Atsushi blinked like I’d just told him the sky was blue.

“I knew it!” The bedroom door slammed open, and there was Akutagawa, clearly having come to the same conclusion after checking himself over. And yet, despite the obvious urgency of the situation, he’d still taken the time to meticulously strap himself back into his goth prince getup, tying every fucking lace, buttoning every fucking button, like he was suiting up for war. “I told Atsushi — something was off…”

He rubbed his forehead, like he was trying to shake something loose.

“I think… I think I remember not wanting to do it. It’s all hazy, but... I remember saying I was ashamed of Rashomon, but… was I?”

“Not even a little,” I said.

“You should’ve been. Ryunosuke, your ability was darkness incarnate,” Atsushi shot back, all judgmental. Real rich, coming from the guy who, just five minutes ago, was whining to me about how fragile and delicate poor little Ryunosuke was. Did he even realize how often he flipped back and forth between treating Akutagawa like a traumatized flower and an unholy abomination? Or was this some kind of autopilot mode — guilt, repentance, all that holier-than-thou shit, spewing out of his mouth without even passing through his brain?

“…Even the forms of our abilities reflect their dark nature,” he went on, all fervent. “Mine was a manifestation of the beast within me — animalistic, aggressive, dirty… And yours, Nakahara-san—”

“Kid, I really don’t give a shit about your theories on how evil and cursed I am. I call this kind of nonsense a fucking waste of everything.”

“You can think whatever you want, but one day, you’ll understand. You’ll realize our powers are a sin.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I snapped. “Think about it — why did you even come here? Because you wanted to protect Akutagawa. From me, no less! Stupid? Yeah, but also kinda noble. And that’s what your power was for, dumbass. To protect the people you care about. To protect yourself. That was its whole damn purpose, not some demonic curse! If you hate your job at the Agency so much, then tell everyone to fuck off and go become a goddamn pastry chef in France! But don’t sit here blaming your fucking ability for it!”

Atsushi just sat there, looking stunned. I could tell he wanted to argue — whoever got inside his head really did a number on him — but, mercifully, that was when the doorbell rang. Pizza. Finally, something to shut him the hell up.

They both tore into the food like they hadn’t eaten in days. Though even while stuffing his face, Akutagawa still looked like a strung-out junkie, lost in his own fucked-up little labyrinth of memories. And no wonder — Atsushi had spent his whole life being told he was a monster, so it was easy for him to buy into the whole “sinner in need of salvation” schtick. But for Akutagawa? It didn’t add up. Whoever rewrote their memories didn’t even bother tailoring the details. Rashomon had always been his pride, his foundation. And now he was just supposed to believe he’d despised it all along? No wonder the guy looked like his brain was short-circuiting. Not knowing what to believe in your memory, what to cling to in your mind — everyone would break down, and I am no exception.

I almost felt bad for him. Almost. Must be a pretty shit life if, out of everyone in this city, I was the best option he had left. Why didn’t he go to his sister? Or Higuchi? Was he just looking for a familiar face, someone who still made sense in his broken mind?

We weren’t friends. Hell, we weren’t even friendly. I insulted him at every opportunity. I was his boss, nothing more — not even a mentor, though it’d be kinda funny to imagine myself in Dazai’s old shoes.

Dazai… His name had been floating around the back of my mind since the second these two showed up at my door. (Or maybe I just think about that asshole too much in general.) He was the one who kept pushing these two together. And he had his fingers in half the shady shit that went down in this city.

Something wasn’t clicking.

“So. We know they didn’t wipe Dazai from your memories,” I said, mulling it over. “Did he know you were flying to England? Hard to believe you wouldn’t tell him.”

Atsushi nodded, still chewing. “Yeah, he knew… I think he even approved? Said it’d be good for me… He always cared for me…”

Akutagawa nodded too. “Yeah. I know he knew about Atsushi — they talked on the phone, I remember that. Me? I think he suspected.”

Well, at least he wasn’t dumb enough to claim Dazai “cared” about him. He’d had enough of that brand of “care” for one lifetime.

“If you seriously think Dazai gives a shit about your well-being more than he does about your powers, you’re a fucking moron,” I told Atsushi, feeling like some kind of therapist. A “gestalt therapist,” or whatever the hell they were called. Pretty sure that was just another term for “sarcastic asshole,” anyway. Atsushi frowned but didn’t argue.

Dazai’s shadow hung over the room. Who was I kidding? It hung over all three of us. We could start a goddamn support group. The Stockholm Syndrome Society.

Fucking Dazai. Always there, whether you wanted him or not. We're all stuck in him, like in a fucking hole. No, fuck such comparisons.

“Alright, so we’ve got two possibilities,” I held up two fingers, just in case their scrambled little brains couldn’t keep track. “Either Dazai had no clue you were planning to go to Saint Joanne, which — let’s be real — is unlikely, because no fucking way would he have let that happen. Or — more likely, since you two went there together — he sent you. Told you to check the place out, maybe stir up some shit.”

Yeah. That sounded about right. I knew Dazai too well. He caught wind of this Equalizer cult and sent his two loyal lapdogs sniffing around. And the moment he so much as hinted that it might be useful to him, they probably jumped on a plane without a second thought.

He wasn’t gonna like hearing that his little pets came back all fucked in the head. Actually, the real surprise was that they even made it back at all. Would’ve been easier just to wipe them out.

“You need to go to the Agency,” I said. Akutagawa twitched in protest, so I clarified, “I mean, Atsushi needs to. You, obviously, should stay the hell away from there.” After a pause, I added, “Honestly, you’d be better off staying out of sight from the Mafia too.”

Akutagawa wasn’t just some nobody in the Mafia. And considering he was a weirdo with a personality that was about as far from angelic as you could get, he had plenty of enemies. Besides, it wasn’t a good idea for his subordinates to see him in this state. As for Mori… Mori would eat him alive and spit out the bones, whether it was his fault Rashomon was gone or not.

“Just stay home, get some rest. Play some video games or something…”

Not that locking himself up would help much. Something had to be done, but I had no damn clue where to even start unraveling this mess.

“I don’t have video games,” Akutagawa muttered.

Of course he fucking didn’t.

“Then read a book. You’ve probably got a shit-ton of those,” I said patiently. “Get some sleep. Eat some fruit, some veggies, some whatever-the-hell. Take a damn bath — sage, lavender, all that stuff. Works wonders, trust me. Just what the doctor ordered.”

What I’d order right now was to kick someone’s ass.

“Meanwhile, the Agency might figure out how to get Atsushi’s powers back. Maybe even yours too. They’ve got a healer girl over there. She might be able to help.”

Did I believe that? Not really. Mind damage wasn’t the same as body damage, and I had no idea if she could fix that. But what else was I supposed to say?

“I don’t want my powers back,” Atsushi protested, but the certainty in his voice was gone. “Though… do you think it’s possible to be a detective and a pastry chef at the same time…?”

I wasn’t thinking shit, because I couldn’t take this conversation seriously. It would’ve been hilarious if it wasn’t so fucking terrifying.

I pulled out my phone and typed:

Dazai, I didn’t sign up to babysit your brats.

Paused. Deleted “brats.” Wrote “protégés” instead, just to keep it Mori-style.

Cynical? Maybe. But here I was, feeding these kids pizza and dealing with their fucked-up mental states, while Dazai — responsible for one of his students looking like a junkie on a permanent bad trip and the other grinning like a lobotomy patient — was nowhere to be found and clearly didn’t give a shit.

My phone buzzed almost immediately.

It’s not what you think, Chuuya.

Oh, bullshit. The wording alone — no What happened? or What do you mean? — meant he knew exactly what was going on. He just didn’t want to face it. I wouldn’t want to either, to be fair. It was a hell of a sight.

I got pissed. This bastard really had the nerve to act like this wasn’t his problem. If you like playing your little games, then you better be ready to clean up your broken toys, asshole.

Another buzz.

Meet me under the red ribbon a week from now. Same time. You’ll understand everything.

***

Telling Akutagawa to stay home, I’d meant his home. But for some goddamn reason, this dumbass decided to crash at mine instead.

To be fair, I had no clue where he actually lived. Wouldn’t have been surprised if he just slept in a dumpster and dined on roadkill. But apparently, he did have a place, because he disappeared for a bit and came back with books and other crap. To top it off, his white-haired little buddy was hanging around too. My apartment had turned into some kind of magical safe zone where they felt secure.

And I couldn’t bring myself to kick them out. I’m not a complete bastard — these were just two lost kids who barely knew who the hell they even were. And the less they were out on the streets, the less likely they were to run into the Mafia.

At least my place was big enough that they weren’t too in the way. The tiger boy, for some reason, had an unhealthy obsession with cooking and spent most of his time in the kitchen. I went over the appliances with him — because something about the way he looked at the microwave made me think he’d never seen one in his life, let alone a dishwasher or a fancy-ass coffee machine.

As for our goth prince, he mostly camped out on the balcony, staring at Yokohama like he was the tragic lead in a depressing arthouse film. Which, honestly, was a sign he was getting back to normal — minus Rashomon. His eyes looked a little sharper now. When he wasn’t brooding, he had his nose in a book. Sometimes he’d sneak food from the fridge, which at least meant he wasn’t starving. Even took a bath once — so he was following my “medical advice.” He also got weirdly interested in my art books. Guess he thought I was some knuckle-dragging thug who only knew how to beat the shit out of people.

Funny, considering how complicated my relationship with Mori was. If I were just a brute, I wouldn’t have survived as his right-hand man.

I tried to shake them up a bit. Chatted about random shit, trying to figure out how much bullshit had been stuffed into their heads. Suggested some movies, showed them the latest Zelda game. Atsushi got into it — though I think he was just excited about the big-ass TV.

Akutagawa, on the other hand…

“Fantasy is an infantile genre that’s been parasitizing the ideas of a few talented individuals for decades. If they saw what their legacy has become, they’d be rolling in their graves. It’s even funnier when the Japanese try to make something in a culture so completely alien to them.”

…How the hell did Dazai not shoot this guy?

The next day, I got a call from Mori.

Mori Ougai. Calling me. That was a bad sign if I’d ever seen one.

“Chuuya, when was the last time you checked the forums?”

He meant the dark net boards the Mafia monitored. People bought and sold drugs there, put out requests regarding certain videos, discussed shady financial dealings, all that underground shit. Our main interest was the info exchange threads. Most people stayed anonymous and used changing IP addresses (the topics discussed were delicate — when someone hinted that it was necessary to beat the crap out of someone or just kill them, no one needed government intervention here), but we had a few reliable informants.

“Haven’t had the time,” I admitted. “Been busy as hell. What’s up?”

“Someone’s asking about you. Offering good money for any information. Very good money.”

“Oh? And you’re looking to cash in? Need a new car?” My joke fell flat. Mori wasn’t into flashy rides — that was more my thing. Hell, I wasn’t even sure what he spent money on. Rare old books? Probably. The filthiest black-market porn with kids imaginable? Also probably. He spent his cash buying people, selling people, weaving his little webs and getting drunk on power.

“Chuuya, is your head just for wearing hats?” Mori said, clearly irritated. “First of all, our rank-and-file employees would love that kind of money. Plenty of them would sell you out in a heartbeat. So, this is a direct threat to you. I’d rather not lose my best operative. Second, if your mysterious admirer is interested in you because of our business, that’s a threat to the entire Mafia. Meaning — somewhere, somehow, you fucked up.”

Alright, to be fair, Mori didn’t say fucked up. He was always unnervingly polite, even when he was being a condescending piece of shit. Just like Dazai — chip off the old block.

“Any idea who it is?” I asked.

“That’s what I should be asking you,” he shot back.

“Hell if I know. The list of people the Mafia’s screwed over is endless.”

That was me carefully shifting the blame. Mori had framed it like I had personally pissed someone off, instead of just following orders.

“Yes...” He had to agree after a pause. “No. No leads. Since the messages are in English, it’s either a foreigner… or someone trying to throw people off by pretending to be one. But the English is quite good. We’ll look into it in the next couple of days, figure out who he is and what he wants. Or what they want.”

“I’ll figure it out myself. I’m not a damn kid.”

“No. You sit tight at home for now... Or take a trip to the hot springs. Go somewhere far from Yokohama.”

Go play video games, right. Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard this song before.

“So, in other words, stay out of sight.” I translated.

“Exactly, Nakahara. Exactly.”

“You know damn well, whoever comes at me, I’ll take 'em down.”

“No, Nakahara. That’s an order. There’s always someone stronger, even for you. We know absolutely nothing about them, but they — seems like they know something about you. Which means you managed to anger them somehow.”