050

By the time you and Chuuya finished dinner, the streets had quieted.

The restaurants that buzzed with low conversation and scraping cutlery hours earlier had dimmed, windows glowing like sleepy eyes in the skeleton of the city.

You walked Chuuya home—half out of amusement, half concern for his wine cellar’s safety—and waved him off with a mock salute before vanishing into thin air.

Teleportation shimmered through your skin like a hum. Your destination being the infirmary in the headquarters.

A place soaked in sterile scents and lingering sedatives. Cool linens. Blinking monitors. Shadowed corners.

You don't exactly like hospitals. But Mori’s clinic—back then—was different.

When you were younger, taken in by Mori, before you joined the mafia, that place had been something of a shelter.

Cold, sure. But reliable.

The sharp scent of antiseptic, the soft beep of heart monitors—it meant predictability. A known rhythm in an otherwise chaotic life.

So when you reappeared inside the port mafia’s infirmary, it wasn’t to check in with a doctor. It was just to sleep.

The cot near the far wall was always empty. A blanket folded precisely.

The lights dimmed. The staff long gone or asleep in the other wing.

It was your routine. Familiar.

But this time, something felt—

Wrong.

You barely had time to process it before a hand shot out from the shadows.

Rough fingers clamped around your wrist, hard enough to bruise.

Your body reacted instantly—the urge to teleport surged through your nerves, instinctual, desperate—

And died.

The world remained still. Solid. Unmoved.

“…Ah,” you breathed.

There was only one reason your ability wouldn’t activate.

And only one person in the mafia who could negate it.

Your gaze slid slowly toward the grip holding you in place.

And then you saw him.

Dazai.

He didn’t speak.

His eyes met yours.

Not with the familiar glint of mockery, not with his usual lazy amusement or deadpan calm.

No.

They were empty.

Dark.

Like deep water under thin ice—silent, unreadable, and dangerous in a way that stirred something unfamiliar in your chest.

Not fear. But interest.

Fascination.

You tilted your head, eyes flicking across his face.

He’d grown taller.

Not by much, but enough that your eyes had to lift slightly to meet his.

And his face, once boyishly sharp, had matured in your absence. His features refined, carved by years of internal storms. The curve of his jaw, the slight hollowness beneath his eyes, the stillness in his expression.

You smirked.

“Well,” you said softly, “you’ve gotten taller.”

He didn’t blink.

“Three years,” he said quietly. His voice was deeper. No drawl. Just cold statement.

You smiled wider. “And you became an executive. Congratulations. Bit late, but I’ve been busy.”

His grip tightened on your wrist.

You felt the bones press against one another, not enough to break, but enough to warn.

You lifted a brow, not pulling away.

“Is this how you say hello now?” you mused. “You’ve changed.”

“So have you,” he murmured. “You didn’t flinch.”

You leaned in, just a little. “Maybe I didn’t want to.”

His eyes narrowed.

The silence between you buzzed like an exposed wire.

He hadn’t let go.

You didn’t ask him to.

You examined him more carefully.

His coat was slightly damp from the coastal air. His hair a touch longer than before.

Not unkempt—just grown. Like he hadn’t bothered to cut it. Or perhaps no one had dared try.

The way he held himself… different.

He looked like one who had already buried a part of himself—and was waiting to be reborn into something worse.

You exhaled softly.

“I’m guessing this isn’t a coincidence,” you said. “You waiting here. You knew I’d come.”

He said nothing.

But his eyes said everything.

You let your other hand lift and lightly press against the back of his fingers.

“I’m flattered,” you murmured.

He stared at your touch, but didn’t withdraw. “You talked to Chuuya before me.”

You smiled faintly. “Mm. I did.”

“You could’ve come to me.”

“I could’ve.”

“You didn’t.”

“No.”

His hand shot up, the one not holding your wrist, and it landed flat against your chest—shoving you against the infirmary wall.

Hard.

Your breath caught.

But you didn’t move.

His body followed, close—barely an inch of air between you.

You could feel the press of his coat against yours.

The faint shift of his breathing.

The tension radiating from his frame like static.

The smell of rain, cigarettes, and cold steel.

“You don’t get to come back like nothing happened,” he said. His voice was soft but threaded with something sharp. “You left. Without a word.”

“I was on a mission.”

“You chose not to write.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “You sound like a jilted lover, Dazai.”

He leaned closer. His mouth hovered near your ear.

“What if I am?”

You blinked.

Your pulse thudded.

But you didn’t retreat. Instead, you tilted your head, offering your throat just slightly.

“Well,” you said slowly, “if you are, you’ve become possessive in my absence. It suits you.”

He laughed.

Soft. Humorless.

Then he stepped back just enough to look at you.

But his hand didn’t move from your chest.

“You taught me everything,” he said. “How to manipulate. How to wear masks. How to hurt. You shaped me.”

You smiled faintly. “Are you thanking me or blaming me?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, his hand drifted.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Over your collarbone that's exposed caused by the first three buttons of your dress shirt being unfastened.

Down the line of your coat, barely brushing fabric.

Like he was memorizing something.

Or confirming it was real.

“Three years,” he murmured again. “And you didn’t change your cologne.”

You raised a brow. “You remember it?”

“I tried to forget.”

You paused. Then chuckled. “And failed, apparently.”

His eyes snapped to yours again.

The tension snapped with it.

You could feel it—sharp and alive—pulling between you like taut wire.

One wrong move, and it would break. Or slice.

“I dreamed about you,” Dazai said suddenly.

You blinked. “Oh?”

“Sometimes you died in them. Sometimes I did.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“Sometimes I killed you.”

You stared at him, expression unreadable.

Then— “Did you win?”

His eyes darkened. “No.”

You smiled slowly. “Then that wasn’t a dream. That was just a fantasy.”

He exhaled through his nose.

You weren’t sure if it was amusement or frustration.

“I hated you for a while,” he said. “Tried to.”

You tilted your head. “Did it work?”

He didn’t answer.

But his hand curled slightly against your coat.

You raised your hand, mirroring his earlier gesture. Fingers pressed against his jaw—lightly, tracing the edge.

“You’ve grown colder,” you murmured. “Sharper.”

His eyes narrowed. “And you haven’t.”

“Oh, I have,” you said. “Just differently.”

He leaned in again. Close. Closer.

And this time, when his breath ghosted your cheek, it carried something new. A question. A test.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

You didn’t hesitate.

“I want to see what you’ve become.”

Silence.

Then he smiled.

But it wasn’t the charming, careless curve you remembered. It was quiet. Dangerous.

“Then stay,” he said.

And suddenly, you were moving.

He pulled you away from the wall, tugged your wrist forward, and half dragged you toward the back room of the infirmary.

You let him.

There was something intoxicating in this version of him.

The unpredictability.

The way his body moved—like he was still deciding whether to hold you or hurt you.

The room he chose was unlit. The single cot unmade. The blinds shut.

He pushed you inside.

You stepped backward, hands raised slightly in mock surrender.

“No collar tonight?” you teased. “No rope? You’re slipping.”

His eyes gleamed in the dark.

“I don’t need rope for you.”

You chuckled. “Bold.”

He stepped closer.

You didn’t retreat.

His hand came up again— this time to cup the side of your neck.

His thumb brushed the pulse there.

And lingered.

“…Still as calm as ever,” he said. “Even when I do this.”

You looked him in the eye. “You were always going to try.”

“Still trust me?”

“No.”

He smiled again. “Good.”

He let his hand slide down, knuckles grazing your collarbone.

Slow.

Calculated.

He wanted a reaction. He always had.

But now?

Now he didn’t just want it. He needed it.

You leaned forward slightly, your breath near his ear.

“You love this,” you whispered.

He inhaled sharply—as if he's been told a truth he didn't want to acknowledge.

And for just a moment, the tension shifted.

Not softer.

Just… hotter.

You pulled back. Just a fraction.

Eyes searching his face.

He was still unreadable.

But the danger was real now. Not theoretical. Not playful.

He had the power to kill you.

He wouldn’t.

But he could.

And that made it exhilarating.

You reached up and fixed a strand of hair that had fallen over his eye.

“Congratulations again, Executive Dazai,” you murmured.

He stared at you.

Then said, “Three years. You’re three years late.”

You smiled.

“But I’m here now.”

He looked at you for a long moment.

Then let his hand fall away.

And turned his back.

For some reason, that felt like more of a threat than if he had pressed a knife to your throat.

“You’ll stay here,” he said. “I’ll know if you leave.”

You blinked. “So we’re not done?”

He looked over his shoulder. “We haven’t even started.”

Your pulse flickered.

You didn’t reply.

He walked out.

Didn’t look back.

And still, the air clung to his presence like smoke.

You sat on the cot.

Then laid down, arms behind your head, staring at the ceiling.

Your wrist still tingled where he’d grabbed it.

You smiled faintly to yourself.

“…Interesting.”

You hadn’t decided yet whether he had surpassed you.

But one thing was certain.

You would enjoy finding out.