057

The Port Mafia infirmary had a way of echoing pain that didn’t always belong to the body.

It was quiet — not sterile quiet, but the kind steeped in faint antiseptic and stained bandages, where even the beeping monitors seemed reluctant to break the silence.

The walls were too white, the lights a little too warm, the air a little too still, like the room was always waiting for something worse to happen.

You sat on the edge of the cot, scowling at nothing.

“—And then she slapped me,” you said, tone pitched halfway between offended and melodramatic. “Right across the face. Just because I was talking to someone.”

Elise, lying belly down on a couch with her legs kicking absently behind her, didn’t look up from the cake box you'd bribed her with. “Did you smile at the other girl?”

“I smile at everyone, Elise.”

“Exactly.” She forked a strawberry shortcake like she was dissecting it. “You’ve got that kind of smile that makes people fall in love or plan your murder. Sometimes both.”

You sighed and tipped your head back, brushing your fingertips over the slap mark still burning on your cheek. “I wasn’t even flirting. Just making conversation. It’s not my fault if people can’t handle basic civility.”

“Mmhm,” Elise hummed, licking cream off her fork. “You call it civility. Everyone else calls it seduction.”

You threw your hands up dramatically. “Why do I even talk to you about my problems?”

She grinned around her fork. “Because I take bribes.”

“And you’re still not helpful.”

“I am helpful,” she replied with mock indignation. “I told you not to keep multiple playthings if they all think they’re special.”

You groaned, collapsing backward onto the cot with an exaggerated flop. “Why is everyone so sensitive lately? First, no leads on my dearest, then that girl ruins my perfectly good face, and now my sweets budget is drained.”

“You bought me sweets,” Elise corrected.

“Same thing,” you muttered, one arm flung over your eyes.

There was a rustle, a shift in atmosphere, like a breeze swept through a sealed room.

“I see your rebellious phase is finally blooming,” came a voice like velvet over knives.

You peeked out from under your arm.

Mori Ogai stood at the doorway, hands folded neatly behind his back, that ever present smirk curling his lips like a parent who’d walked in on their child throwing a tantrum and found it amusing.

“My what?” you asked, groaning again. “Mori-san, please. Spare me the parenting metaphors.”

“Too late,” he said as he stepped forward, coat swishing. “You were ordered to rest. Yet I hear you’ve been flitting around the city like a cursed canary.”

“Resting is subjective,” you muttered.

He reached into the tray beside the cot and pulled out a gauze pad with theatrical delicacy. “Yes, well. So is pain. And apparently, loyalty.”

You tilted your chin up as he leaned down. The pad was cold against the slap wound.

Mori’s fingers, as always, were absurdly gentle — more like a tailor’s than a doctor’s.

“I liked it better when you followed orders,” he said lightly, though there was an undercurrent to his words.

“I liked it better when people didn’t confuse mild curiosity for obsessive stalking,” you shot back, eyes fluttering closed.

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Mori dabbed with the corner of the gauze. “You’ve been spiraling since you were attacked. And now, I hear whispers you’re obsessed with finding the one who harmed you.”

“Elise said it was romantic,” you offered.

“I said it was disturbing,” Elise chirped.

Mori’s sigh was long suffering. “You weren’t supposed to be this difficult when you're this old.”

You cracked a grin. “A late bloomer, then.”

“I’m disappointed, L/N-kun,” he said with overdramatic flair, hand to his chest. “You used to be a sweet little boy following orders obediently.”

“Still am,” you said sweetly. “Just with hobbies now.”

“Like being slapped?”

You pouted. “You wouldn’t understand. It was unjustified.”

Mori gave a sardonic smile and tossed the used gauze into the tray. “You bruise like fine porcelain.”

Then—

The door burst open.

“L-L/N-san!”

You turned.

Ren.

His eyes were wide, chest heaving, one hand on the doorframe like he’d sprinted the length of the compound.

You sat up straighter. “Ren?”

“She—Suzuki—” He gasped. “She’s—escaped.”

You blinked.

Then tilted your head.

“…Akari?”

Mori sighed. “Oh dear.”

You looked at Mori. “She’s still alive?”

Elise giggled. “You really forgot about her, huh?”

Ren nodded furiously. “35 minutes ago. She was in the cell, and now—she’s gone.”

You stood. “She can’t have gone far.”

And with that, you vanished.

Your teleportation took you directly to her cell.

It reeked of old perfume and panic.

The sheets were twisted, one corner damp with something that looked like blood but smelled like ink.

You crouched beside the cot.

Drag marks. Barely noticeable. Her fingernails had scraped something under the bed.

A thread.

Red. Artificial. Decorative.

Not her doing.

You followed it.

The strand led to a small ventilation shaft — clearly altered.

Someone had let her out. Led her, like a lamb, somewhere very specific.

You moved again. Flickered between coordinates like stepping stones on a river of static.

Then—

You stopped.

Not because you saw her.

But because of a box.

It sat in the middle of a rust covered floor in an abandoned greenhouse, glass shattered around you, weeds curling along the floor like snakes.

It was red.

Ornate.

Silk ribbon. Gold seal.

You approached slowly. Teleportation ready at your fingertips.

If it was a bomb, you could escape. If it was a trap, you wanted to see what kind.

You knelt.

Opened it.

Inside was a single strand of hair, dark, oily, clinging to a velvet cushion.

And a folded note.

You opened it, fingers delicate, reverent.

The handwriting was sharp. Precise. A little too formal.

All things that shine must burn before they bloom.You were right to chase the thread.But don’t pull too hard.Lest I unravel you first.

Your heart skipped.

A flutter. A twist. A lovely, tingling ache.

How romantic.

They knew you. They saw you.

The message, the box, the hair—intimate. Chosen. Not mass produced. Not random.

Personal.

You beamed.

Then—

“What are you doing standing there, L/N-san?”

You turned.

Dazai leaned against the broken frame of the greenhouse, one hand in his pocket, head tilted lazily.

“Dazai~” you sing songed, holding the box out like a child showing off a prize. “My charming soulmate has such flair, don’t you think?”

He blinked. “Your what?”

“My charming soulmate,” you said, grinning. “Look what they did for me. They took care of Akari. They left her hair.”

Dazai walked forward, gaze dropping to the box.

“You think this was for you?”

“Obviously. Who else leaves dead girl parts in a ribboned box?”

He picked up the hair with two fingers, inspecting it.

“What do you think about it?” he asked softly.

“The gesture?” You sighed dreamily. “Divine. The execution? A little messy. But they’ll learn. I’ll teach them.”

He looked at you for a long moment.

Then—

He grabbed your wrist.

Not hard. But tight enough that your body stilled.

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “Jealous again?”

“Did you mean what you said?”

You smirked. “About them being my charming soulmate?”

He didn’t reply.

So you leaned closer, breath brushing his neck. “I did.”

A pause.

Then—

He smiled.

No, grinned.

Wide. Dark. Satisfied.

“You’re adorable when you’re wrong,” he said.

Your smile faltered. Just a fraction.

“…What?”

He leaned in.

“I killed her.”

You blinked.

“I left the trails.”

A heartbeat.

“I wrote the note. Burned the corners myself for dramatic effect.”

You stared.

He stepped closer, still holding your wrist.

“You teleport like clockwork when you’re emotionally triggered. I left markers in all the places you’d most likely go. This was the third most probable. You’re predictable when you’re in love.”

Your mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Dazai leaned closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“So you meant those compliments?” he whispered.

Your chest fluttered.

Not with joy.

Not with fear.

But something tangled between awe and dread.

Because to fool you — you — meant stepping into the space between your ribs.

Meant predicting your obsession, then outplaying it.

And he’d done it.

Effortlessly.

You swallowed.

“You don’t need to chase them anymore,” he murmured. “Whoever you thought it was. You have me.”

You turned your head slightly, eyes meeting his.

“I’m not joking,” he added, voice soft. “You wanted someone who could surprise you. Who understood you. Who could catch you off guard.”

You didn’t move.

“You said you wanted someone unpredictable. Someone who’d see through the void.”

He smiled, tender this time.

“I already did.”

You exhaled slowly. Shakily.

“…You killed Akari?”

“She was basically rotting in there before she even died,” he said with a shrug. “It's about time she dies, anyway. She's been left alive for too long.”

You stared at the box.

Then at him.

He let go of your wrist.

And held out his hand.

“I’m the only one who can love you like this,” he said simply. “You know that.”

You laughed.

Sharp. Breathless.

It echoed in the glass skeleton of the greenhouse.

Then you reached out.

And took his hand.