“You’re... not a literature teacher?” it finally clicked for Anne. This girl was killing me. How the hell did she even get dragged into all this? I couldn’t help but snort.

“A teacher? Him? Yeah, and I’m a ballerina.”

“And you would know what kind of teacher I am?” Dazai took offense out of nowhere.

“Well, I mean, I got eyes. One of your students gets off on fantasies about your death — I hope not literally — ugh, fuck, why did I even picture that, now I can’t unsee it... The second one avoids you like a damn open sewer. And Q... well, let’s not even go there.”

I fully expected him to snap back — something about how I should mind my own business and keep my dumb mouth shut — but Dazai just frowned slightly and stayed quiet.

“Tell me, angel of the art room, your hotel far from here?” he asked after a brief, heavy pause.

“Well, yeah, kinda. West End, actually. Why?” I asked warily.

Dazai’s smile turned real unpleasant.

“Well, I may not be the best teacher, but I’m at least not bad enough to torture people on the roof of an orphanage full of peacefully sleeping — or at least trying to sleep — innocent children. Wouldn’t want to set a bad example. Also, I think I hear police sirens.”

***

“What does she know? Talk.”

Dazai slapped the kid hard across the face — so hard his head snapped back and smacked against the wall. When Wilde straightened again, a fresh scrape was blooming red across his cheekbone.

Far from the first one.

The interrogation was happening in a fancy-ass suite of the Excelsior hotel (Joushi Ikita’s credit card let me live the high life). I was slowly coming to the depressing realization that this suite — and the hotel itself — would never feel the same to me again.

Wilde and Anne were tied to the radiator — Dazai really had decided to go old school with it. Anne, terrified and sobbing, had a gag in her mouth. Wilde’s was loosened, but he had long since given up on screaming for help.

Dazai sat on a chair in front of them, sleeves rolled up, all his bandages visible (a fresh one on his left shoulder where the bullet had grazed him, a dried stain already forming). His knuckles were scraped raw. Working hard, huh?

Another hit.

“What did you find out?”

Wilde was dead silent, lips pressed together, despite the interrogation dragging on. His nose was crusted with dried blood, his right eye swollen nearly shut. Gotta give it to the rich boy — he was holding up pretty well. No whimpering, no screams.

I sat off to the side on the couch, silently disapproving, same as always when I saw Dazai "at work." A good, honest fight was one thing — beating the shit out of someone tied up was something else entirely.

“Come on. Talk. What did you tell Joanne?”

Another punch split Wilde’s lip, a trickle of blood running down his chin.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

“How much longer are you gonna keep this up? Whatever he knows, I’m sure he didn’t tell Joanne his suspicions. She wouldn’t have let him go off alone if he had...”

“Do you ever shut up, Chuuya?” Dazai said sweetly. “Because this would be a great time to try. Understand?”

“No,” I shot back. “I’d really love to understand, but I don’t. And if you don’t explain to me right now what the fuck you’re doing, I’m walking out that door and you can play your little spy games on your own.”

Dazai sighed. At least he didn’t pull that “God, you’re such a five-year-old” face.

“Fine. Let’s talk on the balcony. No — bad idea. The bathroom.”

“The fuck? What does it matter if they hear? We’re speaking Japanese, you paranoid idiot...”

“Apparently, not paranoid enough, or this,” he nodded toward the tied-up duo, “wouldn’t have happened.”

He stood up and actually headed for the bathroom, closing every door along the way.

"Well?" I snapped once we were inside. "Should we start passing notes now, just to be sure? You done with this bullshit yet...? You think he figured out who you are?"

"No," Dazai said. "If he knew for certain, he’d have been much better prepared. He knows I’m not Mr. Ikita because the information I spread about Joushi Ikita online looks pretty fake — only, no one ever had a reason to scrutinize it before. Wilde realized that person doesn’t exist. He also knows I don’t create illusions, or he wouldn’t have risked confronting me — he’s not stupid. I assume he accidentally saw Anne’s little masterpiece, and that strengthened his suspicions. Finally, it occurred to him that you and I might be working together. So he came to talk to me, and the girl followed him. He brought a gun, just in case, but I doubt he seriously thought he’d need it. If you’re wondering what happened between us — he asked me some very direct questions, the kind you either answer yes or no or refuse outright. And of course, I know he hasn’t told Joanne anything yet. He wasn’t sure of his guess. He wanted proof."

"If you already know everything, Sherlock, what the hell do you need from him?"

"Nothing. If I actually wanted information, I’d be torturing the girl. It would be far more effective — he’d crack in a second," Dazai explained, calm as ever. Logic. Always fucking logic. Watertight as a butthole.

"So let me repeat the main question: why the fuck are you doing this?"

"I’m not interested in Wilde. I’m interested in Anne."

"What?.. Oh, come on. She’s got nothing to say. You just said she followed him by accident. Fuck, I talked to her — there’s nothing in that girl’s head but scrambled eggs. And she already thinks all the gifted are monsters—"

"And she’s right," Dazai nodded. "Everyone is a monster, Chuuya. Not just the gifted. Or at least, anyone can be. The sooner she understands there are no ‘good guys,’ the better. And right now, I want to scare her. A lot."

I completely lost the thread of whatever the fuck he was thinking.

"Maybe you really should leave," he added, his voice serious. "That was just the beginning. It’s going to get worse, and you’ll try to stop me."

"What if I don’t?"

"You still should go."

Something wasn’t adding up. I’d wanted to leave from the start — he could’ve just waved me off and said, "Don’t let the door hit you on the way out." But instead, he was explaining himself, moving his damn mouth, trying to get something across. And from the way his eyes looked, I didn’t think he actually wanted me to go.

So I stayed.

And yeah, things got worse.

Dazai picked up the kitchen knife he’d brought from Avalon and went back to his chair in front of the captives. I stood behind him, gripping the back of his chair, because I could already tell I’d want something to lean on.

He ran a finger along the knife’s edge, like he was testing its sharpness, then said thoughtfully:

"There are many excellent surgical instruments. Perhaps you’ve heard of Liston’s scalpel, Wilde-san? It’s famous for making fast, precise cuts. You see, if you take too long sawing through, say, a leg, the patient simply dies of shock. Liston designed this scalpel specifically for situations where anesthesia wasn’t an option."

He paused. He didn’t say, Like this one, but the words practically dripped from the air.

"...I’m also quite fond of the Gigli saw. The inventor designed it to cut through the pubic bone during difficult childbirths, but it works just as well for other bones — like, say, amputations. The saw is long and flexible. You loop it around the bone and saw back and forth until — snap. Fascinating, isn’t it?"

Anne, who had been staring blankly at nothing, suddenly broke into hysterical sobs.

"Unfortunately, at this hour, all the medical supply stores are closed," Dazai sighed, as if this was a minor inconvenience, "so we’ll have to make do with what we have. I believe this knife is quite sharp — it’s used to cut meat every day. Shall we test it?"

He leaned forward and unbuttoned Wilde’s shirt. Underneath was an undershirt, and Dazai dragged the blade down its length — the fabric split, leaving a long red gash beneath.

"Not as sharp as I expected," he noted, disapproving. He ran the knife across Wilde’s ribs a few more times, slow and deliberate, leaving bloody trails. "By the way, just a reminder — if you’d rather not continue getting acquainted with this imperfect tool, you can stop this at any time."

Wilde clenched his teeth so hard I thought I heard them crack. But he didn’t make a sound.

"Oh well..."

Dazai shoved the gag back into his mouth, even as Wilde twisted and fought.

Then, without so much as a change in expression, he drove the knife into Wilde’s thigh, all the way to the hilt.

The scream that tore out of the kid wasn’t human. The gag barely muffled it. Tears poured down his swollen, bloodied face, burning tracks into the mess of red and blue.

I’d seen worse. Once, for example, I saw Dazai with a fucking power drill… And that time, I spent a good half hour puking my guts out into a toilet, genuinely, seriously reconsidering whether I wanted anything to do with this guy.

Scalpels were better.

Dazai yanked the knife free — it was stuck deep, so he had to twist and tug to get it out, and all the while, Wilde made sounds I never wanted to hear again. When he finally sagged against the radiator, dazed and shaking, Dazai loosened the gag again.

"I do hope this has provided some entertainment, Wilde-san," he smiled. "See? A world full of puppets can be quite an exciting place. Even the simplest kitchen utensils hold so many surprises. And there’s so much more to come!"

The room reeked of blood, sweat, tears, snot, fear, pain — so thick it felt like the air itself had curdled. And through that sickening haze, Dazai’s deep, honeyed voice flowed like a river of molten gold. Only it wasn’t honey. It was poison.

He didn’t smell like anything. Nothing human, at least.

He never raised his voice. There was no anger on his face. When he wasn’t forcing that mocking little smirk, his expression was closed off, slightly arrogant — like it always was when he was especially focused.

I don’t even want to know what a psychologist would say about this, but in moments like these, the hairs on my arms didn’t stand up just from fear and disgust but also… something else.

I knew better than anyone that Dazai could act like a real monster — like he was doing right now — but he was never cruel unless he had deliberately chosen to be. His sense of necessity sometimes seemed horrifyingly alien to me, but he never lost control. He wasn’t driven by rage, vengeance, or some animalistic thirst for pain — none of the usual shit you find in a normal person. He could fake all sorts of emotions, including Mori-style sadism, but underneath it all, there was always that eerie, unwavering focus, like a tightrope walker balancing above an abyss.

And it was just so… so…

I licked my dry lips.

Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t the violence itself I liked — no sane person would. It was something else. In moments like these, it was like he locked away the last scraps of his humanity in some distant vault, and what remained was… pure. Something not of this world. Like the night sky, vast and cold, indifferent, silent, eternal, terrifying—

And beautiful.

Which meant I was going straight to hell. Not that I believed in hell. Or even in good and evil, really. But at this moment, these were definitely some fucked-up thoughts to be having, considering there was a guy a meter away from me with a knife wound in his leg and a face beaten into raw meat, and a girl on the verge of pissing herself in terror. And I was thinking about how much I wanted to fuck the man who did this to them.

I gripped the back of his chair and had no idea which feeling to give in to first — admiration or revulsion. Stay or leave. But I’d already promised I wouldn’t leave…

Wilde blinked rapidly, gasping for breath, his swollen lips trembling.

“I… I won’t tell you shit, you bastard…”

“I see,” Dazai murmured. “Chuuya, you wouldn’t happen to have a pair of nail scissors, would you?”

“No,” I lied without hesitation.

“A shame. Nail scissors are simply delightful.”

He suddenly flashed a dazzling smile. “By the way, I just realized — our selection of tools may be lacking, but there’s always the option of switching test subjects.”

He leaned closer to Anne.

“A woman’s thigh isn’t as dense as a man’s,” he mused, tapping her leg thoughtfully. “More fat, less muscle… which means the knife should slide in more easily. It’ll go in deeper — might even hit the floor. I wonder if I’ll have the strength to pull it back out afterward...”

Anne let out a muffled whimper behind her gag. She was shaking so badly her face had gone completely gray.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. He’s going all in. And if it doesn’t work — if he actually stabs her — then what? How far do his ideas of ‘scaring her’ actually go?

“P-please… stop…” Wilde’s voice was hoarse, his busted lips barely moving. “Not her… You wanted to know what Joanne knows, right? Well, she knows everything. She’s known from the very beginning. You’ve already lost.”

Dazai leaned back in his chair, his voice turning almost indifferent.

“Well, that explains your stubborn silence, Wilde-san. Because with that confession, you do realize neither of you has any value to me anymore.”

He stood up, cast me an unreadable glance, and walked out — only to return a moment later, now holding a familiar Walther PPK.

What the fuck?

What the hell is he doing?

Dazai told me not to interfere, but… shit…

I heard the click of the safety disengaging. Saw him raise the gun and aim it right at Anne’s head.

She let out a choked sob and squeezed her eyes shut.

I shut mine, too.

A gunshot rang out.

When I forced my eyes open, Anne’s head was still intact — surrounded by a crackling, translucent green barrier, flickering with electric sparks.

“Well, now,” Dazai murmured.

His voice wasn’t particularly surprised.

“Uh… Should we, uh… step into the bathroom again for a sec?” I blinked.