Knights and Knaves puzzles

Estragon: Suppose we repented. Vladimir: Repented what? Estragon: Oh...(He reflects.) We wouldn’t have to go into the details. Vladimir: Our being born?

― Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot

 

In reality, everything is not as it really is.

― Stanisław Jerzy Lec

  Chuuya   God didn’t skimp on my imagination, but even in my wildest fever dreams, I never pictured myself as a babysitter for Dazai’s brats. It was October. A Saturday. Nine in the morning. A lovely Yokohama morning, when decent people stay in bed until noon, then lazily stretch under the sunlight, light up a cigarette with some damn good tobacco, and go grab a coffee. And here I was, at this ungodly hour, woken up by the doorbell. The ring was short, hesitant. I considered ignoring it, going right back to sleep. But then it rang again — more insistent this time. Muttering curses at the universe, I dragged myself out of bed, threw on whatever I could grab, and stumbled to the door. Standing in the hallway was Akutagawa Ryunosuke. Pale and brooding as ever, like a damn vampire from a trashy teen novel. Him? Showing up at my place? And next to him — well, who else could it be? — his white-haired little friend from the Agency. The tiger boy. “The hell’s wrong with you?!” I hissed. “You want the whole damn Agency to know where I live?” “We need to talk, Nakahara.” Akutagawa folded his arms in that defiant way of his, but his gaze was off. More distant than usual. The guy always looked like he dabbled in hard substances, but right now, he just looked wrecked. That, more than anything, convinced me this was serious. As I opened the door, I instinctively wrapped myself in a shield of gravity — like putting on a bulletproof vest. I’d worked with Akutagawa long enough to know he wouldn’t set me up, but habits stick to you like rust. I hadn’t exactly prepared for company, but my apartment was solid. I didn’t work for Mori for free, after all. Sure, I could stand to throw out a bunch of useless crap, and the windows hadn’t been cleaned in forever — maybe I’d call a service if I remembered — but still, the place was nice. These two strays were bound to be impressed. Akutagawa, though, barely seemed to register his surroundings — or my precautions. Moving like a sleepwalker, he shuffled through a couple of rooms before collapsing onto the couch, picking the spot with the least junk on it. The tiger boy — Atsushi, or whatever his name was — gave me an apologetic smile as he pushed some of my clothes aside and sat down next to him. His foot knocked over an empty bottle of a damn fine ten-year-old Pinot Noir. He flinched, mumbled an apology. “You… Nakahara-san, right? Sorry for just… showing up like this…” He looked more put-together than Akutagawa — who, frankly, seemed completely out of it. If this was acid, he’d taken more than a couple of blotters. Or maybe something stronger…? I dug through the sea of bottles on the floor and managed to find a couple that were still sealed. Popped one open, poured the wine into a glass — turned out to be some piss-poor, sour-ass cheap Cabernet, but I didn’t really care. I’d been hitting the bottle a little too hard these past few months, feeling like shit with nothing interesting to do. But hey, better to drink than pop hard drugs by the handful like some people — not naming names. I dropped into a chair across from my guests. Akutagawa was still my subordinate, after all, and it was about time I reminded him of that. Figured I’d channel Mori — put on that polite but ice-cold look of his. “I’d love to know where the hell you’ve been for the past month, Akutagawa. The Mafia’s been looking all over for you.” “I was… in London,” he muttered, still not meeting my eyes. Not like that actually explained shit. I kept going. “There were a couple of jobs where your assistance would have been, shall we say” — I kept up the Mori act, he loved that kind of phrasing — “not unwelcome. You know who’s particularly unhappy with you?” Akutagawa said nothing, still staring off into space like a lobotomized corpse. I tapped my fingers against my glass, growing impatient. “Well? Atsushi — is that your name? — you gonna sit there mute too? What brings you both to my doorstep, gentlemen?” The cherry on top — Mori would’ve said it exactly like that. The tiger boy shifted uncomfortably before speaking up. “We decided to get rid of our abilities. But Ryunosuke isn’t sure if it was the right choice, and he wanted to talk to someone about it.” I laughed. Of course I did. Then I shut the hell up, because Akutagawa lifted his eyes to mine — and I had never, never seen him look at anyone like that before. Fear. Not just fear — pure, unfiltered terror. That’s when it hit me: Atsushi wasn’t joking. I set my glass down, stood up, and stepped toward Akutagawa. Reached out and poked him in the cheek with a finger. He flinched like I’d pressed a burning iron to his skin. “The fuck is wrong with you, Nakahara?!” Nothing unusual about him losing his shit — everyone knew the guy was a walking, talking nerve disorder who couldn’t stand being touched. But here’s the thing: before, he wouldn’t have let me touch him in the first place. That freakishly oversized collar of his would’ve snapped up in an instant, slapping my hand away. And the best part? He wouldn’t have even needed to think about it. Rashomon kept people out of his space like a goddamn force field — it was as instinctive to him as gravity was to me. And right then, I finally realized what word had been rattling around in my head since the moment I saw him standing at my door. Bare. That’s what he looked like. Stripped down. His usual over-the-top gothic getup? Now it was just clothes. He really had lost Rashomon. “I chose this,” Akutagawa said, like he was trying to justify himself. “I got rid of my ability because…” He trailed off. Atsushi picked up the slack. “Because our powers are evil. They hurt people. Like what happened with Kyusaku — when all those innocent civilians died…” Akutagawa nodded, but it was a weak, unconvincing thing. “A curse. That’s what our abilities are. But now, we’re free. Without Rashomon, I can finally live a decent, peaceful life. Do what I actually want…” “Yes! I’ve always wanted to be a pastry chef,” Atsushi chimed in. “And now that the Agency won’t force me to work for them anymore, I can finally bake cakes like I’ve always dreamed.” I’ve heard a lot of bullshit in my life, but this? This was some Bible salesman-level nonsense. Not very inventive, I mean. And the worst part? The fact that these two were serious. There aren’t a lot of situations in life where you’re not sure whether to laugh like a lunatic or shit yourself in fear. This was one of them. “A pastry chef. Sure. Got it,” I said. “And you, Akutagawa? What’s your grand plan?” “I want to do something peaceful too. The Mafia… it’s dirty work.” “Wow. And what path was denied to you because of your sinful, ungodly ability?” — aside from getting laid, obviously, but I kept that one to myself. “Florist? Kindergarten teacher? Bus driver?” Akutagawa thought about it. Then, dead serious, he said: “Maybe I’ll become a writer.” I just sat there for a second. And then— “What the actual fuck.” Look, I didn’t give a shit about whatever the hell was going on in the tiger boy’s head, but Akutagawa? Akutagawa had never been ashamed of Rashomon. The guy was a walking trauma center, sure, riddled with complexes and god knows what else, but his ability? That was the one thing he took pride in. It’s what pulled him up from nothing. And this talk about the Mafia being dirty — I had never heard that from him before. Yeah, we weren’t exactly planting daisies and singing kumbaya, but most of the time, we were dealing with scumbags, not “innocent civilians.” There’s no such thing as pure little kittens in the world of big money. And besides, like a lot of us in the Mafia, Akutagawa was a street kid. And on the streets, the rules are simple — eat, or be eaten. Honestly, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think the two kids huddled together on the couch in front of me, looking like a couple of lost puppies, were just a well-placed illusion — something like Kouyou’s Golden Demon, maybe some trick from that one guy in the Agency who’s good at this sort of thing. But For the Tainted Sorrow let me sense the weight and volume of everything in the room, and the cheek I’d just poked felt solid enough. Nope, unfortunately, Akutagawa and Atsushi, spouting absolute first-class nonsense with straight faces, were one hundred percent real. What a fucking morning. I had no other theories. Too early for the DTs. So I asked: "You hungry?" My dear guests nodded in sync. "We just got off the plane," Atsushi explained. I fished my phone out of my pocket and ordered a couple of pizzas. I desperately needed to dilute this madness with something mundane and boring. Preferably with pepperoni. "One thing I don’t get — why’d you come to me? Why not Dazai?" "I suggested it, but—" Atsushi started. "No!" Akutagawa’s eyes went wild. "Dazai must never see me. Never. Not… like this." I translated that for myself: no matter how fucked in the head he was right now, he knew. Even back when he still had Rashomon, Dazai never hesitated to dunk his ass in the dirt — or roundhouse-kick him in the face, for that matter. But now? Now that Akutagawa was all "purified"? He became nothing for his former mentor. A blank space. Not even worth spitting on. Considering that impressing Dazai had basically been his entire purpose in life, something about this whole thing didn’t add up. Tiger boy didn’t look too happy at the mention of Dazai either. So. You two voluntarily got rid of your abilities? Uh-huh. Yeah, I’ll believe that when I see pigs fly. "Strip," I said. "Wh—" Akutagawa choked. His face turned so red, so fast, that if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d think that shit only happened in cartoons. "Go fuck yourself with that gay shit!" Oh, this was rich. Like, sure, I’d expect him to snap at me — given the state he was in, I’d even let it slide. But for a guy who walked around dressed like a model straight off an Alexander McQueen runway to start calling me out for "gay shit"? Hilarious. Atsushi, who apparently caught on faster than his buddy, rushed to explain: "No, no! If you think someone forced us to give up our abilities, that’s not true! It was our decision, really, Nakahara-san! We’ve been thinking about this for a long time — practically since we were born, we’ve dreamed of this—" "Yeah, shut the hell up," I cut him off. That weird, overly attached "we" they kept using — it was making me nauseous. Like an old married couple finishing each other’s sentences. When the fuck did they get so close? "The Akutagawa I know never dreamed of anything like this." "I get what you’re saying, Nakahara," Akutagawa muttered, still red as a damn tomato. "It… makes sense. But I can check myself. In the next room. If you don’t mind." I had my doubts that our favorite little edgelord could even count his own fingers right now, let alone give himself a proper once-over, but whatever. I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, yeah, knock yourself out. Hell, lock the door if you’re so shy. God forbid your pale ass accidentally becomes the subject of my sexual fantasies. Right after those bags under your eyes." Akutagawa turned even redder — this time from sheer rage — muttered something completely incomprehensible but definitely hostile, then just gave up and stormed off into the next room. "Why do you go out of your way to piss him off?" Atsushi asked, sounding almost reproachful. The honest answer? Akutagawa looked fucking hilarious when he was pissed, so naturally, everyone around him messed with him. Or, well, everyone who wasn’t afraid of getting skewered by Rashomon for it. I went with something more diplomatic: "I’m teaching him a life lesson." I spread my hands. "The world is cruel. The Mafia’s not a cakewalk. And there are a lot of mean people out there. Kid needs to grow some thicker skin." "Oh, yeah, real great teacher you are," Atsushi muttered. Wait. Was that… sarcasm? No way. The little kitty finally baring his claws? Color me impressed. "I’ll never be on Dazai’s level, but I do my best," I shot back. Atsushi shut up. After a pause, he spoke again—quieter, almost pleading: "You can’t treat Ryunosuke like that. He’s… fragile." "Fra~gile, huh." I reconsidered his whole visit. This kid — this soft, Agency-raised do-gooder — came to me. To me. One of the top brass of the Mafia. Mori’s goddamn right-hand man. All because he was worried that mean ol’ Chuuya Nakahara might be too hard on his friend. A bravery bordering on insanity. Then again, given the state he was in, it probably only counted for half. But still. Damn adorable. As I mulled over all this crap, I kept checking him over. Thankfully, Atsushi didn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable. Made sense — he grew up in an orphanage, right? Shared dorms, shared showers, probably saw more bare asses than he cared to count. A useful trait, considering my social circle was crawling with fucked-up bastards wrapped in overcoats, bandages, and a lifetime’s worth of issues. But what actually worried me was how goddamn convinced he was of his own worthlessness. He kept rambling while I worked: “Ryunosuke and I went to England because there are people there who call themselves the Equalizers. Their leader, a woman known as Saint Joanne, has the power to purify sinners like me, or Ryunosuke… or you, Nakahara-san. No offense. She was one of us once, but she turned to the light. Her ability is called Cursed Child. When we came to her, begging to be freed from our curse, she graced us with her blessing.” “Hell of a blessing,” I muttered. The kid was covered in exactly what I expected — fading bruises, half-healed scrapes, and those weird gray burn marks that looked suspiciously like electrical burns. “I don’t… I don’t know where these came from.” Atsushi sounded genuinely surprised, like he hadn’t noticed them before. How the fuck? What were they doing this whole time, just staring at clouds? You had to be a special kind of dumb to not realize your own body was a goddamn roadmap of abuse. I swallowed the words “Alright, dumbass, let me spell it out for you,” because, honestly, there was no honor in dunking on a couple of brainwashed kids. Instead, I said, as patiently as I could: “Somebody grabbed you two, beat the shit out of you, then went rummaging around in your heads and left a nice steaming pile of bullshit behind.” 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.”   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.   ***   Then came Saturday. I mean, that Saturday. A week to the day since Atsushi and Akutagawa had shown up at my place. Remember the meeting, Chuuya? My phone chimed. Like I could forget. I was pissed off, hungover, and wrung out, but I still dragged myself to the ‘tree with the red ribbon’—mine and that bastard Dazai’s old Double Black meeting spot, back when we didn’t want the Mafia knowing our plans. An old cryptomeria tree near a Shinto shrine, its trunk wrapped in a ribbon to ward off evil spirits. “You parked sideways across the road, Chuuya. How on Earth did you even get a license?” Dazai stood under the tree, a shadow among shadows. “Oh, look at you. Mister fucking observant. Mister knows-everything.” “And what, you didn’t show up hanging upside down?” Even for Dazai, that was a dumb joke. I snapped back, “You see a fucking ceiling here, dipshit?” “And you’re absolutely wasted.” “Wow, so... perceptive,” I slurred, wobbling on my feet. “You know... how much I drank... just to not come here?” “I can guess,” he said coolly. “You reek like a damn distillery.” “And yet... here I am. Why? Tell me, since I already know I’ll get nothing but bullshit from you. You’ll say everyone makes mistakes, that you didn’t expect things to go this bad. That you never wanted your precious little apprentice—” “No, I pretty much saw this coming,” he cut in. “Trolley problem, Chuuya. Someone has to take responsibility. See, there are difficult challenges in this line of work. Like back in the Double Black days.” Dazai was acting weird — amped up, even though he was pretending to be calm. And what the hell was he bringing up Double Black for now? “You’re emotional, Chuuya,” he went on. “But it’s time you understand that sometimes, sacrifices have to be made. ‘You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.’ You know that maxim?” I got his meaning loud and clear. “So what, people don’t matter to you at all? Break a toy, and fuck it, who cares?” Dazai frowned. “Did Mori never teach you not to ask questions when you don’t want the answer?” Maybe I didn’t want to hear any more of his shit. Fuck this. I had a couple of bottles waiting for me at home, and two dumbass kids who, for some reason, actually needed me. I stepped back toward my car — yeah, the one I parked like a moron. Before I left, I still tried to knock some sense into this asshole: “Ever wonder why, despite your ability to crawl up anyone’s ass without lube, you don’t have many people left who let you push them around? I’ll tell you why: you gotta take care of your toys, dumbass. But you? You break them with your own shitty hands. And broken toys aren’t fun anymore, huh? Not as fun playing with soldiers when they ain’t got legs, right? Oh, what’s that? The little musical teddy bear doesn’t play its tune anymore? Maybe it’s ‘cause you gutted the damn thing? And you just go, "Nah, whatever, piece of crap was probably cheap, made in China, flea market garbage..." “Your metaphors, Chuuya, while impressively vivid, do tend to get repetitive...” “You can shove your fucking critique up your ass.” “...But, of course, I understand why this bothers you so much.” Dazai smirked, lazy and indifferent. “Don’t worry. I’d never tear your legs off. I need you. You’re my favorite toy… A toy that never breaks.” “The fuck..?” He said that shit so solemnly that for a second, I thought he meant something more than just mockery. But no, there was no mistaking his words. It was like a fist slammed into my gut — I thought of Atsushi yesterday, bawling into my shoulder, and Akutagawa’s empty stare, like he’d be stuck wandering the back alleys of his own mind forever, lost with no way out. A whole flood of other shit came rushing back, too. It felt almost as bad as yesterday, when I’d nearly started sobbing with that poor idiot Atsushi. Hell, it even sobered me up a bit. I punched him square in the face — full force, no holding back. Something crunched in his jaw, his head jerked like a damn puppet, slamming into a tree. Blood dribbled from his mouth… and that piece of shit smiled. “Not bad. Wanna hit me again?” No need to ask. Not only did I want to — I fucking did. Again, and again. “Fucking enough! ” I was yelling at this point. “Have you ever taken anything in your life seriously?! Stop treating people like fucking chess pieces! I’m sick of your shit, you goddamn wannabe grandmaster!” Dazai finally raised his hands in defense and backed off — otherwise, I swear to God, I would’ve beaten him to death right there. I lunged at him again… and slammed into a wall. Literally. Some kind of greenish, translucent barrier appeared right in front of me. The second I touched it, sparks crackled across its surface, shocking the hell out of me and throwing me backward. Behind me? Same shit. To my sides? More of it. Even above me. A cage. A fucking electric cage. “What. The. Actual. Fuck?!” I smashed my fists against the barrier, this time with all my strength, enough force to shatter concrete. Nothing. It didn’t budge — only crackled louder. Alright, what about below? I made my body heavy as a star, ready to sink into the ground, dive deep enough, then launch out somewhere else. But my feet didn’t go under. The same invisible wall was beneath me, too. I was completely trapped. Dazai watched me struggle with a calm, almost clinical curiosity — like some scientist observing a lab rat. Then, stepping out from the shadows of the trees, came three girls I’d never seen before — identical, like peas in a pod. They wore old-fashioned, frilly dresses with stiff collars, chestnut curls peeking from beneath their bonnets. I had a bad fucking feeling about this. "Three girls… speak English… reddish-brown hair, look like sisters… talk in a weird way, like they’re thinking as one… around Akutagawa’s age," Kouyou’s words echoed in my head. “Thank you...” “…for your cooperation…” “…Mr. Ikita.” They spoke in sync, like some freaky three-headed monster. Who the fuck is “Mr. Ikita”?! Dazai gave them a deep, gentlemanly bow. “Always a pleasure, ladies. Do whatever you want with Chuuya Nakahara. Now, about my humble payment?” “The money...” “…has already been transferred…” “…to your account.” “You!” I roared. “You fucking sold me out to them?!” “Yup.” Dazai didn’t even try to deny it. “You absolute piece of shit!” “Oh, look at that, it came through.” He pulled out his phone, checked something, and gave a satisfied nod. “Thank you for your punctuality.” “You should be thanking…” “…not us…” “…but our boss.” “Oh, of course. My deepest gratitude to her as well.” “She wants…” “…to speak with you…” “…personally.” “Personally? As much as I’d love to, I hear she’s in England right now.” “That’s what…” “…video calls…” “…are for.” I’m a fucking idiot. Even though this was obvious as hell, I couldn’t bring myself to believe Dazai really sold me out for money. Money never meant shit to him. But playing goddamn 5D chess, towering above the pathetic little bugs scrambling below? That turn him on enough to cum like a fountain. I was actually no different from those two poor bastards, Akutagawa and Atsushi — still believing in Dazai, even when he was bashing my skull in with a rock. This had to be some kind of scheme. The fake name, the weird setup — he wasn’t luring me into a trap, he was setting up these electric bitches. Probably counting on me to wreck them. But they were crazy strong. Stronger than any gifted I’d ever faced. Maybe working as a trio boosted their power, but even if I were sober, I don’t think I could’ve broken out. Unless… I used Corruption. Nothing could withstand that. No barrier, no power, no force on Earth. Corruption was a black hole that devoured everything. A portal to hell, Doom and Painkiller having a happy little baby. Atsushi, with all his righteous bullshit about sins and darkness, would shit himself if he saw me at full power. But to use Corruption… I’d have to trust him. Dazai’s smirking face flashed in my mind. "You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs... You’re a toy that never breaks." No. Fucking. Way. I wasn’t dying. I wasn’t even getting my ribs stomped in. I was just captured. You know that dumb saying, “Even if you get eaten, there’s always two ways out”? Well, Corruption was definitely the shittier exit. And no guarantee Dazai would even help if I went for it. And if he wouldn’t help, then I’m done for. So I decided to wait and see what the second exit was. I straightened up, crossed my arms, and put on the most dignified stance I could muster: “No idea who you are or what you want, ladies, but I’m all yours. “Thank you, Mr. Nakahara..." “If you don’t mind, we’ll turn you off now..." “…to make transport easier." "The fuck kind of transport—" Before I could say this aloud, the electric cage tightened. I screamed — then blacked out. The last thing I saw before darkness swallowed me was Dazai’s face. And the smug bastard looked pleased as hell.