning?"

"With the wire from over there, yeah."

"Can you do something with the lock on the door?"

"Of course." He said with a straight face. Then he turned to look at me like he had realized something. "Did you mean me when you said there was a way for us to get out of the prison?"

I shrugged. "During the days you were injured, the lock binding your legs together had been completely removed. It seemed like you were trying to disguise them by stacking chains."

"What, you knew? How boring." Dazai pouted.

He took the handcuffs from me, inserted the wire, and turned to unlock it. Immediately, the internal mechanism became disengaged, and there was a dry metallic sound.

The handcuffs dropped to my feet.

"How long has it been? Having somewhere that I want to go." Dazai smiled while rubbing his wrists. "Even if there's nothing there, I'll feel okay…Let's get out of here quickly and breath some fresh air."

The underground bunker was long, complicated, and the home for a lot of unknown underground species.

Dazai and I put our hands to the wet walls, relying on thin light to keep going. Sometimes there would be black insects escaping when our hands near it. I could hear water dripping from somewhere.

In the trenches, there was a light breeze blowing. The breeze was cold, wet, and mixed with what seemed like someone's breath. We continued in the direction of the wind.

"Let's say we get out of here," Dazai said from behind me. "The gang still won't give up about the 'drawing'. We need a counter plan—moving every week to live is an option. What do you think?"

"There's no need to move." I faced forward and kept walking. "I've had a lot of attacks up to this point. I managed to get through it each time. This time too, I will live until I die."

"Isn't that a wise way of living?" Dazai sighed.

I understand what Dazai was trying to say. But to me, I have a vague sense of resignation that if the past is chasing me, I should just let it do what it wants. What should you call it, guiltiness, or atonement, I don't know.

Anyway, when it involves dragging in people surrounding me, I can't just remain detached. Just like what Dazai said, it may be time to think of a counter plan.

"Dazai, if it were you what would you—"

I looked behind. He should have been there, but Dazai wasn't there.

Far behind. His hand was put against the wall, he was crouching.

"Sorry…you should go first." Dazai's breaths were thin. "I'll rest a bit and catch up."

His face was pale and his fingertips were shaking.

I ran back and supported him. Dazai's body was as cold as ice.

"What happened?"

"When I was kidnapped…when I was unconscious, they probably…"

At that moment, I saw the future.

Lightning. The sound of wind cutting through.

And Dazai's chest being ripped apart, his ribs flying out, a big flower of blood on his chest. Immediate death.

It was a bullet.

pages 61-65

I grabbed Dazai's collar and pulled. He leaned forward and collapsed. Where Dazai was a moment ago, a bullet shot through and went into the wall.

I continued to drag Dazai down the hallway to our escape, the concrete pillars shielding our bodies. There are a few worst thing you can experience in a lifetime, but there was no mistake that getting shot in a closed space was included in them. And unarmed, too, while carrying an injured person who can't move.

"I've underestimated you guys a bit too much."

From down the hallway, where pillars are stacked closely together, there was a voice I'd heard before.

Former officer, an old man with white hair. In those movements, he had a powerful attitude, like he was someone who was used to making people wait. A powerful attitude that most older officers have.

"I got someone to apply dermal toxins on your bandaged friend while he was out. In a bit his limbs will go numb, and he probably won't be able to even scratch his head."

The older officer had a gun. Double action revolver. Five slots. A gun for official police officers.

He played with the gun without pointing it at anyone, and said ignorantly.

"Raise your hands and come here. Or will you protect your friend and die? Either is fine."

I observed my surroundings.

There was a huge storage. It must have been for emergency water and food, but there was nothing in there, making it a very spacy area. The pillars, so thick that no one person could hold them, were lined up at equal intervals, like ancient, inorganic soldiers. The entrance was surrounded by four walls, and the hall in front of it was sinking in darkness.

There was no safe escape route.

"You want money that much?" I asked while crouching down to protect Dazai.

"I know what you're trying to say. Money, money, money. Everyone's bound by money. We even think money is more important than our lives. You guys think so too, right? That's you should just throw away your low-quality life, and tell us where the location of the drawing is. I can't stand the idea of ​​a low-ranking member of an organization losing his life for money."

As if those words were opening music, men holding guns appeared. Four, eight, twelve. People with broad shoulders, with police uniform, with camouflage, in those statures, everyone looked tired, worn out, and cold.

There are auto revolvers, small guns, shotguns. Here, we are unarmed. It's not the difference in battle power.

I also have an injured Dazai. They probably kidnapped Dazai for this kind of situation.

In other words, a hostage.

Against the backdrop of differences in oppressive and destructive violence, the man smiled elegantly yet coldly. "You've probably already heard about this, but we were previously officers. This country's police force is excellent. But, that excellence won't always be rewarded. The job that lives next to danger, sends a completely unbalanced, low-income life. But, we don't want to be like the pig-like masses who do nothing but complain about the media and politicians. That's why we're taking action. We're going to get what we deserve with our own hands. In other words, the 'drawing' you know is, so to speak, a small blessing to those who maintain order in the nation. Isn't it an honor?"

The ex-officer spread his hands, as if satisfied by his own speech. Like he was the only one chosen by God.

I don't know the reason, but from those words and expressions, I came to hate the man. Up until this point, the kidnapping or beating, I didn't like or dislike it. That was rare for me. From the beginning, whether I hated anyone or not, it didn't make a big different in the world.

"Good grief," I heard an astonished sigh and turned my head. The owner of that sigh was Dazai. "It really is hard listening to some small fry's long tongue talk. I want to get out of this place quickly. I'm thirsty."

The older man's eyes filled with a dangerous light. "It seems like you haven't understood the situation yet."

The people who had guns turned their gunheads to Dazai.

"Oda Sakunosuke. If you don't want that boy to be killed, surrender. You have to have a long conversation with us."

I looked at the man, then Dazai. "If I surrender, you'll let Dazai go?"

The man thought for a moment then nodded. "Fine. He wasn't of any value anyway. I only need your head and mouth."

I slowly watched their expressions and scratched the back of my ear. It was an action of no meaning. Then I raised my hands and said, "Alright, I surrender."

The man's lips quirked up as if hiding an excited face.

Another ex-officer came out and cuffed both my hands.

"This time we'll cuff you properly. So you won't escape."

I looked at Dazai. He looked at me with an unsatisfied expression, but he didn't say anything.

"Now, Oda Sakunosuke, over here. I'll serve you wine. This will be a long conversation." The man pulled me over by my handcuffs. Then he gave Dazai a quick glance and said to his subordinates indifferently, "dispose of the brat."

"That's different from the promise," I said.

"Promise?" He raised his eyebrow, like he was happy. "Ah, I did break our promise. Then you? We are people of the law. Up until now, have you kept the law without breaking it once?"

I think of my past actions and said, "Right."

"This is no time to be complacent," Dazai deadpanned.

"I know," I said. "Dazai, me too. I'm thirsty. Let's get out."

"How will you escape?" A gun was put to my head. "This difference in people, you unarmed, an injured hostage. I don't think it's a situation where a lowly underling who was in an organization in the past can do anything about it."

"Hahaha. 'A lowly underling who was in an organization'?" There was a strange, deep laugh. I looked at Dazai. "It's not good to throw insults to a mirror."

Everyone glared at Dazai. Dazai ignores the gazes, and continued slowly while looking around.

"Shall I tell you why I was in front of his house? Because I heard of a rumour. Around that house was a lot of gangs. Thieves, trafficking, mafia. Any group, they don't try to bother that house. A 'calm zone'. Like in there, was someone feared."

"Hah? What are—"

"You guys don't seem to have any intention of letting us go home alive. So, I'll leave it to you later."

pages 66-70

When I said those words, Dazai leaned straight back like a signboard that had lost its support. With a loud sound, he laid parallel to the ground.

Everyone looked at Dazai, shocked.

He was lying completely face up. Which is also a pose where the least amount of bullets will be able to hit you.

That gave me an idea.

I grabbed the man who was holding my handcuff and pulled. The man lost his balance and leaned forward.

At the same time, I jumped.

With my feet, I pinched and stranged his neck. But not just strangle. I turned upside down, pinned him with both my hands and feet, and the man was lured into a nightmare of freefall. The older former officer didn't do anything, so he hit the hard concrete ground. He hit his head and lost consciousness.

"What…"

The surrounding officers were speechless. They couldn't understand what was happening.

But the world does not wait for personal understanding. I got off him and rolled on the floor. I took a passive stance, almost parallel to the ground, and in my hand was, already, a gun I stole.

"Kill them!"

Someone shouted.

I ran like a beast.

I faced the enemies in the corner of the room. First, two shots for each, a total of four shots. The bullets accurately went into their left and right wrists, and the momentum of the bullets knock them back.

Without witnessing their fall, I went onto another one close to me. He took a wide posture, pointing the mouths of their guns at me.

I jumped like I was going to dive and fired at his wrist, making his automatic pistol leave his hand and swim in the air.

In a flash, numbers ran in my head. The revolver pistol I have in my hand right now has five bullets. I already shot five times. But the automatic pistol in the air right now has a double-row magazine, which means it has 17 bullets. A good number.

I grabbed the automatic pistol from mid-air. There's no time to adjust my grip. I pull the trigger with my pinky and shot two times. Twisting my wrist, I shot two more bullets. In the corner of the room, bullets landing and a pained scream echoed.

I rolled over onto my knees and adjusted myself. I tossed the pistol I was holding in my backwards hand like a juggling ball, then grabbed it in my forwards hand and readied myself.

"What…what is thi guy?!" Someone shouted in fear. "Isn't he supposed to be some underling?!"

A rain of bullets came towards me. I kicked off the floor and jumped sideways, then put my hands on the floor and do a half turn, dodging the bullets in an arc. At the end of the movement, I hid behind a square pillar.

I sensed someone's presence behind me and turned my neck.

A man in dark camouflage clothing came charging out from behind a pillar. He had well-trimmed black hair and bulging muscles. He held the pistol compactly just in front of his chin, his armpits open, and gripped the handle tightly, pushing with his right hand and pulling with his left. This was the optimal grip for indoor close-quarters gun combat. I instinctively understood. This guy was probably a former special forces member, meaning his real job was combat.

At a close distance, the bullet went off. I shook my head to the side and barely avoided it. As a counterattack, I turned my gun to face them, but it was swept away by the back of the enemy's hand, which appeared from the side and slashed me cleanly.

The enemy's gun was turned to me again. My gun that was thrown away also came back. We both held guns at an extremely close distance, like we were about to devour each other.

Then, the exchange of gunfire exploded like wild beasts.

A bullet grazed my ear. I elbowed his gun away and at the same time, the handle of my gun slammed into my enemy's head. It was a hit that seemed like it would crush a skull, but he turned his head to avoid it. He looks at me and grins.

But that avoidance was what I was looking for. With shooting with the gun as a goal, I deliberately shifted my aim, and shot after pulling the trigger. In my ears, the sound of a bullet exploded, and my opponent screamed in pain. Furthermore, a cartridge or shell casing was ejected from the air, drawing a golden arc as it fell into the man's eye. The red-hot empty shell casing burned the man's eye, and there was the sound of flesh sizzling.

I didn't let that gap escape me.

I folded my long legs and hit my opponent's thights, kneecaps, and feet three times. The opponent's stance was thrown off balance, and my right hook hit him in the nape of the neck like a single blow from a hammer. The muscles in his neck crackled several times. I lightly jumped to create some distance, then delivered a powerful front kick to his opponent's thick chest. The blow, which I put all my weight into, sent the man flying, slamming him into the pillar behind him. He came back with a solid smack on the back of his head, but there was no sign of consciousness left. Therefore, there was no way to avoid the next blow.

My leg swung around like the Grim Reaper's scythe. An airborne roundhouse kick, considered the most destructive single strike, caught the man squarely in the jaw. The special forces man was sent flying as he spun, his head hitting the floor, and he fell unconscious on his back. He would probably be on liquid food for a week.

"What the…Yoshiba was killed…?"

"Surround, surround him! Kill him!"

I already took the gun from the former special forces member called Yoshiba. I held guns of different sizes in my hand.

From here on, it was not a time for battles.

It was time to dance.

The bullets were shot at me. I stood up straight and almost closed my eyes and shot with the guns in my hands. Two in front. Horizontally two times with my arms wide. I held up my arms like wings and shot behind me. Cross my arms in front of my chest and two more shots. A flash of light illuminates the room, and shadows cut out the world.

At last, I lined up my guns and shot two times forward.

The golden cases fell onto the floor and it sounded like metal instruments. That was the sign that it was over.

I stood still with my gun and waited for the next movement. For someone to roar, to reday their weapon, to come into the room. But no one came. No one stood back up, no one attacked him.

I was the only one standing in the room.

Everyone was on the floor, groaning and groaning, shot in both arms, legs, shoulders or mouths, and writhing in pain and bleeding.

"I'm impressed," Dazai walked over with an actually impressed voice. "No one's dead. They're heavily injured because they were shot in the wrist and feet, but everyone's alive. What kind of technique did you use?"

"I shot them so that they wouldn't die." I said sincerely.

"Haa," Dazai said as he dropped his shoulders. "No, that's not it, why did you…you know what, never mind. I'll ask later. Seriously, I have so many things I want to ask you about. Let's get out of here now."

pages 71-75

"Dazai," I said to Dazai's back. "After you count two seconds, step to the right once."

Dazai turned his head to look at me, and after a bit of silence, he stepped to the side.

Where Dazai was, a bullet passed through.

The bullet came from the floor. One of the people who collapsed on the ground woke up and shot at Dazai.

It was the older officer who interrogated me. Now that I think of it, I didn't shoot him, I only knocked him out.

I want to retaliate, but my gun was out of bullets.

Faster than my opponent could shoot another time, I threw the gun at my waist. The gun flew at my wrist level, and directly attacked the man as if it were drawn to him. Gun and gun collided violently, and they bounced off each toerh.

"Shit…!" The older man pressed on his hand and groaned in pain. "Who the fuck are you! You…!"

There was no reason to answer that question. No one here. But after I thought for a bit, I opened my mouth.

"The legendary organization of assassins. There was nothing like that in the first place."

"What?"

"You said that you've never found any other member's existence existence except for me. Of course. The one that built the achievements you know of wasn't the organization in the first place."

On the confused man's face, there was a sudden flash of realization and fear.

"You…alone…?" He asked, and his strength left him. Fear slowly crept onto his face. "The organization that spread so many scary and urban legends, the legendary organization of assassins that made the government scared…you, by yourself, the jobs…?"

I picked up the submachine gun and stood in front of the man.

That submachinegun was made in the Middle East and could fire ten shots in one second. Rather than drilling a hole, it's like the body is being scraped away.

"Are those your last words?"

I said and put the man at gunpoint.

His expression froze up.

I could understand what he was seeing. Once the gun was turned to you, a human couldn't see anymore than the gun's blackness and shine.

"You came for the wrong people. In this world, people who make mistakes have to pay for them. You have to pay for the lives you killed."

"W-wait, don't shoot!" the man shouted. He wanted to escape, but because of how he collapsed earlier, he couldn't move his hands and fee very well.

"Why should I have to wait for you?"

"I! I was an officer for twenty years, and I worked earnestly!" The man said with a lump in his throat, as if he suddenly couldn't breathe well. "But…the income in those twenty years, compared to the money I've gotten in doing crime, it wasn't even half the amount. Why did hat happen? Why wasn't justice being served? I might be a criminal. But the real evil is the politicians of this country who have created a system in which doing what is right goes unrewarded!"

In those words, there was the patheticness of someone who truly believed those words. It is the most convincing resonant voice a human can produce.

But, in that pain, there was someone who couldn't feel even an itch.

"Ahahaha," a flat and dry laugh. It was Dazai. "Seriously, you're a man who doesn't go out of the bounds of my expectation. Even your little speech was within my predictions."

Dazai looked down at him. He probably had more care when looking at riverside stones than when he saw this man.

"People who don't exceed expectations piss me off. Just shoot this guy already, you. Oda…err, your name, how should I call you?"

Dazai said as he turned to look at me. Come to think of it, Dazai has never called me by my name once.

"Whatever you'd like."

Saying this, I fired the gun as if it were the most natural thing to do.

There was a noise like a rock crusher smashing rocks, and a submachine gun spat out bullets. A swarm of 9mm Grim Reapers, capable of easily turning people into mincemeat, closed in on the man.

Where the bullets landed the floor burst, shards flying everywhere. The man silently screamed, twitched twice, three times, and then lost his strength.

"Wow, you really don't kill them." Dazai said in a softer voice, looking down at the man who had no injuries yet passed out. "Compared to him, you're really interesting. This guy will follow you as long as you live. You have to kill him."

"Indeed," I nodded. Then I tossed the gun away and naturally walked away. "Let's go."

There was a pause in between, but soon I heard Dazai's footsteps behind me.

Dazai point was correct. I really am foolish.

But that wasn't the first time I recognized it.

No king can reign forever.

We walked out, and the sun was sinking, the light disappearing. It was evening.

The sky was painted with what looked like purple mushrooms boiled in soup, the warm orange was fading away. The early stars lit up the sky with their silvery twinklings, and the scratchy moon hung low.

We walked on the street. The gaps between the buildings were lukewarm, and the stale air slowly flew through. All the elegant people walking by, when passing us, would look back cautiously to make sure they saw us. After all, we had injuries and were covered in mud, on top of that, my whole body was exhausted like straw. As people who had a long day, we didn't pay any attention to the people's gazes passing by.

"I'm tired," I said.

"Me too," Dazai sighed. "Where should we go now?"

"That place I mentioned."

I said as I took out a box of tobacco from my jacket. I haven't smoked in a long time, but too many things happened today.

When I was about to light it, I remembered Dazai's presence beside me. Dazai was underage. I rethink my actions and put the tobacco away.

"I don't mind you smoking," Dazai said.

The tobacco continued to hang on my lips and I thought for a few seconds. Just like how the tobacco swayed, my thoughts did the same. But in the end, I did as Dazai told me to.

pages 76-80

I breathed in the smoke and exhaled. The smoke rising from the tip of the cigarette caught and swayed in the dark evening sky.

I turned on the road and entered a narrow alley. Dazai followed me from behind.

There, no evening light could reach, and once you stepped in, the presence of the night swirled around you. A white light cut through the alleyway. It was the store's sign. I stopped there and opened the door in front of me.

"Is it here?"

Dazai asked. I silently urged him on.

The inside of the store was quiet. It reminds you of a secret path, when you go down the steep and narrow staircases, you will hear music. A rusty jazz number. It's a very old song, about the sadness of the passing of family members. Thanks to that song, once I got off the staircase, I felt like I was stepping back in time. In reality, this store may have existed a little bit in the past compared to the outside world.

It may be because of the fact that the bar just opened, but there was not a single soul inside.

A thin light was shining in the shop, and everything looked as if it were drowning to the bottom of a yellowish-blackish sea. Behind the counter, a bartender was wiping glasses. He looked at me with his eyes, and nodded with his eyes.

"Just clarifying, this is 'the place you should go before you die'?" Dazai paused and said in a confident voice, "It's just a bar. I think it's a nice place, but..."

"That's right. There's nothing weird, it's just a bar," I said straightforwardly. "There's no secret. You've been deceived."

Dazai stood there expressionless, as if his mind had flown away somewhere.

After some time, Dazai's opened his round mouth and said in disbelief. "…Hah?"

"Think about it. There shouldn't be anything a big figure in the Port Mafia didn't know that a small fry like me knew. And on top of that, you said you were thirsty, right? Master, my usual."

I sat half my hip on the bar stool. The bartender silently put the distilled wine in front of me.

The liquid in the cup reflected the light. The ice crackled as if to signal something.

"What about you sit?"

I said as I looked at Dazai.

Dazai made a dissatisfied face while standing in the middle of the store, then looked at both my face and the bartender's face, and sat down on a stool.

Dazai ordered and his drink was delivered to him.

After that, no one said anything for a while.

"So, what you're saying is…" Dazai glanced at his own glass. "You told that lie, because…Was it to stop me from dying?"

"No. I'm not that kind of special person." Saying this, I tilted the glass and placed it back on the counter. "I made fun of you because you were a younger man who spoke as if you knew everything about life."

The words I said seemed both true and deceptive. My own heart is just as difficult to understand as the hearts of others.

Dazai looked at me like he was about to see through my words, then gave up and shook his head. "I can't believe you right now, but I'll have to believ it was so for now."

"It's not that sad of a thing. There are two things in the world that you can definitely believe in." I pulled out a deck of trump cards (or playing cards) from the inner pockets of my jacket. "First, the fact that you haven't won against me in poker. Second, dead people will lose the chance to be able to play poker with living people forever."

Dazai glanced at me for a second then his cheeks relaxed and he burst into a smile. "I will erase those reasons right away."

Then, tilting our drinks, and played poker while talking about trivial things.

Our current jobs. Our favourite shops. Hobbies. A recently published book.

There was the sound of glasses clinking, and bodies leaning forward to engage in private conversation.

There was no stop to our conversation. For example, it looks like this.

"By the way, with such a skills like yours, why are you doing such a safe and boring job as a mailman?"

"There wasn't really any other job I could do. It's been four years since I started this job. It might be boring, but other mailmen die while working within a month or two, so I can't quit."

"…Huh?" Dazai's eyes widened. "Did you just say die while working?"

"Last week, the collection and distribution center exploded." I said while tilting my glass. "In the packages, there was a bomb that was targeted towards our company. Right before it exploded, I threw the package out. If I were one second late, everything would have been blown away. The workers too."

"Ehh…? What is that?" Dazai's voice was laced with amazement and confusion at the same time. "Do you delivery people work in a battlefield?"

"It might be a little bit similar. We work in Yokohama's most dangerous territories and are professional at delivering dangerous goods. Yokohama Concession Area, Pirate Zone, Special Security Area of ​​Military Research Facilities, etc. We deliver packages within the deadline to places that regular mail companies cannot enter for various reasons. There are clients who want to avoid company spies that request us to deliver new products, or delivering actual guns to kidnapped millionaires. My boss is very skilled, and the two of us can deliver most things. However, the risk is high and the pay is low. I haven't gotten paid in four months."

"Wait, wait, wait. Why didn't you tell me about that when I was injured and bored?!"

Dazai's expression changed. Like an angry child.

"My bad."

"I don't want your apologies! Master, one more!" Dazai slammed his glass on the table. "Now that this has happened, I want to hear everything about it! I want to know about everything you delivered in this job! You won't be able to get out of the shop until you tell me everything! Firstly, about the kidnapped millionaire that had a gun!"

"There's no other way, huh?"

I drank the rest of my drink. After moistening his throat with this, he began, "Is that definitely so?"

That was the signal for the night to come.

The music was playing, the time was passing, and liquid passed through my throat. Our words appeared quietly and then drifted away.

pages 81-85

"Ahahaha! There were two kidnapped millionaires?! What the hell! Which one was the real one?"

The music played, time passed, the night deepened, and customers came and went like whitewater.

"Dazai, did that really happen? The man who was the mafia's enemy became a kaiju? Shooting lasers from his mouth and planning to destroy Yokohama? When did you start telling lies?"

There was no end to our conversation. It slid smoothly out of our mouths, as if it had been stored somewhere deep in our throats, waiting for its chance to be spoken.

Talking to each other and listening to one another. It was served with a side of poker, we've played so many games, but no one paid attention to poker anymore.

I thought of when I first met him. Collapsed in front of my house, the Dazai that was covered in blood. That was only a few days ago. I thought back to a few days ago, so far removed from me. If I left Dazai out and closed my door, what would become of us?

"I've decided. I'll call you Odasaku." At some point, Dazai decided with a burst of determination. "To call you Oda is too weird, and to call you Oda Sakunosuke is just too long. You're Odasaku. From now on, if anyone asks for your name, answer with that."

"Odasaku? That's a strange name. Like a farmer. Do I not have the right to change my name?"

"Nope!"

"No, huh…"

I drank a sip of my wine.

"Then so be it."

Dazai ordered a can of crab. I ordered a gimlet. It's been a while since I ordered, but I suddenly wanted to order something.

Then, we had more endless conversations.

Stories about how there was a delivery that I was forbidden to shake, but found a breastmilk-drinking baby shaking a rattle inside.

That time when I had to fight an eastasian millionaire to the death with 'look the other way' for a network selling smuggled jewels.

The time whenI had to run from an army of 500 soldiers from a religious organization to protect a glass of milk.

The time when he met a young man who could manipulate gravity. (Yes, I'm pretty sure this is Chuuya.)

The words soon lost their connection and drifted between us in a swarm of disconnected words. Just as music sometimes behaves as if the notes themselves have meaning, rather than as a series of notes, our speech became a matter of throat vibrations that had meaning in themselves—to use a poetic expression—turning us into instruments, into speaking instruments.

"It's been so long since I talked this much." Dazai stretched as if he had lost all of his energy.

"That's good." I said as I distributed the cards for the nth time. "But, we've stayed here for too long. It's almost time to go home, the shop is closing soon. You know how to go home by yourself from here, right?"

Dazai's injury had already gone beyond its peak. Even if no one bothers about it, it'll probably heal up just fine. My job is done. So is our connection.

Dazai tilted his head and took the cards. And he said the words in a casual tone.

"When will we next meet?"

I froze and looked at Dazai.

It's not something common to ask, Dazai should know that. It's more special than any line I've ever heard, or a magical phrase. To Dazai who wants to die, a 'next'.

"Hmm," I looked for the lines I should say. "I don't know. You're probably busy too. But if I must—"

"Hahaha, interesting. You look like you're surprised. Showdown." He said that as he revealed his cards. "Four of a Kind Kings. My victory!"

I compared my hand with Dazai's. he's right, Dazai did win.

"The victories you had until now were because of your ability." Dazai smiled gleefully. "You can read up to five or six seconds of the future. So if I take more than seven seconds to reveal my bet, and at the same time switch my hand, you won't be able to predict the future."

Dazai held up the King of Clubs in his hand. He flipped his hand over and then back down, and the card had changed into the Eight of Hearts. He flipped his hand over again, and it was back to the King of Clubs. Even looking at it up close, it was impossible to tell where the card had come from.

"Of course, the switching got your guard up. So I had to divert your attention with small talk."

I organized the card and ask, "Which camouflage is which?"

In an instant, Dazai's expression changed. It was only a moment, and he tilted his head as if to hide his epression. If I wasn't mistaken, he was blushing. It was under the dark light in the store, so I may have seen something else.

"'It would stupid to die before coming here'…huh. You said some pretty sharp lines." Dazai continued to hide his expression.

I placed the cards one by one and said, "I sometimes say the correct things."

It had become the time for closing, and customers slowly filtered out. The night outside was deep, and it was probably so quiet it could swallow everything.

I glanced at the cards.

I may be good at poker, but I can't say that I would never lose. There is no absolute in this world, because everything in this world is essentially uncontrollable. What we can do is accept that, and the best way to resist it is to enjoy it.

In the corner of the bar, somewhere in the past, in the spiral of the uncertainty of the future.

"Even if you flip the card a thousand times and it comes out as expected a thousand times, there's no guarantee that it will come out as expected the thousand and one time," I said.

"Right. This time I realized it too," Dazai said. (Here, Dazai used 'watashi' instead of 'boku', therefore this line.)

"I (watashi)?"

"Is it weird?"

Dazai grinned. In that smile, he had matured a lot more.

I tilted my head. There's been a lot of things going on today.

pages 86-87

"About that question from before," I said as I stood up. "I can't tell you when we'll meet again. You know you're moody, and as for me, I still have my own problems to deal with."

Dazai nodded, "The police officers from before?"

"It doesn't seem like their partners will give up. Even if they give up, I don't think they'll be the last. We should assume that the story of the "painting" has been leaked to other people as well. Even if I escaped to the ends of the earth, the information would still follow me there."

When it comes to the people of the underworld, there's always a connection somewhere. I don't know how the 48 guys found out about my past, but they probably bought the information from another criminal organization. If it comes to that, it's not just them that I have to deal with. Someday, the day will come when it will be too much for someone like me to handle.

"I hate this, you were thinking that far ahead?" Dazai crossed his arms. "There's an easy way to get out of this."

"Really?"

"If the opposite of the world won't do, go somewhere deeper," Dazai said casually and shrugged. "Somewhere so deep no crime organization to touch you. It's not that far of a place. It's in Yokohama."

Dazai smirked.

"It's a stupid thing to do if you die before going there."

I thought for a moment. I could only think of one place.

He's right about the fact that no one could touch me if I entered that place.

It's the darkest part of Yokohama. Covered in the black storm of violence, temple of the night. The people inside are bound with vows of steel, and if a member is attacked from the outside, they will turn into a row of fangs and bite the enemy.

"There's no one that can run from their past," Dazai smiled lightly. "But, it's an exception if you enter."

"What if I do join?"

"It's up to you." He said. "But I will promise you. If you join, you won't have to worry about any past. No one will be able to touch you there."

"And where is that place?"

A proud smile floated onto Dazai's face. He extended his arms as if to welcome someone.

Then he told me. It was a sentence that would change my life forever.

"The name, you say? The name of the organization is…"

"The Day I Picked Up Dazai Side - A" Completed

pages 88-92

On my porch, there was a young man lying down, covered in blood.

I look down at the dead body, then look in front of my home.

It’s a quiet morning. The apartment across cast a dark, long shadow on the paved road below. From the hedge grew Campsis grandiflora, the wind shakes them lightly, and whispers words that humans could never understand. Somewhere far, you could hear the long-haul trucks scraping against the road.

And at the bottom of my vision, on the stairs, was a dead body.

A dead body.

In any case, it is an exaggeration of existence that makes it seem strange and wonderful. But this time was different. The corpse blended into the background, like it was a normal part of a stable morning.

After a bit, I realized the reason for it. The chest of the corpse was slowly heaving up and down.

It isn’t a corpse. It’s alive.

I observed the man. He was covered in black. In addition to the thick black hair he had, he wore a high-collar jacket in black, a black three piece, and a black necktie. The only things that weren't black were his shirt and the bandages that wrapped around his head. Though it was red and white. The colors made me think about how it would be considered an unlucky fortune in China.

The man collapsed on the last step of the porch. Beneath the cracking steps, there is a trail of blood that goes on and on.

The problem. The near-corpse right beneath me--what should I do about it?

Easy. If I grab his foot and push with my body weight, he would roll to the ground, just like that. Then his body would belong on the public streets, not my house. It will become government property. All who are in need of help on the government’s land should receive care from the government. A normal mailman like me should go home and eat breakfast.

I am a cold and merciless person, therefore, I have no need to do anything. It is essential for survival. The wounds on the man are clearly gun wounds. It seemed like he was covered in injuries from head to toe. There may be more on his body than the eye can see here. And then lastly, in his left hand, there were a bundle of banknotes clutched tightly in his hand.

What does this mean? Anything. The existence of someone like him is already an abominable matter, if I exclude the vision of interacting with him, it means nothing.

This means that he is clearly not a person that normal citizens should tie themselves with. If someone with a normal mental state even saw him, the situation would be that they would run to the neighbouring street. Just like when Jonas of the Bible was spit out by the giant fish in the storm for the second time.

I look at the young man, look at the road, look at the sky, and look at the man once more.

Then I started to move. First I went near the man and supported his weight so as to lift him up. I pulled him into my home while dragging his ankle, and laid him down on the bed next to the wall. He’s way lighter than he looks, so it was easy to bring him in by myself. I check the states of the wounds next. There are a lot of deep injuries, but the amount of blood was not a critical quantity, he should heal up just fine if treated with the right first-aid methods.

From the deep corners of my closet, I take out a first-aid-kit, and start doing some simple emergency treatment. I cover his lower half of his torso with a towel. I cut open his clothes with a pair of scissors to see the wounds, and confirm that there were no bullets left in him. I pressed a few spots to stop the bleeding--beneath the armpit, the inside of the elbow, the ankle, and behind his knee, then used a clean cloth to tie a tight knot on them respectively. After that, I used a sanitized tourniquet to stop the bleeding of his injuries. Luckily for him, I could perform these emergency treatments with my eyes closed.

More or less after the treatment was done, I looked down on the young man and crossed my arms together. His breathing was steadying out. It seemed like there were no injuries to the bones or the respiratory system. But he doesn’t look like he’s about to wake up. In my head, a voice commanded me, ‘just throw him out!’ To patch up such a suspicious person had no other word than idiotic to describe it. I should follow the command of the voice. That person is the smarter one.

Before obeying that angel’s warning, I observed the young man once again.

I don't remember seeing this boy before. Doesn’t look like a friend either. By ‘either’, I mean, half of his face was covered in bandages, there is no way for me to identify. But still, he looks younger than I first thought. Might even qualify as a young boy.

Something tickled at my chest. There's something weird about this boy. There's no way there's nothing weird about someone who rolled to the front of someone's house covered in blood…When I first saw him, I felt an otherworldly kind of unease.

I turned back and looked at his face. The boy's eyes were closed. His face was pale and he looke exhausted. His breathing too, you could see that it was shallow even if you didn't look too close. But still, I was impressed by his appearance, there was a mysterious gravitational pull towards him. Willpower, a firm sense of trust in his own body, or even more so...

It was as if his collapse right now was according to plan.

The boy opened his eyes and looked at me.

I jumped up in shock. I didn't notice at all when he had opened his eyes. There was no sign of him moving or looking at me. He could do that kind of thing. This is the kind of person you would never come across if you lived an ordinary life.

Those eyes.

I'm not someone with excellent observation skills. But when I saw those eyes, I understood a few things. At worst, he's killed a few people. And not just a a dozen or two dozen. A few hundred. If one kills that many people, they will reach a place beyond the spirit of a normal human, a place beyond the reach of light and gravity. The spirit of the one who reaches this point is first expressed in their eyes and then their mouth. Their eyeballs become black holes, and the muscles around their mouths become organs that express not facial expressions but the depth of their guilt.

I understood something else in the next moment. This boy knows about me.

"Who are you?"

The voice that came out of my mouth was so dry and crackly that I couldn't believe it was my own. If I hadn't put strength into the roots of my feet, they would have taken a step back of their own accord.

"Who are you?" I asked again. There was no reply. I didn't know if he was listening or not. I couldn't see any light of reply in his eyes. No matter how cold you are, when you meet their eyes while speaking, you would at least see some kind of reaction. But this boy had nothing. He only watched me with his black eyes.

When I was thinking about that, the boy opened his mouth.

It was like he was going to say something.

I listened intently, staring at his lips so as not to miss a single thing.

But…the boy did not say anything. His mouth continued to stay slack. He did not say anything, did not seem to feel anything, and only kept changing the shape of his mouth. That was it.

"You know about me?" I tried to ask again. "Why did you collapse in front of my house? Why do you have those wounds?"

pages 93-97

The young boy looked at me, opened his mouth, and seemed like he was going to say something, but he remained silent. His mouth continued to stay shut. Like he wasn't supposed to even open his mouth in the first place.

Perhaps he's unable to speak. Aphasia (language disorder), or congenital speech disorder. Humans lose their voices for various reasons. Whether it be mental. Something with the brain. Loss of voice can also occur due to burning of the throat or surgical removal of the throat. But I felt like this boy didn't have any of those. It felt like his voice was almost to his throat, but he decided to suppress it. He could speak, but he chose not to.

"It's fine if you don't want to speak. But if I don't patch you up, you'll die. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

The boy didn't reply. Those eyes were filled with such a silent emptiness, I took it as he heard me. If he didn't hear me, there would be confusion, and he would claim that he can't hear.

"Whether to patch you up, or to throw you out, I will decide. Since you don't talk, you don't have any say. That's fine, right? If not, speak up."

The young boy stared at me for seconds, if not tens of seconds. He then averted his eyes and closed them. There was no sound, and no emotions.

He can hear and speak. He's not speaking because his door is still closed. It was a thick, huge iron door that would never open no matter how hard I tried.

"Alright. As you wish." I said. My words emptily echoed and landed in the lonely corner of the room.

My life living with the boy started.

It technically could not be called a communal life. Nor a nursing life. It was a kind of adjustment, monitoring and maintenance work. To use a very nasty description, it was like raising fish. The young man lay in bed and barely moved all day. Apart from eating and defecating, he barely moved at all. He didn't even react to what I said or did. It wasn't much work, but it didn't feel like I was dealing with a human being. I didn't expect to hear any words of thanks, and it was much easier than if he had acted violently or complained, but it left me feeling uneasy from start to finish. It was the first time I had ever experienced anything like it.

For once, when I tried to change the bandages covering his face, he stopped me. It was an unbelievably fast reaction. He grabbed my wrist that was reaching towards the bandages. Nowhere else moved but his hand. Like his hand became a completely different living behind and was trying to attack me.

It was actually time to change the bandages. His face was basically covered in bandages that were starting to turn gray, the blood stains darkened and took on a gloomy hue. From a hygienic standpoint, it's not something that should be worn by someone injured. So I tried to change it somehow, but he resisted so stubbornly that I eventually gave up. I'd carefully applied disinfectant and wiped it down, so he probably wouldn't die.

It was just as I thought, unfortunately. He was afraid that I would see his face by changing the bandages. I could see stubbornness under those cold and hardened eyes. If he wants me to stop that badly, I have no choice but to retreat. But, however much I thought about it, I couldn't remember meeting this young boy. Not even in pictures. His worries were unfounded. That's what I thought, and I actually said it out loud, but there was no reaction from the other person.

Whatever.

I made his portion of food, changed his clothes, and changed the bandages on his body. But there was no conversation. He was a quiet man, and I'm not the best conversationalist either. His silent nature is just convenient. But either way, I couldn't shake the strange feeling that I was on a boat not knowing where I was going.

It was around this time that the police showed up at my house.

"Excuse me, I'm from S Lake Police Station. We received reports that there was a man collapsed while covered in blood around here. Can I ask a few questions?"

In the decorative window on the door that let in light, I could see the shadow of a man. Then there were two of them.

I froze. At that time, I was boiling water to make coffee in the middle of the kitchen.

"Excuse me, it's the police. Are you at home?"

The ignorant knocks shook the genkan door.

I glanced at the boy. The boy that I don't even know the name of. He shows no human reaction to the voices outside.

I wonder what would happen if he was discovered.

The boy, nine chances out of ten, probably did something illegal. He witnesses and commits crimes as if it were breathing. He's from the underworld. If not, he would be going to the hospital after getting shot. That means the police will treat him as a treasure more than an injured person. To improve arrest results.

Right now, I haven't committed any crimes. I'm only taking care of the person who showed up injured on my doorstep. It's a citizen's duty to report someone injured by a gun, but if I say 'I didn't know it was a bullet wound,' the city police will have to let me go. I could say I thought it was a stab wound. It's not very hard to identify bullet wounds, but if I didn't find the bullet wound, there's no law that goes against it.

pages 98-102

That means, even if I sell this boy out, I will not have any guilt afterwards.

I stepped out of the genkan. To face the policeman.

I'll give them a proper reason to leave. Or so I thought. If I wanted to sell him out, I wouldn't have treated his wounds in the first place.

But, my foolish sacrifice wouldn't be able to finish itself. Something completely unpredictable happened.

The boy suddenly entered the genkan.

He was faster than I expected. A spring that has been compressed to its limit, suddenly let go. He opened the door and attacked the officer.

That was something no one could have expected. I couldn't predict that kind of explosive energy from him. An injured person, moving faster than anyone could've thought, jumping at an officer and grabbing him in the face.

The policeman cried out.

The police officer became violent and slammed the young man against the wall in the doorway. But the young man didn't let go. He clung to the police officer in a position that resembled a piggyback ride, his fingers suddenly pushing into the officer's ears. If he continued to do that, his ears would burst. From the boy's throat, he made a sound that sounded like a beast.

The boy took out his fingers. The tips of his fingers were covered in blood. He thrust his finger in again. The police officer grabbed the attacker's body with his free arm and they collapsed into the room.

There was a sound of a squeak against the floorboards.

The defender, the young policeman, finally remember his handgun and took it out. Swing-out style double action revolver. He pointed it at the young man. No warning. I saw a future where the gun was fired.

I moved. I ran towards the officer and took his handgun. I slid my thumb between the barrel and the hammer. Do so, and the the hammer fails to strike the thunderbolt, and no bullet is fired.

I looked at the officer. He stared at me with an angry expression.

Something lightly dropped at the back.

Something metal. I was about to turn, but my position was at a disadvantage. My right hand was holding the gun, my left side was against the wall, I couldn't turn around. That was bad.

From the corner of my vision, I saw smoke.

I didn't see when that was thrown. But, it was probably the officer that threw it. I don't have anything like that stored in my house. A gas grenade.

It was a cylinder shaped black carry-on weapon that would spew out a non-harmful gas that would that would make people pass out. It would be distributing the air for 12 seconds, and there would be 2.8 kilolitres. In the past, they were used as anesthetic, making the people breathing this gas in turbid, though the dosage matters, and lose their consciousness in approximately ten seconds. If you suck in too much, it will concern your life.

I covered my nose and mouth with my hand. Then I thought to look for the boy. Patrol officers usually don't have gas grenades with them.

These people aren't the police.

But, from the edge of my vision, something moved. The younger officer threw the handgun away and body slammed into me.

We tumbled onto the floor. My chest was hit hard, the air forced out of me.

My vision was filled with smoke. Just like I fell into the abyss of a sea of white water. But only for a while.

Coughing, I sucked in more gas, and lost my consciousness.

I could hear something.

Something cold, wet.

It's so familiar that at first, it doesn't sound like a meaningful sound. Like a withered leaf falling, a motorcycle passing by faraway, or the meaningless sounds of the hand, a sound on the brink of my consciousness. But that sound was not the same as any noise.

That was the sound of Oda Sakunosuke being beat up.

The sound is muffled, low-pitched, and doesn't sound dangerous. It just sounds like a sandbag falling. But in reality, it is a dangerous sound.

Dazai knows that.

Because for an unimaginably long time, he's lived with it immersed right up to his throat.

"Before we start, I just want to tell you something," said someone's voice. It was the voice of an aged man. "I don't like violence." The man, gripping a leather club, said.

Dazai looked at the club. Dazai was observing the man. Staring at him, even. With the sharp, dark eye covered by bandages.

"No matter if someone else were the one who swings it, or if it was me who swings it. So think about this as business."

The club swung down. Into the back of the tied-up Oda Sakunosuke. Dazai watched.

Where Dazai was, the hallway of the bunker, it was a place completely covered in darkness. There is at least a 10 meter difference between his position and Odasaku's. Because of the darkness and the distance, Odasaku and the others couldn't see Dazai. But even so, if Dazai placed his hand somewhere closer, no one would notice Dazai. Dazai was that much combined with the shadows, he was one with them.

Dazai was watching. Staring at Odasaku getting beat up.

The bat swung downwards. Odasaku groaned.

Dazai's eyes, watching the violence, didn't twitch even once. His pupils were as if they belonged to a corpse, no emotions could move it.

But, as the bat swung down, Dazai's fingers would twitch. It was a natural sort of jump, his muscles were nervous. On those slim, pale fingers, the veins became more and more prominent with each twitch. Fingers curving to grab something invisible. He acts as if he was the one getting punished.

Dazai was one with the shadow. No one would be able to find him.

But, in response to the bat swinging down, his murderous aura spread like a pulse, and the interrogator reacted to it.

"What was that?"

He turned around and looked at the dark. He saw nothing. The darkness was deep, like the thickness of the soil.

The man stopped his interrogation. He was sure that there was someone. He couldn't help but walk over. His experience told him something was wrong.

He walked over to where Dazai was.

But, there was already no one.

There was only darkness. Like there was no one in the beginning. It was as if the darkness had taken the form of Dazai, and then dissolved back into its original darkness.

The man was confused. There, only an endless, boundless darkness remains, unchanged since time immemorial.

That younger officer, had no idea what had been done to him.

When he was patrolling in the underground bunker, something took him. But when he realized he was abducted, it was already a later time—when he was in the darkness, and he realized that he couldn't move his body.

He sat there. On top of the piled-up roof tiles, he sat like a prisoner on the concrete slab at the foot of the rubble. He had no idea what kind of situation he was in, as he had just woken up. But, before his brain restarted, there was one thing that was clear to him. It was pain.

HIs body hurt. Sharp, heavy pain ran through his body unpleasantly, and his skin tingled. But he didn't know where it hurt. His brain was like half of it was buried beneath the soil.

It was deep within an underground bunker, a dilapidated and abandoned section.

Ten years ago, this place exploded because of an emergency-use oxygen tank and collapsed. Cracks crawled everywhere, like living organisms, not even in the sky, wells, or walls, and countless pieces of rubble piled up. The rubble ranged from being as big as a car, to small plants that appeared within the walls.

pages 103-107

In the narrow, dark tunnel, a passage blocked by rubble, he sat there. He lowered his body on the rubble that was a perfect chair height. Or, to say, he was being lowered. He couldn't move.

Because his arms and legs were tied together.

His two hands were being crushed by big pieces of rubble. The part of the elbow and forearm was covered by rubble that resembled a mouth closing, properly squeezed together. The rubble wasn't heavy enough to crush his wrists, but not light enough to pull your wrists from.

"This, is…"

He cried out in a voice cracked with despair.

It was because he looked at his foot.

Thick stakes penetrated the top of his foot, and went through the floor.

They were stakes used for construction. They were as thick as a finger, old, and rusty. Pierced through those dress shoes, skin, flesh, even the inside of the shoe and into the floor. On the floor, there was fresh blood, pooling around.

Someone sewed the stake to the top of his foot. What was the purpose?

"You can feel pain, huh."

A cracked voice came from the dark.

The young police officer looked at the face of the voice, afraid.

"Pain is good. Pain is evidence of the living. There's also better reasons about why it's good. Strong pain controls people, changes how they think, and blow their personality out the window…Do you know why that's good? Do you understand, Toda Akihiko?"

The voice was intimidating, assertive, and filled with a raw, dangerous intensity, like a bleeding wound. Its pitch was as high as a young boy's, but it lacked the humanity a young boy should possess.

The man of the shadows. That was Dazai.

"That means, our personalities, soul build foundation on pain and horror, because it shows us that it's nothing more than a convenient and unstable hypothesis."

Dazai thinly smiled. The smile was nearly completely covered by bandages, when he smiled, all that was visible were his narrowed eyes and his mouth, which was white, distorted, and curved like a crescent blade.

"You were the injured person in the house…" The young officer called Toda wheezed, like someone who was about to lose consciousness. "Why do you know my name…"

"I know just about everything." Dazai gently said, and went closer to Toda. "You are a member of the criminal organization '48'. You were previously part of the patrol, but invited by your upperclassmen, you joined the organization. You live near the Tsurumi river. Your parents and sister run a sake brewing business in Shinshu. You don't deposit the money he gets from crimes in the bank, but hide it in a safe at a waste disposal site. You're clever, huh?"

"What…"

Looking down at the officer, Dazai coldly said, "Don't worry. Making you feel pain is not a hobby of mine. The 'drawing'—tell me everything you know about it."

"What…the drawing? Who even are you, why do you know my name—"

"Wrong answer." Dazai interrupts the other's words like they didn't matter, and kicked his foot.

It was as simple as rolling a small rock, but the officer screamed.

The stake that had been driven into the top of his foot was then kicked, causing his nerves and bones to shake, and the resulting pain pierced his entire body.

"I really didn't want to even let you speak. So save me the small talk. Talk about the 'drawing.' Why does Odasaku know about it. Why does he even know of the price of the 'drawing'."

"I…" The officer's face twisted. His face showed waves of intense pain coursing through his body. "I don't know…"

"Oh," Dazai raised his eyebrow and said. But the rest of his expression was normal, calm.

"I'm serious! I just joined, I really don't know anything! I only know that, that 'drawing' that's worth billions was being hidden by this man called Oda!"

"Toda-kun," Dazai walked near the officer, and placed a hand on the rubble. "This is your organization's hidden warehouse. Which means, you have a lot of 'understudies' here. If you think I'll believe your not-knowing-anything, you're wrong. I don't care if you die, and it won't trouble me either."

The officer felt cold sweat pouring from his entire body. This young boy wasn't lying. You would understand if you looked at his eyes. He sees him as nothing more than a fly that landed in the kitchen.

"I watched your interrogation. I'm relieved." Dazai's smile was as thin as a piece of paper. "Officers were pros at searching someone's home, but they aren't pros at interrogation, huh. That interrogation was child's play, he wouldn't spit anything out no matter what time the clock's hand is pointing at…I'll teach you about what real interrogation looks like."

Dazai said as he lifted his foot from the rubble. It was about a few kilograms. If you use both hands, you can pick it up without much difficulty.

"What do you think of this?"

pages 108-112

Dazai held the stone over his head. The officer tightened his stance. If he threw that towards his head, his skull would shatter. If he wanted to run, his limbs were bound together.

Dazai observed the other party with a cold gaze, before finally smirking like he was mocking the officer.

"You're wrong," he tilted his head. "I won't hit you with this. It'll get tiring, and my hands would hurt. A pro wouldn't use unnecessary energy. This is the right thing to do."

He placed down the stone. On top of the large flat surface on the officer's wrists.

The police officer winced slightly at the impact of the heavy weight.

"The end. How was it, it was a bit of a surprise, no? An interrogation always starts off soft. That way you have more time to imagine. It's because to humans, the scariest thing is their imagination."

As he said that, Dazai put one more stone on the other one.

"One or two wouldn't do much. What about ten? Twenty? Your arm is immobilized, and weight is gradually added to it. Right now, it may just be painful from the pressure, but eventually, you will reach your limit. Slowly, taking time, breaking your bones, destroying your wrists. I'll gradually increase the amount of rubble, so you'll have plenty of time to imagine it."

Blood slowly left the officer's face. Complex thoughts vanished from his eyes. All that remained were extremely primitive and simple emotions.

"That's it," Dazai nodded happily. "That's fear. Scared of your own imagination. No one can take away your imagination. Let's continue."

He kept on putting more stones on the others. The weight was concentrated on the forearm.

Sweat dropped from his forehead.

He understood what was going to happen. His wrists would shatter. The bones bearing the weight of the rubble are mainly the radius and ulna of the anterior humerus, the lunate, scaphoid, and triquetrum bones at the base of the hand, and the joints of the fingers. These bones bear the load and shatter in the order in which the force is most concentrated.

Compared to the injuring of the flesh, the breaking of the bones were more unpleasant, no one would be able to stand it.

He would be there for a long, long.

"Please! Stop!"

The officer yelled, and stood up like he was trying to escape. But there was no use in this action. He only lifted up his hips a little. His hands were being held down, and his foot were nailed to the floor. He couldn't escape.

"Then answer me."

Dazai added more of his weight on the stones.

"Ahh!"

As Dazai leaned on him, the pressure on both of his arms increased, causing them to creak.

"Talk to me about the 'drawing.' I came for that reason. It's easy to destroy your organization. But I cannot leave without closing the case of the 'drawing.' That's the first stage of my plan."

"The first stage…?"

The officer asked, confused. He had no idea what the other party was saying, at all.

There was no one that understood yet.

"I know everything. About you, about your organization, and about what is about to happen." Dazai's voice seemed to be suppressing something. "I only want to know about the drawing. Why, Odasaku will die if I let you go. I need to change the future, so I need to know the location of the 'drawing.'"

"I don't know, I don't know! I'm really only an underling, I don't know anything!"

"Is that so."

More stones were added. The officer yells in pain. Using the rest of his strength, he tries to pull his wrists from the rubble. There was no other way to survive.

Both arms are stiff and rigid, and the joints are pale and translucent. The officer holds his breath, and uses a monster-like strength that could not have been found in normal people. The arms shifts slightly outward.

But that was it.

"It's no use." Gentleness seeped into Dazai's voice. "If you use all of y our strength, you might be able to get out. But you can't. The surface of the concrete is rough. If you pull with all y our might, the skin on your wrists will tear. Furthermore, the more you pull it out, the less surface contact it makes, and the more weight it places on the skin. Which means, your skin will tear, the exposed flesh will be rubbing against the concrete, and then you won't be able to pull your wrists out. Will you be able to continue this way of pushing your own body to its limits until the very end?"

Fear creeped onto the officer's face. The strength left his wrists.

The police officer curled up, breathing heavily.

"See?" Dazai smiled lightly. "Your meaning, your soul is telling you to pull your wrists out. But your imagination planted fear, and fear stopped your hands from moving. I already told you. Our personalities, souls, put their foot on the ground called fear, it's a merely convenient and unstable thesis. Today, this moment, pain became your master and your king. So you need to talk. You must talk."

The officer's body trembled with fear. That was fear towards pain, as well as imagination. But what was scarier, was this young boy in front of him, he produced pain, controlled pain, he was the emperor of the empier of pain. "You…who are you? How could you do this kind of thing?"

"I am a pro when it comes to pain." Dazai's face neared the officer, as if sharing a big secret. "That's right. You probably want an excuse for yourself, so let me tell you. I am one of the five executives of the Port Mafia."

Then, the officer jumped up. In his eyes, there was a color of regret. His muscles tightened, and it was as if he had forgotten about the stones on his wrist, and of the nails in his foot.

"I get it, I'll talk! Everything! I didn't know this was going to anger the Port Mafia!" His hair swayed as he shouted. "I'll pay, I'll sell out as many subordinates as you'd like! So save me, please, save me!"

Extremely easily, the officer broke. Dazai thinly laughed.

"Do you know where the 'drawing' is?" He asked.

"Yes—I heard it from the merchant." The police officer's eyes were bloodshot as he desperately tried to recall what he remembered. "He runs a small gallery in an alley, behind the scenes, he is also involved in the trade of counterfeit art, otherwise also known as a gray merchant. He was arrested last month. To know that the arts were counterfeit while selling them to customers is illegal."

pages 113-117

"It seems like your throat's become smoother, huh?" Dazai grinned, and sat down near the rubble. "And then?"

"And then... the city police in charge investigated other possible crimes. They didn't uncover any serious offenses, but one major crime did come under suspicion: buying stolen goods."

"Ah," Dazai tilted his head. "Keep going."

The officer stood the pain and continued explaining.

It was that gallery's biggest job. They had to secretly sell the stolen goods from Europe. It was a massive painting, so large that it took two adults to carry it, a medieval European landscape depicting a husband and wife engaged in farming. A noble from 14th century Europe painted it, and it was called one of the greatest works of that era.

One night, it disappeared from the international museum in France. The robbers that stole it had abilities. The criminals escaped to Japan, and in order to get money from that painting, he contacted an art dealer. News of the theft has naturally spread worldwide, and finding a buyer won't be easy.

But in the end, the gallery took the job. Eventually, a rich person in the country bought the piece. He was a man who made his fortune in the aircraft import business, and a man who loved expensive works of art—or rather, a man who loved himself for owning expensive works of art. That millionaire put it in the basement of his house. He had no intention of letting anyone see. Letting himself see it was good enough.

That was the reason, so when the gallery owner was arrested, he first thought about the painting. Where the painting went, it was of concern internationally. If their movements were tracked down, EUROPOL would get involved. If it gets to that, the investigation would get intense, the charges would get bigger, and it will be far worse than when the Yokohama City Police had jurisdiction over it.

There, the gallery owner paid the crime organization "48" to erase the evidence.

It was one of the things "48" was good at. Through the aid of the people in the city police force, they stole evidence from the police station's evidence storage room, or sometimes rewrite the criminal record. Regarding the price, it depends on how heavy the offence was, the skilled hands of "48," who knew the investigative process inside and out, were highly popular in that industry, and requests for their services were constant.

But, that was it. There were two problems now.

The millionaire who bought the piece was killed.

And, the piece of art disappeared.

The millionaire was killed in his home. His family was killed as well. There was absolutely no evidence to identify the culprit; in fact, it was not even clear how the intrusion occurred or how the murder was committed. The only thing clear was that it was a close distance shot to the head, and he died immediately. The bullet's rifling marks never matched any record whatsoever.

It was clearly a pro who did it.

Then, the art disappeared. There was only one possibility that could be thought of.

The culprit knew of the value of the piece of art and stole it.

"That's impossible." Dazai said, stunned. "Are you saying that the murderer was Odasaku, and that he stole the art?"

"There's no other person." The officer pushed through the the pain. "The investigation records state that the painting had already disappeared when the crime scene was examined. Of course, it's possible that he sold it before he was killed, but this painting is hard to sell, if he were to sell it, he would surely use the same art dealer they bought it from."

Dazai remained completely still, his gaze fixed intently on nowhere in particular.

He shifted his weight onto the rubble, and didn't say anything. He was only thinking silently. His eyes were open, but he wasn't looking at anything, and it seemed like he forgot to breath.

"I understand."

When Dazai finally spoke after a long pause, his voice was completely devoid of emotion. No trace of the teasing, the cruelty, or the grin that looked like a beast from earlier. Completely empty.

Then he took out a gun.

Put it to the officer's head.

"Wa…wait! Why?! I said everything, I betrayed the organization and said everything! There's really nothing more than this!"

"You are a person who doesn't listen to anyone." Dazai's voice was cold. There was nothing in that tone. There was no feeling that he was holding a gun, nor any indication that he was speaking to a human.

"I've said it before. 'If you die, I will feel nothing, and I will not worry.' On top of that—I haven't said it before, but there's one more thing."

Dazai curved his finger.

"I hate your organization."

Gunshot.

Noticing an indescribable difference, I opened my eyes.

I was in a makeshift prison for imprisoning and sexually assaulting captured prisoners.

It was previously a bunker used to protect people from an airstrike, a simple bedroom. The wideness of a one-room hotel, only the rusty frame of the bed is fixed to the edge. The entrance door had been replaced with a raw, iron door bearing the marks of welding, and a thick chain for mooring a boat and a huge lock hang from the doorknob.

The wall was lined up with hooks hanging black walkie-talkies, and there murky, muddy cage at the back led to the electric light. That was the only light source. Because there was no AC system, the air was thick in that room.

In the middle, I was tied. Other from the sound of the light and the gloomy atmosphere, there was no other noises. A gloomy, depressing time passed before me, its expression tinged with sadness.

Before long, I noticed something wrong in the air. It was too quiet. It's almost been two hours, but there has been no footsteps, and no one's voice. For the first time since the beginning, I can no longer sense that hostile or the comforting, gentle aura.

I stood up and put my ear against the exit door. There was no one.

Then, without any choice but to respond, I was made aware of a certain fact. And I was confused. How can I explain this?

The door was unlocked.

When I poked the chain, it clattered and fell. The lock that was attached to it as well. I turned the knob, and metal creaked in protest as I slowly opened the door.

pages 118-122

I indulged in thinking for a bit. Just because the door is open doesn't mean I have to leave the room. I can also wait here. But in that situation, what would I be waiting for? Was this the next opportunity for me to be injured? Or perhaps this is an opportunity to give a speech to those who kidnapped and held me captive, to express my gratitude for their efforts.

In the end, I went out. My hands were still cuffed together, but it had no effect on my movements.

The underground bunker was long, intricate, as if inside an undiscovered underground creature.

In the dimly lit corridor, I feel around with my hand. Sometimes, there would be black insects fleeing from my hand. Somewhere, water was dripping.

In the underground shelter, there was a breeze blowing. It was cool, wet, and smelled like someone's breath, a depressing odor.

I thought I would get lost, but that didn't happen. Because I found a landmark.

It was a huge mark, on the floor of the forkway there was disarrayed drawing. I went near it and touched it. It was blood. Someone drew a huge arrow in blood, so big you couldn't miss it. The blood was still wet. It hasn't been a long time since this.

I looked ahead, and I immediately understood the meaning of the arrow. Someone was collapsed on the floor.

As I ran, I thought that the person might not be living.

He was collapsed on the side. Before I neared him, I knew that his wrists were broken. His skin was peeled, the flesh exposed. From the elbow to the hand, the skin on the back and palm sides of the hand was torn as if pinched. But outside of that, the inside of the wrists had nearly no injuries. Just what kind of strike would result in this kind of state.

In his shoes, there were two huge holes. The hole reached the sole of his shoe, and weak bleeding was still continuing from there. I was startled.

I turned him upwards. I remember that face. Surely, it was one of the officers that ambushed my house, the younger one.

"Wake up. Who did this to you?"

When I tapped his cheek, the young officer woke up slightly.

The officer's face was pale with almost no hint of blood running, but his hazy gaze eventually started to focus, like a dotted line of fire. His gaze went onto me. It took a few more seconds for his brain to process the meaning of what he was seeing.

"Stop!"

Suddenly, the officer pushed me and rolled backwards. He did short and fast breaths, running for his life with his uncontrollable limbs.

"Hey, wait!"

"Don't come near me! Stop, please!"

"Wait, calm down, I have no intention of hurting you."

I grasped his shoulder. I brushed away the struggling arms that tried to resist and peered into the his eyes. "Who did this? This is supposed to your base. What happened to your other colleagues?"

There, the officer got some of his logicality back. His gaze started to focus, and he observed the situation of his surroundings.

"That guy…where is that guy? Isn't he with you?"

"That guy?"

I followed the officer's line of vision, and looked around. But there was no one.

There was a big storage room. It probably used to store emergency use water and rations, but it had nothing inside now, it was quite spacious. Pillars so thick that no one could embrace them stood side by side at equal intervals, like inanimate soldiers from ancient times.

"That guy…that guy said it. 'There's nowhere you can escape to.'" The officer deliriously rambled, as if caused by fever. "And he also said this. 'If you don't want everyone here to be killed, tell me the location of the drawing.'"

"Everyone?"

I looked around. There was no other person in here. "Where are the other people?"

The officer shook his head as if scared. Then he pointed further into the room.

I stood up and observed. It was just darkness. At the end of the dimly lit corridor was the entrance to a hallway, where an even deeper darkness engulfed the corridor.

Walking towards it, I had a bad feeling.

As I continued further into the hallway, I rubbed a match to dispel the darkness. Before I looked down at what was pooling on the floor, I already knew what was there.

In the middle of the pool of blood, a man slumped on the floor. With arms outstretched limply, he lay idly in the pool of blood, as if resting on a cloud. Further in the room, there was one more person. This body was bent in the shape of 'く' (ku), lying on the ground, clutching his arms. Even further in, there was the odor of blood.

A hunch struck me.

Have all the people in this underground base been defeated?

I checked the pulse on someone near me. The bleeding was endless, but he was not dead. He was breathing shallowly. I observed his body. Everywhere on his flesh, a sharp blade had slashed him dozens of times. But, they deliberately avoided blood vessels. With this method of cutting, bleeding decreased relatively quickly. Furthermore, the bleeding site was carefully selected to avoid arteries. Calculated to the dot to ensure that they didn't die. He wasn't living; he was being forced to live. It was a pro's job. A skill different from mine, skill of someone in the underworld.

They must have been prepared for violence and attacks, of course. Who exactly was the person who so easily and readily devoured them, and even managed to keep them alive while torturing and interrogating it? And what was their purpose?

The officer from earlier was threatened with, 'if you don't tell me where the location is, I will kill everyone.' That means the torturer wanted to know information about the 'drawing.' Which means they will be my opponent.

Suddenly, feeling extremely cold, I felt like I had lost my way. There was nothing I could use to defend myself, nor a way to leave and go home. In the white darkness, there was an unknown monster, waiting to rip my skin.

I quickly returned outside. I would ask the conscious officer about the way, and they would escape together. That way, as the target of the torturer, they might leave this place, letting the dying people here escape.

But, before I could fully return to the officer, the tunnel as a whole started to shake.

A shockwave, a deafening roar. I immediately stood up and pressed my hand against the wall. As far as I could see, the concrete was shaking, and rubble started to fall.

"It's…starting," someone said. It was the young officer from earlier. I went towards that direction.

pages 123-127

The officer was trembling. Those eyes confirmed that this world was about to end. I helped him get up. He was like a sick person, ridden with fever, speaking rapidly and rambling on without looking anywhere in particular.

"They're coming, they're coming. The rest of us will be killed. He will use your fear. Your imagination. No one can beat your own imagination. He's surrounding the exit and planning to burn us all to death."

"Hey, pull yourself together. Who's 'he?' What's going to happen?"

The officer looked at me. It was a pale, terrifying light that seemed to swell and expand towards us from deep within, so much so that it felt as if it could infect us as well.

"He's Port Mafia."

Port Mafia.

I'm not as oblivious as to not know what that means.

They are like the night wind that blows through dark places. They pursue you relentlessly through the darkness, tearing your throat with their fangs. The apostles of death, against whom no living being can ever resist, have arrived.

More explosions. The hall trembled like the internal organs of a gigantic, convulsing creature, and thin, turtle-like cracks ran across the walls. There's less time left than I thought.

"So this is the situation," I turned to face the officer. "This place will soon be surrounded, and the Port Mafia will kill everyone. But if I say the location of the painting, everyone will be saved."

"I…think so." He said with a pale face. "He won't just take anyone's life. To him, our lives are worth less than weeds—please, save us. I'll leave the orgnaization, I'll make up for my crimes, I don't want to be in a world where that kind of monster exists. I don't want to die yet."

I stared at the young officer. He was scared from the bottom of his heart. Fear had taken over him, it was transforming mature humans into mere trembling creatures.

In the light of his eyes, I saw the man. A master of terror. The evil demon of the Port Mafia. He was using fear as a thread to manipulate a young police officer and speak to me.

Hand over the painting.

"I refuse," I said. "Firstly, I don't like his method of trying to make others obey him through violence. Secondly, that painting was not mine. It's someone else's. It's not something I can just use as payment for buying and selling lives. Thirdly, that painting doesn't have that kind of value anymore. Don't give it five hundred million, it won't even go for fifty thousand. Even if I gave you the painting, I don't think they would let us go."

"But! If you don't give it to me, everyone will be killed—"

"Fourthly," I interrupted him. "Even if I don't, I won't be killed. Because I'm the only one who knows where it is. Port Mafia might surround this place and kill everyone here. But I have to be alive, because I have the information in my head. But if I tell you now, there won't be just one person who knows about the location, and the value of my life will decrease. If that happens, whether the mafia keeps me alive or not will depend entirely on luck."

"W-what are you saying?!" The man yelled. "Then what about me? What about us?!"

"You guys are crimedoers." I said in a low, restrained voice, trying to raise the voice. "Even if you are completely swallowed up by more evil and wicked criminal organizations, that is the natural order of things."

"You…!"

He remained on the floor, and took out a hidden handgun. Then he pointed it at me.

I took a step back and studied the gun. Black 9mm automatic pistol. There is no need to pull the trigger for an automatic pistol. Even with two injured wrists, he can shoot one bullet without a problem.

"Did you not hear me?" I said, raising both my hands. "If I die, you will lose the information. So there's no use in threatening me with a gun."

"Ah, yes. That's why you're so confident." There was a sort of manic look in the young officer's eyes. "You think you're the only in the safe zone. Compared to you, look at me. I'll most definitely die. No matter what you say, or what you don't say. Then I'll shoot you here, and die a bit happier. How do you feel now, still so confident?"

I watched the man silently. I looked down on the feeling of desperation, what humans called plea. He was definitely going to shoot me. No doubt. It was the same as waiting for the sky to light up, it was certain.

"I see," I said. "If you've thought that far ahead, then I have no choice but to tell you. Though I don't think anything will change even if you find out. --I killed the rich person, the owner of that painting, seven years ago. It was my last job."

Then I started to tell my story.

I killed the billionaire, solely because it was a mission. I didn't know who that person was, or why I had to kill him. I only pulled the trigger against his head. That was it.

It seemed like the person who requested the kill was aiming after the painting. I only knew that way after. My mission was to kill the billionaire only. The clean up and removal afterwards was another pro that I didn't know. They were doing their job.

I was doing my job. When I finished the mission, I went home, and took a novel from the billionaire's home.

It's always the smallest thing that sparks something.

That novel sparked something, brought up a lot of things, and I stopped killing. Since then, I've never killed another person.

Two years after that day, I thought to return the novel. There was no particular reason to it. It was not out of moral conscience or guilt. I simply thought that doing so might allow me to properly engage with the novel. I already had a copy of the book that I had purchased myself.

There, in the mansion, the billionaire's son lived alone. Fifteen years old. Afterwards, I heard that he wasn't his actual son, but was picked up by the billionaire because his parents died from being involved in the underground society. An orphan.

I must have been out of my mind at the time. I wanted to meet his son. I should have just sneaked into the house, left the book, and gone home; that would have been as easy as bending my finger. But I stood in front of the son and gave him my name. I said I was his father's killer.

There was no way to describe how angered the son had become. His anger was justified. His family was killed by these societies a second time. He hit me, threw things at me, and hurled every insult and curse he could think of at me. I could easily avoid his attacks, but I couldn't dodge his words.

pages 128-132

As he lashed out at me, I explained the murder. And for that, he asked for something in return. In exchange for his father's life, and for the rental of the book.

Return the painting.

There was no reason for me to accept it. Firstly, I had no idea where the painting could be right now. It must have been bought by another billionaire on the other side of the sea. There was no way for me to investigate, and it meant a series of long, unprofitable, and annoying labour.

If it weren't for the book, I don't think I would have accepted the offer.

In the end, my prediction was correct. It was a long, tedious, and unprofitable job. On top of that, it was dangerous. This was because I had to infiltrate a private military company guarded by nearly 150 armed soldiers and remove the paintings amidst a hail of gunfire without killing anyone. If someone said to do it again, I would have definitely refused. Most of the troubles in my life are things I bring upon myself.

When I brought the painting back to the son, he only stared at it quietly. After thirty minutes, he spoke bit by bit. Why he wanted to have the painting back. That painting was the subject of a bet, he said.

His father hoped that his son would surpass him in being a merchant. And if he earned 10 million by the time he turned 18, he promised to give his son the painting.

What a foolish son, he had said. It had been obtained through illegal methods anyway, it was a filthy painting. Did he really think his son would work that hard to obtain something like that?

But he worked hard. He earned about 80% of that 10 million by himself.

He said he worked hard not because he wanted the painting.

There was one year until the promised 18 years old.

The young man asked me if I could keep the painting for him until then.

There was something hidden in the painting. If you use UV light to shine on it, there is something written in special paint, taking up a quarter of the painting, and it said this.

"You are my pride and joy."

If art enthusiasts around the world saw this, they would be so angered they would faint. With this kind of writing on it, the value of five hundred million would fly out the window. A nuisant man even in his death. But perhaps the wealthy man did it precisely because it was a nuisance. He probably wanted to say, "It's okay if the painting's value is reduced to zero, because you are worth that much." Perhaps it was because of this, he bought the painting through illegal means. Of course, no one would know the reason behind it now.

Because I killed his father.

As per his request, I am still storing the painting. It's in a safe, shut in a dark and cool place.

It's on the floor of my house, under the feet of the bed.

There is no artistic value in the painting. There's no purpose in carefully protecting it. But there's value to the young man. To the son whose father was killed. The painting was a memento from his father, a legacy from his father, and in a sense, it was his father himself.

I am still protecting that painting.

Not because I want to get rid of the evidence of my crimes. I'm not that admirable of a person. It was simply a matter of various factors coming together to make that decision.

"I decided that that wouldn't change no matter who asked me to." I said as I walked towards the officer. "Are you satisfied now, bandaged boy?"

"What?"

Before the officer could react, I quickly snatched the gun from his hands. He had no more strength in those injured wrists, not even to take it back from me. I held the gun up to my face.

"This is not a gun." I stated. "It's a listening device. You're listening, right? You orchestrated this situation, made a situation where I would say the painting's location, and you planned on listening in through this gun."

"The gun was a…listening device?" The officer asked, dazed. This was unheard of.

"What I initially found intriguing was that it was an automatic pistol." I studied the gun. "When he broke into my house, he had a revolver. They're different. Perhaps this automatic pistol is the one you used to intimidate the police officer? One more thing, for something to be considered intimidating or coercing, the person making the threat must be able to make physical contact with me. But the only people here are injured. So I imagined this—you created a situation where you didn't have to appear to know the location of the painting, and the officer would have to threaten me. The only reasonable solution is that there is a listening device."

Naturally, the gun didn't reply. It was an existence of coldness, heaviness, and quietness. But the mere presence of the gun radiates its own unique aura.

"There are bullets in here, but they're probably blank." I shot once towards the ceiling. A gunshot rang, there was a flash of light, but that was it. There was no bullet marks left on the ceiling. "This was quite a feat. Did you really calculate all of this and then fall in front of my house? If so, then that's brilliant. I've spoken everything about the painting. Fulfill your promise, and lift the siege. Otherwise, we can all get in and have a fun fight to the death here. I don't really care either way."

As I said that, I carefully looked at the gun. It was previously a tool of the trade. The balance of weights is ingrained in my mind as if it were an extension of my own fingers. The grip is a bit heavy. I press the release button, and the barrel would fall into my hand. Near the grip screw on the gun handle, the polymer material on the side of the magazine has been scraped away, and a black rectangular component has been embedded in the gap. It was a listening device.

pages 133-140 (end)

I held the barrel up like a microphone and said towards the device. "Within ten seconds, make three explosion noises, and then leave. If not, then I'll see it as a break of our deal and come to your side."

Throwing away the gun, I counted ten seconds in my head. Between eight and nine, there were continuous explosions that rocked the ground. Just three times. After the explosions that sounded like thunder, the sounds stopped. Only silence remained. The kind that made your ears hurt.

"That's it," I took a break and started walking. "When you get out, call the police. Real police, alright? You'll all be arrested, but there will be some treatment for you. Unlike the mafia."

"W-wait." The officer said with a stiff voice. "You…why? You yourself said that you could've saved yourself if you were alone. And you knew I wouldn't fire the gun that I used to threatened you with. You…did you want to save us? Why?"

The answer to that was simple. But I didn't want to answer. What good would it do to answer this question? I was empty. Tired, injured, got betrayed, and betrayed someone.

"I'm thirsty," I simply said. "I'm going home."

What the other said, I didn't hear, and continued to walk towards the exit.

The lamp lit by gas shone on the faces of people who were passing through the ticket gates.

The few blue stars of the city were scattered across the night sky like a thin film.

Surrounding the station was the scenery of the night sky, as well as people that were walking home quietly. There were no explosions, gunshots, or bargaining over life and death. A mechanical start to the day, and a mechanical end to the day…it was an uneventful scene.

Dazai Osamu and Oda Sakunosuke were in the same station. Different places.

Oda was utterly exhausted, protecting his aching back, and walked together with the crowd that was leaving the station.

Dazai, from the shadows outside the unlit part of the station's entrance, gazed upon Oda's figure, becoming one with the shadows and darkness.

Oda walked from the platform, took out his ticket, and stepped into the street's darkness. After getting out of the underground bunker, he hiked over the hill and made a deal with a farmer to ride on their agricultural vehicle. From there he rode the bus and train, and arrived at the nearest station to his home. When he arrived, it had become pitch black.

Oda massaged his own shoulder, cracking his neck, his face shadowed by exhaustion. His clothes were covered in mud and wrinkled, so people passing by sometimes looked at Oda with strange, alien eyes. But no one would go and talk to him. No one would do that in the city.

As Oda took out his ticket and walked under the street lights, he retrieved a cigarette from his pocket. Then he looked for something in his jacket. Perhaps a lighter.

"Here."

A voice suddenly came from behind him, and Oda turned around. In front of him was a lit match, and a hand gripping it.

Oda stared for a moment, but then lifted his cigarette to the lighter. He closed his eyes as he breathed the smoke in, breathed it out, then looked at the stranger.

"Hello. You look wild. Are you alright?"

It was Dazai.

Dazai, who was half-submerged into the darkness, appeared to the surface with a smile, standing quietly.

"It's nothing." Oda said as he observed the other person through the smoke. "I fell."

"This matchbox, it's yours, right? It was dropped at the ticket gate."

Oda looked at the matchbox Dazai was holding. This is a matchbox with black sides and a white top, and it has a bar name engraved on the top. It was indeed the one that Oda would bring around.

"Yeah," Oda responded while he stared at the matchbox.

Then he observed the other, was silent for a few moments, then asked without an expression.

"Have we met somewhere before?"

Dazai's generic smile surfaced. "No, this is the first time, I believe."

Dazai, who always covered his whole face in bandages, was gone. A flat cap pulled low over his eyes concealed his head and eyes, while a black Inverness coat hid his physique and the injuries on his body. As for his voice, Oda has never heard Dazai speak once.

"I see," Oda muttered, took the box from Dazai, and turned his back. "Thanks for the matches. Good night."

Oda had only walked a couple of steps when Dazai spoke up from behind.

"It looks like you've gotten yourself involved in quite a troublesome situation."

Oda stopped walking and slowly turned around. "What?"

"Ah, no, you just look tired. Your face is extremely pale…furthermore, even though it's hard to see in the dark, your hands and clothes aren't just covered in dirt but blood as well, correct?"

Dazai looked at his hands. Indeed, there was blood left from when he helped the officer up.

"Right, there was something going on." Oda confirmed as he carefully sniffed his hands. "It's not my blood. But yes, I was involved in a troublesome situation. Something important was taken from me. Something that I've protected for a long time."

"If it was taken from you," Dazai gently smiled. "At least you won't have it stolen from you anymore."

Oda looked at the stranger for a moment. As if he was searching for an answer.

"Perhaps," Oda said at last. "But I won't be able to forgive the one who stole it."

Dazai slowly nodded. As if he were hiding his expression.

Oda observed the other's expression for a moment then turned around. "Thanks for the help with the matches. Goodbye."

Faced with the disappearing figure, Dazai quickly opened his mouth. "If you run into anymore trouble after this."

Oda turned around. "What?"

"You should request help from the Armed Detective Agency in Yokohama. They should take care of troublesome things there. They certainly do their job there. I've received help from them in the past."

"Ah, I see." Oda seemed to think for a moment upon hearing those words. "Then I shall do so. Thanks. You're a good person."

Dazai's expression twisted.

As if he couldn't breathe, he opened his mouth and closed it.

If he had said everything, maybe everything would return to the way they were before. The two of them would go to a bar together, and raise their glasses. Like that night.

"Odasa—"

When Dazai let that name slip from his mouth without a thought, a train passed by. An express train passing through the station pierced the silence of the night, speeding past right beside Dazai and the others. Darkness and light clashed, striking the street, and the roar of the iron blasted away the surrounding silence. Oda narrowed his eyes.

The train was long, and its sound evoked a prolonged sadness. Dazai looked down without anyone seeing, his face distorted by sadness. The long thundering promised the six heartless years that would follow.

The train had passed by.

Oda looked around to try and ask the stranger to speak again, but there was no one.

He blinked his eyes in confusion and looked around.

Then he shook his head as if to dismiss the thoughts in his mind, and with a resigned expression, he walked away.

Only the cold, quiet night wind passed through the empty space, filling the void.

No one said anything.

The painting was stored by the Port Mafia, and then returned to the original owner, the son of the millionaire.

The son kept it for a few years before sending it to a museum anonymously.

That way, Dazai's goal was met. Without directly contacting Oda, nor getting his face remembered, he got the location of the painting. Then Oda would never get targeted by another crime organization again. That was his goal.

There was one more target of his.

The goal was to make Oda despise the Port Mafia. That way, he won't join the Port Mafia and can avoid his inevitable death.

That goal was achieved. Oda joined not the mafia but the Armed Detective Agency, and landed a position in there two years later.

Then, two years later, Oda would meet Dazai once again.

At the bar counter, with the sad melody of a song of separation.

There, Oda would turn the gun onto Dazai, and Dazai would say his last goodbye.

His life's last goodbye.

The End of The Day I Picked Up Dazai (Side - Beast)