061

03:17, 19 July 2025

A/N: Writing this story is low-key making my mental health worse😃

---

I watched him carefully.

Akutagawa Ryunosuke.

He stood there, shoulders stiff, breath ragged.

Rashomon coiled around him like a starved dog, trembling in its readiness, but his eyes… they betrayed him.

Those sharp, hungry eyes that had always seemed to crave violence now shone with something else entirely.

Expectation.

I tilted my head, studying his posture, the subtle twitch of his fingers, the rapid rise and fall of his narrow chest.

Like a stray dog finally offered a scrap of affection — except I hadn’t offered him anything at all.

How amusing.

I recalled our session moments before.

How I had stood behind him, my voice low, telling him to adjust his stance.

My hands had not even grazed his shoulders, no warmth, no praise. Nothing.

And yet here he was, vibrating under my gaze as though I had carved my name into his spine.

I nearly laughed.

He was so easy to manipulate, so fragile. And he didn’t even realize it.

His devotion, born from neglect and desperation, latched onto anything that gave him the illusion of guidance.

Even when I offered nothing, he consumed it like air.

I turned away, feeling the edges of my mouth twitch in faint amusement. He was pitiful. Beautifully so.

I slipped my hands into my pockets, wandering out of the training hall and into the dusky corridors of the port mafia headquarters.

My mind felt quiet, emptier than usual, like an abandoned shrine echoing with hollow prayers.

I wasn’t supposed to be wandering tonight.

Mori had given me a vague directive, something about lying low, observing, or some other tedious bureaucratic concern. But his words had drifted past me like the wind against a dead branch.

I let my feet lead me, no particular destination in mind, only the gentle thrum of the city’s neon veins pulling me forward.

And that’s when I saw him.

Sakaguchi Ango.

Moving like a hunted rabbit, shoulders tense beneath that stiff suit, his steps quick but polite as if he were apologizing to the asphalt with every tap of his shoes.

I tilted my head, smiling faintly.

How cute.

His exasperation was almost endearing, the way his brows pinched when he thought no one was looking. A little tremor in his hand when he adjusted his glasses. A hesitant glance behind him, as though some spectral dog nipped at his ankles.

It made me want to laugh.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I followed. Quiet as a ghost, a drifting presence in the gaps of the night.

He didn’t notice. Of course he didn’t.

Humans rarely see the knife until it’s inside them.

We arrived at Lupin. A dingy little bar reeking of half washed glasses and the despair of men who thought they were interesting when drunk.

I stepped inside after him, the door sighing shut behind me like a reluctant confession.

I watched him shuffle to the counter, order that sad tomato juice with a face like he’d rather be anywhere else.

My lips twitched.

His discomfort suited him.

I moved closer, so close I could see the way the overhead light shivered in his lenses, how his throat bobbed when he swallowed nothing.

"Ah… Sakaguchi-san~" I said, softly.

And as his shoulders jumped, as he tried and failed to keep the tremor from his voice —

I felt nothing.

Not joy, not pity, not even that sweet, sick pulse of victory I once craved so badly it burned my veins.

I just saw a man.

A man who happened to be amusing for a moment, like a stray dog chasing its tail until it collapses, panting.

I leaned close, testing the shape of his fear, the tension in the corners of his mouth.

It was all very pretty.

But still — nothing.

No satisfaction, no blood warm thrill. Only the echo of an echo, as though I’d once felt something like amusement in another lifetime.

He called me insufferable.

How many times had I heard that?

It slipped past me like rainwater off glass.

I looked at him, really looked. Those trembling hands. His breath caught somewhere between his teeth. The way his gaze flickered to the door like a candle in a draft.

Cute.

A small, bright spark of curiosity — only curiosity — bloomed in me then.

Was this what they all called connection? This tiny, stupid dance of vulnerability and invasion?

I wondered, idly, if it would feel different if I pressed harder. If I drew his pulse to the surface, if I forced him to shatter beneath my fingers.

Would something inside me finally awaken?

But it felt like poking at a dead bird with a stick.

Nothing.

I continued to speak, to tease, to toy.

He trembled. His voice trembled.

And I felt as though I were watching someone else’s dream, barely invested in whether the dreamer woke or suffocated in their sheets.

I thought of Akari. Of her glassy eyes as I watched the last flickers of her will drain out.

I thought of Dazai’s hand on the gun, the gleam in his eye as he finally outmaneuvered me.

I thought of Chuuya’s fiery scowl. Kouyou’s wary, knowing silence. Mori's fear hidden behind smiles.

All these colors and voices.

I should have felt something.

A pang. A craving. A slice of warmth.

Instead, it was all static. A soft white noise humming in the hollow of my chest.

It reminded me of rain on the roof of a greenhouse — you can’t hear each droplet. Just a vague, endless hush.

Somewhere during the conversation, I realized my fingers had curled against the edge of the bar, faintly cold under my gloves.

I forced them to relax.

He called me shameless.

I wondered if that was supposed to sting.

He looked at me like I was a specter haunting the edge of his reason.

I considered leaning in, just enough to see if he would push me away for real. Just enough to watch something irrevocable flicker across his face.

But then — I felt it again.

That same stillness inside me, like staring into a dark well and seeing no reflection.

A child gazing into the abyss, expecting monsters, but finding only the dark water.

I stepped back, smoothing my coat, the gesture almost tender.

He was shaking.

I wanted to find it adorable.

But I didn’t.

I felt… nothing.

And that was almost funny.

I said some words — meaningless shapes to fill the air. A mock salute, a playful lilt.

His expression twisted, something close to relief and disappointment warring in the shadows of his eyes.

I turned toward the door, glancing over my shoulder once.

A final snapshot to remember the shape of his fear, the shape of his longing.

I stepped out into the night.

The rain had eased into a thin drizzle, the sky yawning above me like a bored cat.

I tilted my head back, feeling the droplets kiss my face.

Still nothing.

I thought, perhaps idly, that I might look for another target tonight. Or return to the office and bother Dazai, watch the way his fingers twitch when he tries to pretend he isn’t waiting for me.

But even that felt distant, like a half finished dream slipping through my fingers.

I chuckled softly to myself, the sound sharp and empty as a cracked bell.

I was alive.

I was here.

And yet —

Nothing.

I pressed my hand lightly over my chest, just above my heart.

No flutter. No echo.

Just silence.

I brushed the thought aside, letting it scatter like ash into the rain.

After all, tomorrow might be interesting.

And maybe, if I kept moving, I might find something worth feeling again.