058

The air inside the broken greenhouse felt heavier now — less ruin, more ritual. Like the shattered glass and blood warmed dust had consecrated it somehow.

The red box sat between you and Dazai like an altar piece, tenderly desecrated.

You still held his hand. His fingers were slender, deceptively gentle, his grip steady without pressure. He was waiting for you to pull away.

You didn’t.

Yet.

"You really went through all this trouble... just to make me feel something," you said lightly, voice rolling on amusement, but the undertone twitched — restless, aware. "How romantic. Should I be flattered? Or concerned?"

Dazai tilted his head, that ever boyish smirk stretching his lips like a curtain pulled just an inch too far.

"Both," he answered simply. "I like watching you react. I wanted to see how far you'd chase something you thought was tailored just for you."

You snorted, pulling your hand back, but not harshly. Just enough to flex your fingers and keep the warmth lingering between them. “Obsessive much?”

"Only with you."

The words were too easy. Slid past his teeth like sugar off a poisoned apple.

He wasn’t playing coy. He never did with you. That was the problem.

You crouched again beside the box, tracing the edge of the ribbon with your gloved fingertips. "I’m starting to wonder how much of my trail has ever been mine."

Dazai leaned slightly to your level, gazing at you with that same unblinking patience he always wore when he was hunting — not prey, but reactions. "You’d rather be the one doing the unraveling. I know."

You glanced at him, lashes half masked. "And you’d rather be the thread that strangles me while I pull."

A silence stretched — tight and glimmering like glass wire.

Then he laughed. Soft. Honest.

“I would,” he said.

You let out a slow breath and stood. Your coat shifted around your legs like a shadow with its own pulse. “You want to consume me, Dazai.”

“Only so I can understand you.”

“And what will you do once you do?”

He smiled.

Didn’t answer.

You tsked, turning toward the skeletal arch of broken glass where the moonlight speared through.

Your boots crunched on scattered shards.

The night outside yawned like an open grave, but you had long since stopped fearing graves. Or ghosts.

"Would you still 'love' me," you asked after a pause, "if I found someone more interesting again?"

It was a test. A knife gently pressed between two ribs, angled with affection.

Dazai’s smile stayed.

But it didn’t reach his eyes.

"I’d make sure they disappeared," he said. "Before you had the chance to look their way."

Your laughter came again, brighter this time, laced with something raw.

“Is that jealousy I hear, Dazai? I thought you were above all that.”

“I’m not above anything when it comes to you,” he replied. “Not even the ugly parts.”

“Then you should know,” you said, stepping closer, “my interest is never permanent. Even you might bore me someday.”

“I know,” he murmured.

The admittance startled you. Briefly.

“But I also know how to keep you interested.”

You blinked.

He took a step closer. You didn’t move.

“You like pain dressed as love. Games that bleed. People who lie well but not better than you. You want someone who sees through you and doesn’t run.”

He paused.

“I’m still here.”

The beat of your heart felt too close to your throat.

“I can be anything you want,” he said. “But I’d rather be the one thing you didn’t know you needed.”

You tilted your head. “That’s dangerous talk.”

“I know.”

“And you think you can handle me?”

His eyes gleamed like polished ruin.

“I think I already do.”

Silence again. Not empty — brimming. Pressurized.

You leaned forward, whispering:

“Then keep me interested, Dazai.”

The red box sat quietly on the floor.

Between you, and the abyss.

And maybe, for now, the abyss smiled back.

After that incident in the greenhouse — the box, the confession, the hand that lingered too long — Dazai had become... clingy.

Not the silent, calculating kind of clingy that curled around you like silk restraints in the dark.

No.

This was the loud, dramatic, public Dazai who materialized wherever you were with arms flung around your shoulders, an irreverent smile tugging at his lips, and the occasional, bold murmur of, "L/N-san~ did you miss me?" — loud enough for at least three mafia members to hear.

It was, objectively, hilarious.

You didn't stop him.

Naturally, the lower ranked members began to talk.

Rumors sprouted like weeds — flowery nonsense about long lost lovers reunited, secret pacts sealed with blood and mischief, or perhaps a violent game of cat and mouse finally ending in mutual ruin.

You enjoyed watching the narrative spin itself into increasingly outrageous webs.

Dazai did nothing to correct them. If anything, he embellished them.

"L/N-san and I share everything," he once told a wide eyed courier who asked too many questions. He leaned in close, lips almost brushing your cheek. "Even secrets. Especially secrets."

You raised a brow but said nothing.

Let the boy run off with flushed cheeks and trembling hands. Let them wonder.

Chuuya, however, was not amused.

“Again?” he hissed as Dazai slid in beside you at the bar of the underground lounge, grinning like a cat with blood on its paws.

“Of course. I go where L/N-san goes,” Dazai replied smoothly, resting his chin on your shoulder. “It’s only natural. We’re bonded, after all.”

“Bonded?” Chuuya repeated. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

You sipped your drink, watching the tension like theater. “It means he’s decided I’m more interesting than his suicidal ideation for the week.”

Dazai laughed. “Exactly! Who needs bridges when I have L/N-san to torment me back to life?”

“Great,” Chuuya muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face. “As if I haven’t had enough of you planting fake intel in my reports.”

You blinked. “He what?”

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Chuuya shot Dazai a look. “Two weeks ago, I chased an arms dealer through three city blocks only to find out the guy was a balloon vendor. The week before that, my office was filled with helium. Took me a whole day to speak normally again.”

Dazai hummed, unapologetic. “You talked to L/N-san before me. You had to pay.”

Chuuya’s glare could’ve shattered concrete.

“I still haven’t forgiven you for that, you know,” he snapped. “All that pain because he said hi to me first.”

“Pain makes the heart grow fonder,” Dazai cooed.

Chuuya looked like he might leap across the table. You laid a hand on his sleeve, light and amused.

“I thought it was funny,” you said.

Chuuya groaned. “Of course you did.”

The summons came early the next morning. A sleek envelope on black stationery slid under your door with the Port Mafia crest embossed in red wax.

You arrived at the Boss' office with little fanfare.

Elise was perched on the arm of Mori’s chair, swinging her legs, while Mori himself sipped tea with the tranquility of a man who hadn't recently considered your termination.

“L/N-kun,” he greeted, calm as ever. “Come in.”

You stepped over the threshold and said nothing.

Mori gestured at the seat across from him. You took it without waiting.

His gaze was mild. Too mild.

"You've been busy since your return," he began, voice a smooth cut of silk over a blade. “Reacquainting yourself with old connections. Stirring the waters. Reminding us all that your presence is as... unique as ever.”

You tilted your head. “Is that a compliment?”

He smiled, faint. “An observation.”

Elise leaned forward, curious. “I heard you and Dazai are dating now~”

You smirked. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Elise.”

“But it’s more fun that way,” she declared, crossing her arms. “Now it’s like a soap opera.”

Mori cleared his throat.

“L/N-kun,” he said, voice sharpening just slightly, “Loyalty is important in this organization. As is balance. You know that.”

You said nothing. Let him fumble through the veiled warnings.

“Some weapons,” he continued, “are forged too fine. Their edge turns against the wielder. It’s natural to question if letting such a weapon return from the field was... wise.”

You smiled slowly. “Feeling nervous, Mori-san?”

Mori's hand tightened slightly around his teacup, but he didn’t break composure. “Of course not. Merely prudent.”

“Prudent enough to keep me close,” you said. “But not enough to trust me. Curious, isn’t it?”

He didn’t respond.

“Can we play house now?” Elise interjected.

Mori blinked. “Elise-chan—”

“I’m bored!” she announced. “L/N, play with me!”

You blinked. “What are the roles?”

“I’m the big sister, Mori’s the mom, and you—” she beamed wickedly — “are the baby.”

You stared.

“No,” you began firmly, but Elise had already clapped her hands, skipping over with a bag of accessories.

Mori, to your horror, didn’t object. In fact, he turned slightly away — shoulders trembling.

“Are you laughing?” you hissed.

“Not at all,” Mori replied, face perfectly composed except for the small twitch in his cheek.

A pacifier was shoved into your mouth.

You sucked on it once, then grimaced like it had personally offended you.

“This is undignified,” you said flatly, pacifier dangling from your lip.

Mori turned fully around, facing the window.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered.

Elise giggled, tugging your hair. “Since when have you ever cared about dignity? Plus, you’re cute like this.”

“I’m going to kill someone.”

“Only after we finish playing,” she chirped.

Later, once dignity was reclaimed and Elise distracted by a passing pigeon, you sought out Kouyou.

You found her in the garden of the third floor balcony, trimming orchids with practiced grace. The scent of jasmine hung thick in the air.

“Kouyou-san,” you greeted.

She glanced your way, arching a brow. “L/N.”

You leaned against the railing. “Are you going to lecture me?”

“No,” she said simply. “I’ve long given up on lecturing you.”

You smirked. “Disappointing.”

She clipped a bloom. “But I will warn you.”

“Oh?”

“That boy,” she said, “will be your undoing.”

Your smile faltered, just a little.

She continued, tone crisp. “Some stars burn too close. Eventually, one eats the other.”

You watched the petals fall to the ground.

“You think he’ll eat me?” you asked.

“I think,” Kouyou said carefully, “you’ll let him.”

A pause.

Then, “Maybe I want to see what it feels like.”

She glanced at you again. “And when he devours everything?”

“Then I’ll finally be free.”

Kouyou’s mouth tightened, but she said nothing more.

Evening slid in with a lavender sky when you decided to take a walk.

The city throbbed faintly with Port Mafia life — shadows moving behind windows, footsteps in alleys, the hum of something always just below boiling.

You weren’t expecting to see him.

But there he was.

Ryunosuke Akutagawa, crouched in a shadowed alley, placing bits of fish from a brown paper bag in front of a scraggly stray cat.

The creature mewled hungrily and purred as it brushed against his sleeve.

You blinked. Stopped. Watched.

Akutagawa didn’t notice you until you stepped forward.

“I didn’t think you were the type to feed strays,” you said.

He stiffened. Slowly rose.

“Sir,” he greeted, polite as a knife.

You tilted your head, smile tugging faintly. “How formal.”

Akutagawa said nothing.

You gestured toward the cat. “That was kind of you.”

He looked away. “It’s nothing.”

“Is that so?” You took a step closer. “Are you free right now?”

His eyes flicked to you.

“I thought you'd appreciate some guidance.”