070

A/N: I feel so lazy rn I want to melt on my bed. I haven't studied shit for my exam😋

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It was a fine evening in Kouyou’s garden — one of the few remaining places in Yokohama where you could still hear the wind flirt with the branches without the hum of car engines or the echo of gunfire in the distance.

The air smelled of damp earth and distant sea salt, the faintest undercurrent of wisteria drifting from deeper in the compound.

Sakura petals floated lazily downward like pale pink ghosts, painting the lacquered table in a gentle confetti.

Kouyou lifted her tea cup delicately, her fingers so precise they might have been sculpted by a master artisan.

She took a small sip, her lashes lowering slightly as she savored the flavor.

Her breath exhaled in a thin, elegant sigh — the portrait of a refined lady, as always.

Beside her, Mori held his cup in his left hand, pinky slightly lifted.

His posture was impeccable, and even as Elise leaned against him, idly toying with the hem of his sleeve, he drank with that same eerie composure — each sip measured, deliberate, as though he were tasting poison he already knew he would survive.

Elise, meanwhile, was busy peering into Mori’s cup like a curious cat, half expecting to see something more interesting than tea swirling inside.

And you?

You sat comfortably beside Kouyou and Elise, one knee propped lazily over the other.

A slice of moonlight kissed the edge of your cheekbone, accentuating the half lidded amusement in your eyes.

Every so often, you’d lean slightly toward Elise when she tugged at your sleeve, offering her a small, conspiratorial smile — the sort of smile that suggested you’d just agreed to help her hide a stolen cookie rather than plot the ruin of an entire city.

Mori sat directly across from you, his gaze shifting between the three of you like a snake flicking its tongue for scent.

The evening was moving along as peacefully as a mafia tea party could go.

That is, until Mori cleared his throat, lightly, as if he were about to comment on the weather.

"Ah, by the way…" Mori began, placing his tea cup down with an almost too casual clink.

His tone smooth, polite — precisely the sort you’d expect right before someone ordered your execution:

"I meant to inform you earlier. Dazai-kun has defected."

The words dropped into the evening air like a rock into still water.

Almost instantly, the sound of a violent splutter ripped through the garden.

Tea arced from your mouth in a fine spray — a golden mist catching the moonlight just so — before splashing directly across Mori’s face.

Time seemed to freeze.

Kouyou’s eyes widened, her lashes fluttering so fast they nearly took flight. Her hand snapped up to cover her mouth, kimono sleeve barely hiding the way her lips trembled, caught halfway between horror and amusement.

Elise stared at you with round eyes for a beat — and then she burst into shrieking, delighted laughter.

The sound echoed around the garden like a horde of mischievous spirits set free.

You, in the meantime, calmly fished a pristine handkerchief from your pocket, dabbing your lips with the elegance of a courtier at an imperial banquet.

Across from you, Mori sat frozen. Tea dripped from his chin, trailing slowly down the front of his impeccable white coat.

The seconds stretched, heavy as lead.

Then you tilted your head slightly, your lips curving into that familiar sweet, empty smile.

"Could you repeat that again, Mori-san?" you asked, voice as smooth as aged whisky, utterly serene.

A silence fell so thick it seemed to smother even the distant cicadas.

Mori blinked, finally. Once. Twice. As though he had just been struck by a sudden, unexpected rainstorm.

"Ah," he began, each syllable carefully reassembled from the chaos. "Dazai-kun has defected."

You paused, handkerchief still pressed delicately to your lips.

Then, slowly, you folded it and slipped it back into your pocket, crossing one leg over the other.

"Interesting," you murmured, almost to yourself. "Fascinating, really. Ah, so that’s what it was…"

Kouyou, still hiding behind her sleeve, peeked at you sideways.

Her shoulders shook, and she coughed softly into the fabric, a thin attempt to stifle her laughter.

Mori, meanwhile, blinked once more, as though trying to dislodge a stray petal from his vision.

Elise, for her part, had thrown herself sideways across your lap, giggling so hard she was clutching at your sleeve as though she might be swept away entirely.

You tilted your head back slightly, gazing up at the drifting sakura petals with a half dreamy look.

"So that’s why Chuuya’s car exploded last week…" you murmured thoughtfully.

Kouyou’s head snapped up, her eyes sharp despite the mirth. "Car… exploded…?"

"Yes," you replied lightly, as though commenting on a slightly overcooked pastry. "I thought it was an enemy group trying to stir up trouble. Chuuya certainly believed so. Poor thing made such a scene… he nearly turned the entire headquarters upside down searching for culprits. Hilarious."

You let out a small, musical laugh, fingers tapping idly at your jawline.

"To think it was all part of Dazai’s little performance… ah, he does love his theatrics."

Mori’s fingers twitched slightly, but he forced them into stillness, reaching instead for a napkin to mop the remaining tea from his face.

After a long, studious moment, he let out a quiet sigh, as though he had finally accepted that the universe would never truly allow him a peaceful day.

"Ango-kun was a spy, too," Mori added suddenly, almost absentmindedly.

This time, you executed a perfect spit take once again — another shimmering arc of tea slicing through the air like a thrown dagger.

But Mori was ready. With a quick, almost elegant tilt of his head, the tea shot past harmlessly.

He glanced at you, one brow raised, the smallest, most terrifying edge of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Was that intentional?" he asked, voice low, almost dangerous in its amusement.

Wiping your lips once more with your handkerchief, you hummed lightly. "As expected of Mori-san. You're correct. It was for dramatic effect, you see… one must never pass up the chance for proper stage direction."

Mori pressed his fingers to his temple with a long exhale, a picture of quiet exasperation.

"Sometimes I truly regret recruiting you," he muttered under his breath.

Kouyou, who had finally lowered her sleeve, glanced at you with faint exasperation — and perhaps a flicker of curiosity.

"Are you… sad?" she asked softly, her eyes sharper than any blade. "That your little protege left without saying anything? Not a sign, not a farewell?"

You paused at that.

For a moment, the garden seemed to hold its breath. The breeze stopped. Even Elise, who had been halfway through giggling, went still against your lap.

Then your lips curved slowly, your gaze drifting to the delicate branches of the nearest sakura tree.

"Ah," you breathed, voice tinged with something nearly wistful. "But he did leave a sign."

Kouyou stilled, her head tilting slightly as though caught in a half bow, waiting.

Mori’s eyes gleamed, sharp as a scalpel blade.

But you didn’t elaborate. Instead, you merely smiled — a slow, secret thing that curled in on itself like a resting serpent.

Kouyou opened her mouth as if to press you further but then closed it, glancing away instead.

Mori, sensing he would get no more out of you for now, simply sighed again.

You walked alone through the endless labyrinthine halls of the Port Mafia headquarters.

The familiar scent of disinfectant and faint gunpowder clung to the air like a second skin, echoing softly beneath your footsteps.

Your hand trailed along the cold wall absentmindedly, fingertips dragging like a brush stroke.

The marble hallways felt especially silent today, as if they, too, were holding their breath in anticipation of your next game.

Then—

"Ah."

You looked up.

Chuuya stood a few steps ahead, his arms crossed, posture casual but eyes sharp as always. His hair shone a fiery red under the dim corridor lights, jacket slightly rumpled as though he’d just returned from a mission.

"Chuuya," you greeted lightly, inclining your head in that languid, almost feline way of yours.

Chuuya let out a short huff, tilting his head. "You’re free today. Done terrorizing the rookies?"

"Temporarily," you replied, your tone dripping with honeyed amusement. "Even a cat needs to nap in the sun sometimes."

Chuuya snorted at that, almost amused. But then — his gaze dropped.

You noticed the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his eyes narrowed just a fraction.

"…What’s that?" he asked, voice low, almost careful. His fingers flicked subtly in the direction of your neck.

You tilted your head curiously, as if unaware — an act so practiced it was practically second nature.

You brought your fingers up, brushing lightly against the side of your neck.

Oh.

The faintest flush of red. A small, distinct bruise.

Your lips curled into a soft, secretive smile. "Ah… this?" You tapped it lightly, as though pointing out a misplaced brush stroke on a canvas.

"Don't worry about it," you said, voice smooth as velvet. "It’s just a little… sign."

Chuuya’s eyes sharpened. His mouth parted as if to press further, but your expression stopped him — that serene, half lidded look, like a cat that had already decided the conversation was over.

You moved past him slowly, almost brushing shoulders, leaving behind a faint whiff of expensive cologne and something darker — something sweet and rotting all at once.

Your steps echoed softly as you disappeared down the hall, your mind drifting elsewhere.

The memory replayed itself behind your eyes.

That night.

You had been dozing in the infirmary, a place you often claimed when bored or recovering from one of your more "excessive" experiments.

The sterile scent was comforting — a reminder of control, of anatomy laid bare.

A subtle creak of the door.

The footsteps — slow, deliberate, familiar.

Ah. Dazai.

You had sensed his presence immediately, every nerve alight in anticipation. But you chose to keep your breathing steady, letting your lashes rest lightly, feigning sleep.

He stood above you for a long, quiet moment. The kind of stillness that felt more intimate than any embrace, more dangerous than any knife.

Then — warmth.

His weight dipped closer, and you felt his breath ghost across your neck.

A sudden, sharp nibble. Just shy of pain.

Your breath nearly hitched — a rare crack in your usually impeccable composure.

Bold.

So very bold.

You felt his lips curve slightly against your skin — he must have known you were awake. Of course he did.

Then came the sucking, the deliberate licking, the small nips that seemed to border on cruelty, as though he wanted to mark not only your flesh but something deeper, something more invisible.

Your mind had flickered then — curiosity blazing. Why this? Why now? What pushed him to cross this line?

He didn’t speak. Not a single word.

Only the hot press of his mouth, the sharp wetness, the slow, careful repetition. Over and over.

Until the skin pulsed with sensitivity, swollen and raw.

When he finally pulled away, the air felt colder without his presence.

You had waited for a farewell whisper, a cruel joke — anything.

But instead, he left as silently as he had come.

You lay there, eyes still closed, pulse quietly riotous beneath your skin.

A gift, you mused later. A sign.

A single, intimate message you understood perfectly.

You chuckled to yourself in the empty hallway now, fingers tapping lightly on your chin as you remembered.

Yes.

It really was fascinating.