028

In the office room stood two boys. One guilty, one not.

Or perhaps, both were guilty. Just in different ways.

The air was thick with silence, the kind that simmered beneath chandeliers and clung to the edges of bloody clothes and torn silk.

It was the silence of a mission completed... if you ignored the massacre.

Behind the heavy desk sat Mori Ogai, head of the Port Mafia. His head was tilted against one hand, elbow pressed to the polished wood.

A large jewel, majestic and ancient, rested between him and the two who retrieved it, gleaming coldly under the soft light.

Mori sighed.

Dramatically.

His eyes were closed, the kind of exaggerated expression one might expect from a man who was constantly on the verge of either orchestrating murder or scheduling outings with Elise.

"Remind me," he began, voice velvet and sharp.

"What exactly I said before this mission began?"

Chuuya’s lips twitched. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

Beside him, you stood with your usual calm, as if your coat wasn’t bloodstained, as if the scent of death didn’t cling to you like perfume.

You adjusted your grip on the unconscious woman over your shoulder.

Mori opened his eyes and leveled his gaze at the figure you carried.

Then he blinked.

His eyes flicked from the woman’s face to yours, then down to the blood trailing from the hem of Chuuya’s ruined gown.

He looked... tired.

"I said, specifically," Mori continued, rubbing at his temple.

"That this mission should be completed quietly. No casualties. No chaos."

You tilted your head slightly, smiling.

“Well, they’re quiet now.”

Chuuya coughed. You weren't wrong...

Mori stared.

Then, giving up with a sigh so heavy it sounded like resignation incarnate, he gestured vaguely toward the woman on your shoulder.

“And this is…?”

“My dearest sister,” you replied with a brightness that sent a chill up Chuuya’s spine.

His brows rose. “Huh—?”

You didn’t answer him, even with his curious stare at you.

Mori blinked again. He knew. Of course he did. You’d told him everything once, long ago, not out of trust but out of something else. A need to see whether he'd flinch.

He didn’t.

But he understood.

He always did.

“Of course she is,” Mori muttered, glancing at the jewel on his desk.

“You’re staining the carpet. Dismissed. Both of you.”

Chuuya stiffened. He looked down and flinched. Blood he had stepped on before painted the carpet red.

“Shit—”

“Out,” Mori added, already reaching for a file.

“Clean up. I’m too tired to pretend to be surprised today.”

You turned and opened the door.

And there he was.

Dazai Osamu.

Fifteen, already too clever, too unreadable. He leaned against the wall lazily, arms crossed.

His gaze lifted to meet yours, then casually flicked to Chuuya—

—and paused.

There was a beat of silence.

Then his eyes dropped lower.

Chuuya blinked, confused.

Then followed Dazai’s gaze.

The dress.

The damn dress.

The ruined red silk clinging to him like sin, one strap sliding down a shoulder, a slit torn up the thigh.

“Oh, hell no—”

Click.

Dazai’s phone flashed.

He didn’t even smile, just casually pressed a button.

“Picture taken,” he said calmly.

Chuuya stared.

Then Dazai added, as if discussing the weather.

“Sent to every contact I have.”

Your phone buzzed.

You opened it.

A message from Dazai.

One image. Chuuya, standing bloodstained, furious, in a ripped red dress.

Caption: Princess of the Port Mafia.

You snorted with your head turned away, one hand covering the amusement on your lips.

Chuuya snapped.

“YOU LITTLE SHIT!”

Truly an ironic insult.

He lunged forward, using his ability, lightening his body to move faster.

Dazai turned to run.

Too slow.

Chuuya tackled him to the ground, grabbed his phone, and crushed it in one hand.

Dazai wheezed, wind knocked out of him, back slammed against the wall.

“I already sent it,” Dazai gasped.

Chuuya’s eye twitched.

“I’ll kill you.”

Dazai gave him a bright, pained smile. “Try me.”

“YOU’RE DEAD!”

“Technically, we all are inside, aren’t we?”

Chuuya raised a fist.

You simply walked past them.

“Play nice, children,” you called.

Your voice echoed down the hall.

You walked the underground halls of the Port Mafia with light steps, savoring the silence.

The patrol guards straightened when they saw you.

“Sir,” they said in unison.

You smiled.

“Don’t be nervous. I won’t bite.”

They stiffened.

The woman in your arms, your beloved sister, remained unconscious, her head resting against your shoulder.

You walked until you found an empty cell.

Inside, the stone walls were cold, the air damp. The futon was thin, barely a cushion.

You gently crouched and laid her down.

Your fingers brushed a strand of hair from her face.

For a moment, you simply watched her.

She looked so peaceful. Just like back then.

A voice broke the silence.

“Sir, is there anything we can do to assist you?” one of the patrol guards asked nervously.

You turned. “What a pleasing offer.”

Your smile sharpened. “You want to help?”

You approached him slowly, each step measured.

Then you tilted his chin up, forcing his gaze to yours.

“How cute,” you whispered.

The guard flushed, frozen in place.

Then you dropped your hand. “Let’s see… All I need is a dull knife.”

You turned, gaze already back on Akari.

“Just one person can do the job,” you added, voice lighter. “The rest, go back to work.”

“Yes, sir!”

Moments later, the cell was quiet again.

Just you, your sister, and the soft echo of distant footsteps.

You looked at her again.

At her pretty face.

The deceit underneath.

The fake angelic smile from childhood.

The way she looked down on you.

Even now.

You smiled sweetly.

And sat beside her.

Your fingers brushed along her jaw.

"Let’s make some memories, Akari nee-san," you whispered.

"The kind you’ll never forget."

Even after death.