***

As it turned out, I was not quite a prisoner after all. At the very least, slipping out of the building proved to be no challenge. It was early morning, the world still drowsing. If there were eyes on me, losing myself in a city of millions would not be particularly difficult.

And so, three days after Chuuya’s escape from that infernal ceremony in the forest house, I arrived at Baker Street. And—

Chuuya was not there.

There was a queue. An entire street-long procession of tourists. But no Chuuya. And my head, which always throbbed in the presence of that wretched ability of his, remained perfectly clear — empty, even — and that was no comfort at all.

For a moment, my heart nearly stopped. The sheer number of grotesque new theories that slithered into my mind at that instant — on top of the old ones, already vile enough — is best left unsaid.

I forced myself to stay calm, to hold on to the certainty that my mind had not been tampered with, that I still knew who I was and what I was doing.

Why wouldn’t Chuuya have come? He must have understood the hints I scrawled onto that paper in the plane — he knew me well enough…

Unless he hadn’t come because he was already—

Was this how it ended? Just like that? Checkmate?

I stared at the crowd milling about in front of the so-called 221B, which was not even 221 in truth, and my mind was an abyss of meaninglessness.

Chuuya, seeing this scene, would have scoffed: "Shit, it’s packed to the goddamn rafters."

...Good God. Could that be it? He wasn’t dead. I wasn’t insane. He had simply taken one look at this throng and — quite justifiably — decided this was hardly the ideal place for conversation. And besides, he was probably furious with me.

Chuuya, Chuuya… Where would you go first in London?

If you were alive. If you existed anywhere beyond the confines of my own head.

Where?

I asked for the address of the Tate Gallery, and within half an hour, I was already ascending the steps.

It took me a moment to grasp why the stylish redhead girl smoking at the museum doors seemed vaguely familiar.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t be an idiot,” she snapped, flashing bright blue eyes over the thick black frames of her glasses.

“The glasses suit you,” I said. “Pretending to be smart?”

It was only after the words left my mouth that I realized — these were the first I’d spoken to Chuuya since we met by the cryptomeria with the red ribbon, since he beat me senseless. Or at least the first I’d spoken plainly, without all the spy-game nonsense.

That conversation felt like it had happened a hundred years ago. A hundred years and nine circles of hell.

He was probably expecting different words — if not warmer ones, then at least more meaningful.

“Yeah, no, fuck off.” Chuuya turned on his heel and strode toward the museum doors. Apparently, he hadn’t quite finished admiring his favorite paintings yet.

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry!” I caught up with him. “Nice disguise.”

The only remnants of his usual attire were the black choker around his neck and, of course, the gloves. Even his most sacred relic — his hat — was gone, replaced by a messy knot of ginger hair. His coat had been swapped for some kind of mourning shroud, layered, tattered tank tops, obscenely tight leather pants (the pinnacle of bad taste), and platform boots (why not stilettos while we’re at it?). Around his neck hung an assortment of pendants, gothic or maybe vaguely ethnic, and his ears were adorned with fake piercings of a similar style. He had, it seemed, thrown himself into his new persona with great enthusiasm. And in new clothes he looked much younger than he really was — practically a teenager.

“And I don’t look half bad, do I?”

“Depends on the criteria,” I said cautiously. “There’s a risk they won’t sell you alcohol. And, I don’t know if you’ve realized, but with your face and…” I tactfully swallowed the word height, “…graceful physique, this look isn’t even androgynous.”

“Oh, just say it — look like a chick, yeah? Only without the tits.” He sounded almost proud, as if expecting compliments.

“Well, more or less. But as long as you’re happy with it.”

I’d always suspected that Kouyou’s parenting would eventually lead him to some form of gender dysphoria — though, no doubt, she’d been hoping to turn him into a delicate porcelain doll in a Gion district kimono, not… whatever this was. Did it suit him? I wasn’t an expert in such matters. To me, Chuuya had always been Chuuya, whether in ripped tank tops, business suits, hoodies, or traditional silk robes. I knew, objectively, that he was beautiful — I’d seen how people reacted to his sharpness, his charm, the grace tempered with undeniable force. Half of the Port Mafia, regardless of age or gender, lusted after him. But I… I had simply gotten used to him, I think.

“Look, I found a tank top in All Saints just like Cara Delevingne’s!” he boasted, flicking his cigarette for emphasis. “I make one hell of a hot little chick, don’t I? I’d totally fuck me.”

Under different circumstances, I would have made a snide remark about that, but I wasn’t in the mood to escalate things. Besides, there was nothing particularly new in Chuuya’s relentless narcissism.

“But you,” he added vengefully, “look like you got skull-fucked with a toilet brush. And when I say ‘skull-fucked,’ I don’t mean like you’re some big fan of toilet brushes, lying there all happy and smoking a cigarette after. No, I mean it like there’s fucking blood and brain matter splattered everywhere and—”

“Thank you, I get the idea,” I cut him off.

This monstrous human being couldn’t possibly be a figment of my imagination… right?

“Chuuya,” I said. “Don’t laugh, but… answer me. Who am I? Who are you? And what the hell are we doing here? Explain. In detail.”

“…Huh?”

After a brief pause, realization dawned across his face. He narrowed his eyes ominously and, in a sepulchral voice, intoned:

“The truth is, they fucked with your brain a long time ago — scrubbed it clean with ‘Ariel Automatic.’ Everything you think you know about me? You made it up. Chuuya Nakahara is just your imaginary childhood friend, invented so you wouldn’t croak from loneliness. And me? I’m not him. I work for your enemies. My name is Joushi Ikita. Look, I even have a credit card with my name on it.”

“…Hilarious. Really. But you, by the way, could’ve had your brainwashed too.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Nah, unlike you, I’d know if I lost my ability. That’d be like losing my sense of smell or sight…” He paused, then added, “But hey, you could test yours on me. It’s easy. Wanna try?”

Chuuya balanced his still-lit cigarette upright on the tip of his index finger — it stood straight, like a tiny lighthouse. Then he flipped his finger over, and the cigarette remained hanging, as if glued in place.

I hesitated before reaching out, touching the strip of bare skin between his glove and coat sleeve. Maybe my hand was trembling slightly.

The cigarette detached, tumbled down, hit the stone step, and went out.

I think I even exhaled out loud in relief.

Chuuya smirked. “See? You’re fine. You just let your fucked-up little head run wild with nonsense. Jesus, Dazai, your brain is so full of shit they could start shoveling it out by the truckload.”

And, honestly, who could argue with that?

I wanted to tell him about the endless rain, the kind that felt like a water torture. But that would mean explaining the Prisoner’s Paradox, and all those silent, ghostlike children — shadows of themselves — and Kay with his fractions and roses, and the conversations with Joanne, that terrifying woman who mirrored me like some warped reflection, and the tangled web of paranoid theories, and Oda Sakunosuke and his death, and Milgram’s experiment, and memories of my childhood — no, no. Chuuya didn’t deserve to be dragged into the hell where I had spent the past three days, locked inside both a damaged children’s orphanage and my own skull at the same time…

And anyway, he probably wouldn’t understand. Not that I really thought he was stupid — but this kind of thing simply didn’t interest him.

I reproachfully asked,

"Why not Baker Street?"

"Have you even seen your precious Baker Street?"

"Fair point," I sighed. "Still, you could've left some kind of clue."

"Why? I'm the dumbass here, so I need clues. You're smart — you’ll figure it out."

"Well, I did," I said, not without a hint of pride. "Although I had several possibilities in mind..."

"What other possibilities? This is the Tate Gallery! It's drowning in Pre-Raphaelites. Ophelia by Millais is hanging here, for fuck’s sake!"

"Oh, Chuuya… You are the very definition of tragicomic."

"So you think this is funny? You should be grateful I'm even talking to you. Google ‘voluntary consent,’ you dense fuck, you might learn something new."

"Chuuya! I tracked you down in a city of nine million people without a single clue. I practically wore through three pairs of iron boots and gnawed through three loaves of iron bread. You owe me forgiveness."

He’d forgiven me long ago; otherwise, he wouldn’t have come at all. We both knew it.

He sat down on one of the steps, and I settled beside him. He smelled as he always did — of his peculiar, expensive perfumes, a sharp and vivid scent, something like pepper, honey, and amber. It belonged in the sun-soaked Mediterranean, not in this damp London gloom. Chuuya fished out another cigarette and, without looking, offered me the pack. I took one out of sheer habit, though I hadn’t smoked in what felt like a century. They were those Indonesian clove cigarettes — kretek — of course he had managed to find them even here.

"If you don’t count the galleries and fashion boutiques, this city is absolute fucking shit," Chuuya declared, exhaling a thick plume of smoke. "Back home in Yokohama, it’s warm and nice right now — you could take a walk, ride your bike. And here? It’s cold as a witch’s tit, the wind’s slapping me in the face, and everything’s as damp as a mermaid’s asshole. I bought an umbrella, I’m carrying hot coffee around like a fucking security blanket, and I still keep sniffling like some homeless street rat. Why the fuck does everyone romanticize this place? It's a goddamn mess — architectural vomit, glass and concrete dicks sticking out everywhere like I haven’t had my fill of that shit back in Japan. The Tube is a rat’s nest. The Thames stinks to high heaven — what the hell are you laughing at? You don’t like the word ‘concrete dicks’?"

"No, I'm laughing at the ‘mermaid’s asshole’. You know, Chuuya, in these past three days without you, I nearly hanged myself."

"Wow," he said, with about as much emotion as if I’d told him I was out of milk. "Big shocker."

And suddenly, I felt like that boy from the fable who kept crying ‘wolf.’

Christ, Chuuya — half an hour ago, I thought you were dead. Or that you never existed at all. And here you are, strolling through museums and shopping like it's just another Tuesday, still thinking about art and the taste of cigarettes.

I didn’t say it out loud.

But he must have understood something — just one look at me and he had already mentioned a "toilet brush."

"Eh, it’s all bullshit," he said, as if trying to be reassuring. "Knowing you, I bet you’ve been keeping an eye on Atsushi and Akutagawa, and you’ve already heard the kind of bullshit they’ve been spoon-fed. And we’ve already seen enough of those cult-crazed brats to know how this works… For it to really get its hooks in, a person has to believe they're fucked up."

"Yeah, I’ve come to the same conclusion," I said thoughtfully. "That ability plays on self-esteem issues… But it’s not as simple as just knowing something’s wrong. Not everyone understands what exactly they’re ashamed of, what they’re trying to erase, what they feel guilty for — what makes them vulnerable…"

"Do they?" he asked, sounding so genuinely perplexed that I couldn’t help but smile. Oh, Chuuya… He truly had that rare gift of accepting things, including himself, exactly as they were. And because of that, he was immune — untouched by shame or guilt.

"You know," I admitted, surprising even myself, "I originally had a very different plan. No Atsushi, no Akutagawa. Just you. The idea was that hypnosis wouldn't work on a narcissistic bastard like you, so I could just slip you past Joanne…"

"How sweet. And were you also planning to ‘forget’ to tell me about this plan?"

I sidestepped the question with all the grace of a limping donkey.

"I ultimately decided it wasn’t worth the risk. Besides, you’re terrible at pretending."

He snorted in offense, then — like a sulky five-year-old — grumbled out of nowhere,

"Well, and you... your hat is stupid. No one wears those anymore."

"Atrocious hat," I agreed meekly. "My great-great-grandfather sent it down from the afterlife."

Something about my easy compliance seemed to genuinely unsettle him. We were so used to bickering that when one of us actually agreed with the other, it sent the other into a panic. And yet, I didn’t want to argue. Even though, perhaps, bickering with him right now would have been nice. No — what was best was simply being here, in the warmth of his familiarity, the scent of smoke and perfume.

He gave me a long, wary look, as if trying to decide whether I was concussed.

"Do you wanna go see Wicked?" he asked, voice full of suspicion.

"No, I’m not a changeling, if that’s what you’re implying. And I’ll go wherever you want, as soon as I get my brain unscrambled and figure out what the hell is happening."

"I’ll… think of something," he promised. "That musical has a fucking amazing song in it—" He even shut his eyes in bliss for a second.

Honestly, he could’ve suggested anything right now — Wicked, a museum trip to see Ophelia (as if I hadn’t already seen the painting a thousand times in internet; he’d fried my brain with Pre-Raphaelites back in the day), a four-hour wine tasting, a shopping spree for hats or cologne — I would have nodded and followed, smiling.

It felt like the best day of my life. And like I’d never been happier to see anyone than I was to see Chuuya right now.

Schopenhauer says happiness is merely an illusion formed in contrast to suffering. But let me tell you — when you’ve been through enough suffering, that illusion feels quite real.

"Now," Chuuya declared, tapping ash from his cigarette, "start talking. What the fuck happened in that house in the woods? And let’s figure this shit out."