Two days later, we gathered at Lupin, a bar that had been the Mafia’s unofficial meeting spot for years. It was me, Kouyou, and Mori. I got myself a glass of good old Bordeaux. Mori and Kouyou were whisking some fancy green tea in clay cups — looked like swamp water, smelled about the same. I hate that shit. No clue why they even served it in a bar, but Mori practically owned the place, so I guess the staff just got used to his weird-ass tastes.

“The situation’s complicated. One of my flowers met them,” Kouyou said. “She pretended to be after money, fed them some lies about you, Chuuya. Threw out a few standard hooks, tried to fish for anything about who they are and what they want. But they didn’t just not bite, they didn’t react at all. Like they knew she was lying the second she opened her mouth.”

“So? Any use out of your little protégé?” Mori asked coldly.

Kouyou barely frowned, tapping her polished nails against the table, once, twice, three times — nervous. I knew she feared Mori and hated him. Not that anyone actually liked the guy. Or wasn’t scared of him.

I had no illusions about Mori. The second I stopped being useful, he’d toss me like a dirty rag and wouldn’t even wipe his shoes on me. No — actually, I’d never stop being useful to him, otherwise he wouldn’t put up with my shit. More like, the second I became an obstacle, he’d have me gone. Hell, he’d probably offed me already just in case if I were that easy to kill.

So yeah, he was a constant reminder that my only worth is me. That I shouldn’t kid myself about being needed by anyone. Mori was clear-cut, simple, a straight-up bastard. Unlike…

Well. Unlike someone who was a bit more complicated.

Or maybe not complicated at all. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

“At the very least, we know how many of them there are and what they look like,” Kouyou said evenly, masking whatever anger or resentment she felt. “Four of them — at least, four showed up. Confident. They know about ability users, and they’re probably one of us. I’d bet they’ve got a strong organization behind them. Three girls and a guy, all English speakers. The girls have reddish-brown hair. Look like sisters. They talk in a weird way, finishing each other’s sentences, like they’re thinking as one. The guy’s a chubby brunette. Stays mostly silent. They’re all around Akutagawa’s age. Speaking of which, they asked about him. But they asked about you more, Chuuya. Actually, they seem interested in everything — the Mafia, the Agency.”

“Still no word from Akutagawa, by the way,” Mori noted. “The kid’s got his quirks, but disappearing without a word isn’t like him. I’m concerned. There’s no real reason to think these foreigners had anything to do with it, and yet… I feel like there’s some connection. What do you think, Nakahara?”

“Me? I don’t have a fu... hmm... any idea.”

I tried not to swear around Kouyou. She’d worked so hard to turn me into one of her polite little dolls — not that it worked.

And then a thought hit me.

If I had my memory wiped, like Akutagawa, and I didn’t know who I was, where I was going, what I believed in — if I was trying to find solid ground and there was just empty air beneath me... Who would I go to for help? Yeah. Probably Kouyou. We’d been through plenty of shit, but still — she was kind of like family.

Mori hated swearing too. When I was a twelve-year-old brat, he once threatened to wash my mouth out with soap. I gave him the most innocent look and asked if he also wanted to make me kneel on rice or whip me — he loves that old-fashioned perverted crap, I’d bet my life on it. He never brought it up again. Back then, he wasn’t head of the Mafia yet. Now? Well, shutting him up takes more effort.

“…Got nothin’ to say. Pardon me.”

Oh, I had plenty to say.

Akutagawa and Atsushi come back from a shady-ass trip to England. The next day, some shady-ass English bastards show up in Yokohama. Any idiot could put two and two together.

But these guys weren’t looking for Akutagawa. Or Atsushi. They were looking for me.

And it hit me.

The brats had led their pursuers straight to my doorstep.

They came to me first, so those English motherfuckers figured I was part of the mess too.

Well, shit.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell Mori and Kouyou about the ability-stealing cult. But I did know someone else I was very, very eager to discuss this with.

A few days later, I started suspecting that Atsushi was crashing at my place mostly because, just like Akutagawa, he was scared of facing Dazai.

But he had to go to the Agency eventually — I told him that straight up. By now, I’d figured out how to push his buttons. I reminded him he wasn’t doing it for himself (he was too much of a happy little zombie now to care), but for his friend. Po-o-or fragile Akutagawa.

Hey, whatever got things moving.

When he came back, I regretted everything.

Why the hell did I get involved? He could’ve just stayed in my apartment, played his dumb video games, kept messing around in the kitchen.

First off, one look and I knew — the Agency hadn’t done shit for him.

Second…

When I opened the door, he looked exactly like Akutagawa did that first visit — like a walking nightmare. Just no gothic cape. It seemed like he was about to puke right on the expensive parquet floor in my hallway. He was pale, empty-eyed, like he wasn’t even seeing me. Walked in, took off his shoes, placed them neatly on the bench, turned like a damn robot, ready to go into one of the rooms.

I blocked his path.

“Well?”

Atsushi focused on me like it took actual effort. Thought for a few seconds — like he’d forgotten what I was even asking — then said:

“Akiko — our medic — tried to fix me. Didn’t work. Physically, I’m good as new, but my ability’s still gone.”

“I see. Well. That’s... fucked.”

“It’s fine,” he said in a hollow voice. “I don’t wanna be one of them anymore anyway. Screw the detectives. I found a great bakery near your place. Maybe they’ll hire me.”

Yeah, he looked so "fine."

“Uh-huh…” I should’ve shut my mouth, but I asked, “So, did you… you know… see him?”

Atsushi gave me a look, and it hit me — he wasn’t about to puke this whole time.

He was about to cry.

And right then, I knew — either he’d punch me in the face, or he’d break down.

He chose the second. He grabbed onto me like I was his best friend, clutching tight, shaking, sniffling — angry and silent. He smelled oddly... childlike. Milk and soap. And something else — pain and fear.

Yeah. Even an idiot could figure it out. He'd seen Dazai.

I patted his back absentmindedly, saying nothing. Not like I had much experience comforting crying teenagers. My usual fix for any problem was a drink or jerking off. Not that he should be doing the latter in my apartment, but hell, whiskey was a solid advice in any situation.

I dragged him into the room, sat him down on the couch, and poured him a glass of Laphroaig. The best damn whiskey in the world — it tasted like ash, blood, and iron.

“I... I’m not twenty yet,” Atsushi croaked out, voice breaking.

What kind of dumbass came up with these laws? Can’t have whiskey, but getting your life wrecked? Totally fine.

I shoved the glass into his hands anyway. He took it, obedient, bringing it to his lips. He was shaking so bad the rim clinked against his teeth. Tears streamed down his face, into his mouth, into his damn ears, dripping hot onto my pants. He didn’t even try wiping them away — maybe he knew it was useless. Maybe he just didn’t notice anymore.

After two glasses, he finally started talking. His incoherent sobs boiled down to this: Dazai had been his mentor, his older brother, his father and mother all in one. The best, brightest thing in his otherwise shitty orphan life. His ideal, his guiding light. And in the end, he turned out to be nothing but a soulless bastard who didn't spare a shred of pity or even curiosity about what would happen to his unlucky apprentice.

I... Well, I'd be lying if I said I was surprised. Honestly, I could picture their conversation crystal clear. Dazai, shoving his face into the dirt, probably still joking around, throwing in a couple of those dumbass suicide quips of his. Fucking asshole.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Akutagawa peeking in from the other room, his face twisted like every word he heard was branding him with a red-hot iron. But he didn’t leave. Couldn't, more like. I pretended not to notice him. No way in hell was I dealing with a double meltdown tonight.

You know, the worst pain isn’t the kind you feel for yourself. It’s when it’s for someone else. Or not even a person — just someone, something, small, weak, alone, helpless. Like when some sick fucks are beating up a stray dog or setting a cat’s tail on fire. Or when you see some old woman in the supermarket slipping a handful of candy into her pocket because she doesn’t have the money to pay for it. It’s always the elderly and the animals. Kids? Eh, most of them can be just as cruel and ruthless as adults, sometimes even worse. But Atsushi wasn’t like that. I could already tell he was something else entirely — too good, too soft, like he really belonged in a damn bakery, not in this kind of life.

And pain like that — the kind that’s not for you — always comes with anger. And it’s the worst kind of anger, the kind that makes you want to scream because there’s fuck all you can do about it. Sure, you can beat the shit out of the punks torturing the cat, you can help one old man or woman, but there will always be more. More bastards, more suffering. And you can’t punch injustice in the face. You can’t save everyone, no matter how hard you try. The best you can do is wish all that shit was happening to you instead of them — because at least you’re strong enough to handle it. But that’s the catch. The universe doesn’t do trades like that. This kind of shit always happens to the weak.

So yeah. That familiar wave of pain and anger was rising up inside me, and I had no clue what the hell to do with it.

Then, out of nowhere, Akutagawa stepped out from the doorway and walked up to us, slow and deliberate. His eyes were black holes — impossible to read, impossible to guess what he was about to say or do.

“You shouldn’t be drinking,” he said to Atsushi, quiet but firm.

Atsushi looked up at him, confused and helpless. Akutagawa took the glass from his hands and passed it back to me. Then he looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite place — not anger, not gratitude. More like... “stay out of this.”

“Atsushi,” he muttered, “I, uh... I can’t get past this part in ‘Zelda.’ You wanna give it a shot? Turns out it’s quite fun. Link’s got all these different armors, you can pick which one.”

“Yeah,” Atsushi said, his voice hoarse from crying. “And weapons too.”

“The bow’s not bad,” Akutagawa said. Then he grabbed Atsushi’s wrist and pulled him toward the room with the console.

It was... wow. I had no words. I’d seen Akutagawa in a lot of states — alone, furious, upset, brooding, triumphant, jealous, drowning in self-pity, consumed with hate. But never — never — had I seen him try to help someone.

And yet, there he was, gripping Atsushi’s dirty, bitten-up fingers with his own pale, corpse-like hand. And Atsushi squeezed back, holding on like it was the only thing keeping him afloat.

Soon, the sounds of the TV came from the next room.

“I like Link,” I heard from beyond the wall.

“His looks or in general?”

“I meant in general, as a character. But... yeah, his design too.”

“Yeah... He’s got cool ears.” Atsushi sounded normal now. No more sobs.

I sat there alone. Mindlessly raised my glass, drained the last drops. Poured myself another, downed that too.

I felt like shit.