Knights and Knaves puzzles

Chuuya Dazai was a fucking genius, sure, but he had two major problems. First, his brain sometimes short-circuited in favor of his personal brand of insanity rather than logic. And those little demons in his head? They were well-fed, fattened up over the years. Honestly, anyone in his place would’ve developed the same. The moment I saw him outside the Tate Gallery, I knew shit was about to go sideways. Not because he looked especially fucked up — Dazai could win an Oscar for Best Poker Face with that indifferent little smirk of his — but because he stopped messing with me. I’d expected him to lose his damn mind laughing when he saw me in these girly tank tops and my hair tied up in a bun. He should’ve been cracking all his usual dumbass jokes, we should’ve been at each other’s throats immediately. But instead, all he said was, "As long as you’re happy with it." Didn’t even make a single jab about my height. "Graceful physique" — what the actual fuck was that supposed to mean? I knew then: if Dazai had stopped being an asshole, shit was really bad. Probably why I didn’t tell him to fuck off and unload three days’ worth of pent-up rage on him. His second big problem? He thought he was a genius — so everyone else was a fucking idiot. Which, news flash, just because the first part is true doesn’t mean the second part is. Sometimes, like in this case, it got downright hilarious: he himself had told me how insanely smart that Joanne woman was, but somehow it never occurred to him that if she was like him, she’d act like him. That she didn’t need magic trinkets, some bullshit invincibility, or any of the other schizoid nonsense he was cooking up. “Tell me this. On the plane and at Heathrow, to trick those girls and Wilde, you used an illusion without actually having an illusionist ability. But before that, back in Japan, when I was out cold — how the hell did you pull it off? Did your snowflake kid help you?” “Yes. His name’s Tanizaki. He misdirected everyone in the airport who might’ve paid attention to what was happening. How’d you guess?” “I just know you have a guy like that in the Agency.” Okay, and also, I’d had three whole days — not just for drinking and shopping, but for thinking. Trying to figure out how Dazai had pulled that stunt. “...If you’re pretending to be someone with an illusion ability, it just makes sense to borrow a guy who actually has one. That’s what I’m getting at. Maybe Joanne’s Cursed Child is just like your imaginary Mr. Ikita with his illusions. Maybe it’s not her at all, but someone else pulling the strings. That’s why your ability didn’t work on her. She’s got her own Tanizaki.” I leaned forward. “...Think about the ritual. A bunch of people touch the victim at the same time, right? And it’s all dark, with those hooded robes — if some outsider managed to sneak a glance, they wouldn’t be able to tell who was actually doing what. What if the nullifying ability isn’t hers, but one of her little Ku Klux Klan buddies?” Dazai stared at me like I’d just started speaking Latin. “Chuuya, are you… sick? Did the hat suck the intelligence right out of you? How the hell are you suddenly saying smart things?” “Why don’t you just say ‘thank you,’ you prick? Would it kill you?” Dazai had a whole wardrobe of asshole smirks. Right now, he was modeling the ‘Wow, you’re a fucking idiot’ collection. “Sorry, Chuuya, but of course that thought already crossed my mind — and I ruled it out. Look. This person would have to be in Joanne’s inner Circle long enough, so that excludes any newcomers — neither Jane-Shame-and-Toad-Austen, nor that guy with the imaginary girlfriend, nor me — though I’m sure that one opens up a whole world of schizophrenic speculation. And it’s definitely not the Brontë sisters.” I let a dramatic pause hang in the air before saying, “I think it’s that smug little shit Wilde.” Honestly? I was kinda proud of myself for putting that together. Wilde fit the profile — he’d been hanging around Joanne forever, maybe even from the very beginning. And wasn’t it possible his ability to see lies was just another side of a power to manipulate memories? To hypnotize? But Dazai waved off my brilliant deduction like I was a fucking fly. “No, definitely not. Anyone but him. I’ll explain later. So, that leaves only Joanne herself — which means your theory, as appealing as it is, is wrong.” Dazai’s habit of answering in the spirit of “I’m right, you’re wrong, and I can’t be bothered to explain why” pissed me off to no end. But arguing was pointless because, unfortunately, he actually always turned out to be right. And still, I had the nagging feeling we were missing something. Was there really no one else at that ceremony…? “…Besides,” Dazai added, “I’ve had the chance to familiarize myself with Joanne’s views. We’ve talked quite a bit. She’s a devoted socialist, very much into all that equality and justice rhetoric… I don’t know how much you care about political ideologies, but the point is, she genuinely believes in universal fairness. And she absolutely loathes people with abilities. Abilities are, in a way, the essence of who we are — something distilled from within us. So, it’s only logical that someone like her would have the power to strip away the very thing that makes people different…” Abilities are our essence…? Weird thought. Then again, this is Dazai we’re talking about — his thoughts were always weird. And honestly, why the hell not? “…For now, our best bet is to dig up every scrap of information on Joanne we can find. Maybe you’ll come across something that explains why my ability doesn’t work on her.” “Me? What, and you’re allergic to using the internet now? You know, there’s this neat little invention called a phone. Crazy stuff, really. They say you can actually send a message with a meeting place instead of stuffing goddamn paper notes into pockets and chasing each other across the city…” “Are you done?” he sighed. “As you might have guessed, I didn’t bring my phone, and buying a new one hasn’t exactly been a priority. I will, though. You should get a new number too, just in case. We’ll text, but delete every message right after you read it… And besides, not all information can be found online. You have more freedom to move around than I do. I can only leave Avalon early in the morning or late at night, when the kids are asleep. And even that is risky.” “Then at least show me where this place of yours is,” I said. “Maybe they were just waiting for you to slip out, and now they’ve figured out you’re not who you’re pretending to be. You go back, and boom — game over.” “Since when do you care so much about my well-being?” “Oh, come on. You know damn well since when.” Always. I’d always cared. Ever since we were ten, and that bastard Mori started carving into Dazai’s head with his scalpel. Not literally… though honestly, maybe literally would’ve been better. Dazai, of course, knew that perfectly well. His smirk turned just a little forced — he was pissed. Any second now, he’d say something snide. “Well then, Chuuya,” he said mockingly, “escort me home like the gentleman you are. No need for a kiss on the doorstep, though.” I could’ve told him exactly where to shove that bullshit, but instead, I let out something that vaguely resembled a laugh. A little later, once we’d bought and sorted everything that needed sorting, I actually walked him all the way to this so-called Avalon. It was in Whitechapel — same rotten, Ripper-haunted part of town — right next door to the Brontë sisters’ apartment. Shady place. Not old or dirty, exactly, but something about it felt sterile and lifeless, like a hospital. I saw — or rather, felt through my ability — Dazai slip in through a back entrance. No one was standing guard. He made his way up to the second floor. No unusual movement inside, nothing that screamed ‘trap.’ Satisfied that he wasn’t about to get jumped, I was just about to leave — I had the Victoria and Albert Museum on my list today, plus plenty of other fun shit — when I realized something. Someone was inside. Right behind the window I was currently hanging next to. It was a girl. I hadn’t noticed her before because she’d been sitting so still I’d mistaken her for some piece of furniture. Slowly — like a mouse hypnotized by a snake — I turned to face the window. She was staring right at me. Chestnut hair, freckles — well, I’ll be damned. My old acquaintance, Anne Brontë. Any second now, she was gonna scream… But instead, she cracked the window open and asked politely: “Are you a boy or a girl?.. Oh, I’m sorry… That’s probably rude to ask.” “Nah, it’s cool,” I said. “Take your pick, sweetheart. Whatever works for you.” She doesn’t recognize me?.. Okay, I did a decent job blending in with this Tumblr-girl look, but not recognizing me while looking straight at my face? Then again, what the hell am I thinking — she doesn’t even remember herself. I realized she wasn’t seeing that my feet weren’t touching the ground. To her, I was just some guy standing by the window. Not a floating terrorist. Phew. Anne smiled shyly at my response, then furrowed her thin brows, like she was trying to remember something. “I feel like I know you. Have we met before? It’s this strange feeling… Don’t laugh, but… it’s like we used to be friends.” “Nah, don’t think so,” I smirked. “But hey, it’s never too late to start.” Friends, huh. Cute. My burns from her “friendly” electric shocks still ached from time to time. Funny how, out of all the shit rattling around in that broken brain of hers, it’s some weird fondness for me that stuck. Back when she still had her wits about her, she and her sisters looked about ready to strangle me with their bare hands. She pushed the window open a little wider and offered: “Do you want to come in?” Figuring this situation couldn’t get much worse anyway, I decided to be honest. “I’d rather not have anyone in this place seeing me.” “I understand,” Anne nodded, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “This is the art room. We don’t have an art teacher now, so no one ever comes here. I hide out here when I want to be alone.” Fuck it. I pulled myself up and climbed in, settling on the wide windowsill. “So you actually like drawing, even though no one’s forcing you to?” I asked. “I love it! Do you want to see my sketches?” She flitted away, returned with a sketchbook, and plopped down next to me. I flipped through the pages. Well, that explained whose books on art I’d seen in their apartment. Most of the sketches were black and white, a clear attempt at Beardsley, but without the style, without the vision. If I said it straight, she’d get upset. And really, who was I to talk? It’s not like I’d drawn anything myself since I was small enough to walk under tables. (If Dazai were here, he’d probably joke that, given my height, that wasn’t so long ago. But actually, it was. Way longer than I’d like.) Sometimes I thought maybe I could be good at it. But talent doesn’t just show up out of nowhere, right? No magic wand that goes whoosh and suddenly you’re an artist. So better keep my mouth shut. “You like Art Nouveau? Same here,” I said casually. As expected, she lit up. “And all that… fairy tale stuff, yeah?” Her sketches had a lot of monsters in them. “Yes. But, you know… they’re not just fairy tales.” She lowered her voice like she was telling me a secret. “There are all kinds of beasts in this world… People who can do magic, or turn into animals, or fly…” “Uh… You ever think that’s just some tabloid bullshit?” I didn’t like the way she said “beasts”. “No, they’re real. They definitely exist…” Anne glanced around, as if afraid someone might hear, then whispered, “There are some of them here. In this orphanage. Former monsters. No one talks about it openly, but everybody knows. And they’re not even ashamed of what they used to be. They even have a secret club. It’s called ‘Theta Sigma.’” Well, fuck me. What a fancy-ass name. Sounded more like some posh Cambridge fraternity than a bunch of lost kids with memories like Swiss cheese. If I were running a club like that, I’d come up with something way cooler. “So what are you even doing in a dump like this?” I asked. “Why aren’t you home?” “My sisters left… I hope they’ll be back in a few days, because I don’t like anyone here,” she said with a sigh. “They have a very important job, you see. Very secret. They travel a lot. I’m so proud of them… But sometimes it’s hard. We had to send Noctie to a shelter because there was no one to take care of her…” I almost snarked back, asking why she couldn’t take care of the damn cat herself — guess the ceremony scrambled her brain so bad half of it got left behind somewhere — but I held back. It was… kinda sad. Though, yeah, I got why they had to let the cat go. Anne used to travel with her sisters, running errands for Joanne. Not that she remembered that anymore. That’s why she couldn’t take care of Noctie. And then it hit me. “So… your sisters’ important job,” I asked. “Does it have anything to do with these… uh, superpowered people?” “Yes,” she whispered. “It’s kind of a family thing. We’ve always done it. And right now… they’re looking for someone. Someone especially dangerous.” Fantastic. And that “especially dangerous” someone was currently sitting ten inches away from their baby sister, having a nice little chat. I remembered how her sisters once said they wanted Anne to have normal childhood memories. They probably meant something different. Not family monster hunts, but birthdays with friends, movie nights, school trips, camping. Or joining those, uh… Scouts? Or was that just an American thing? Whatever. Just a regular childhood. Parents taking you to amusement parks, buying you toys, balloons, ice cream. (Not that I’d know firsthand — I didn’t have that either, but that’s how it looked in stories.) But I guess it didn’t quite work out. A brain isn’t a magician. It can’t create something from nothing. It just shuffles the cards it already has. I smirked and asked, "So, you're not afraid that I might be one of those... monsters too?" "Oh, no!" Anne said confidently. "You can spot them right away, they're terrifying. But you... well..." She hesitated slightly. "You're dressed so elegantly, like someone straight out of a fashion magazine. That coat is so stylish..." "This? It's Rick Owens! From his latest collection," I boasted. Had I died and gone to heaven? Someone was actually willing to talk to me about fashion and art? (Though, honestly, it’d be better if she used the word "monsters" a little less often when referring to people like me.) "I read a lot about fashion," she continued. "I know God disapproves of vanity, and yet... I’d love to know how to dress well too. Not out of arrogance — just because it’s beautiful! God can’t disapprove of beauty, right? But usually, the things I like don’t suit me at all, and the things that do… I just can’t figure them out. I’ve been reading about style types, but it hasn’t helped much. How did you learn all this?" "Heh, I had the best teacher in the world!" A hundred moments flashed through my mind — times when Kouyou, sometimes gently, sometimes with brute force, but always with patience, hammered this knowledge into my thick skull. Like that one time when I was about thirteen, and the Mafia was hosting some big formal dinner. My hair looked like a damn ikebana arrangement, my face was caked with makeup, and I couldn't for the life of me tie my obi properly. I was praying Mori wouldn't take his sweet time fixing my kimono like last time, or I'd puke. Meanwhile, Kouyou was putting the finishing touches on my "ethereal beauty" and rambling about Heian-era color palettes, kasane no irome. "Kouyou, no offense, but I don’t give a shit about these maple leaves, chrysanthemums, and whatever else. If I ever need to, I’ll just Google the names." "It's not about the names, Chuuya!" she sighed. "I'm trying to tell you that clothing is a language. Every pattern, every color carries meaning, evokes associations. The Heian nobles understood this better than anyone. It’s about feeling the world around you, moving in harmony with it — not dissolving into it like sugar in warm water, but being the essential, most beautiful detail. The season, the weather, the city, the people around you, how you look, how you smell, what you're thinking about, what memories you're carrying — it should all come together, like a mosaic, like music. You exist in the world, and the world exists in you. That’s what matters. The names, sure, you can just Google." Kouyou had a way of making it sound beautiful. Wabi-sabi, yūgen, miyabi, iki — all that stuff. Sounds like pretentious nonsense, some mystical "Japanese soul" crap for tourists, but if you actually get it, it makes perfect sense. I had to learn it the hard way, through effort. But Kouyou? She just saw the world that way — like a flowing painting, a river of associations, where she could instantly spot every wrong brushstroke. Wish I had that kind of eye, that way of explaining things. "Style types are bullshit," I told Anne. "Well, I mean, they’re just one tool out of a million. The most important thing is..." I hesitated. I wasn’t Kouyou, I couldn’t articulate this shit properly. Actually, if I was being honest, I sucked at explaining things altogether. "It’s about who you are. Looking good means knowing yourself. One day you might want to tell people one thing about you, the next day something else — but through it all, you’re still you." Judging by her face, I had not, in fact, delivered an enlightening revelation. Great job, Chuuya. Real smooth. "Right, well... I should probably get going," I said awkwardly. "Will you come back here again?" she asked hopefully.   I did come back... and then I came back again. Anne and I had some nice talks about art and fashion. I gave her some tips on her wardrobe because, honestly, the way she dressed was a goddamn tragedy. But, if I was being real, I wasn’t visiting just for our little style consultations — I was checking up on Dazai, worried about how he was holding up. Not that he knew, of course. If he had, he would’ve laughed his ass off. I even considered moving out of my hotel in Soho to be closer to that damn Avalon place. But the thing was... I actually liked Soho. There were some fantastic bars with great regulars near my hotel, plus a Vivienne Westwood boutique just around the corner. Besides, it probably wouldn’t do anyone any good if I started hanging around that orphanage 24/7. Surprisingly, Dazai texted me a lot. His messages were long and boring, like some shitty novel (I usually replied with something like "yeah cool"). Sometimes he’d ramble about the most random crap. One time, he sent me: "'O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.' — You know where that’s from?" "From a quote generator? ;)" I texted back. Or this gem: "Have you ever considered that by calling time the fourth dimension, we imply it’s a completed process — that everything that is meant to happen has already happened? We only perceive it as a flow because, being three-dimensional beings, we can’t see the full picture. It’s just one of many theories suggesting that the future is predetermined and free will is an illusion." I snapped. "Fuck, spare me the shizoteric bullshit! Just start a blog or something." He went radio silent for a while after that. Long enough for me to get worried and send: "Yo, you still in our dimension?" To which he responded with something snarky and dripping with sarcasm. When he wasn’t busy feeding his army of brain-roaches, Dazai updated me on whatever he had learned inside the cult, and I filled him in on what I managed to dig up outside of it. The investigation, however, was going nowhere. Even though he had dismissed my theory that Joanne’s nullifying ability belonged to someone else, he still went ahead and double-checked her entire inner circle — studied their histories in detail — and ruled everyone out. Digging into Joanne’s background didn’t help either. Her official biography, easy to find online, read like some Hollywood tearjerker. Just an "ordinary woman, a loving wife, and a devoted mother of several wonderful children" who, one day, while driving through the city, crashed into a gifted individual — a man with the ability to turn into solid rock. Supposedly, her husband died in the accident. Two of her children too. Only one son survived. Joanne herself miraculously lived and, after recovering, was "blessed" with the power to strip abilities from the gifted. The first person she "cured"? The rock-man himself, who had come to her full of guilt, begging to be freed from his cursed existence. But she didn’t kill him — oh no, she "forgave his sins," saying, "Forgive your enemies." What a load of sentimental horseshit. The story reeked of fabrication. For one thing, it was weird as hell that Joanne awakened her power in adulthood — most abilities emerge in childhood. But when I tracked down her relatives, including her mother in a nursing home, they all backed up the official narrative: yes, Joanne had a wonderful family, a loving husband, kids, the accident happened, and so on. Clearly, someone had scrubbed their memories clean. But knowing that didn’t help much. There was nothing solid to latch onto. We were stuck. Days passed like that. And then something happened.   The sound of a gunshot carries for about two or three kilometers, but in a big city, it gets lost among a million other loud noises. Plus, the rain muffles everything, so let’s say one kilometer at most. Why am I saying this? Well, if I’d been hanging out in some bar back in Soho, I wouldn’t have heard the shot. But I just so happened to be nearby — like a goddamn guardian angel. (If we’re being completely honest, I was actually browsing clothes at the Spitalfields Market. Still think the whole East End is a fucking dump, but they had some interesting designer pieces. Either way, I was lurking around close to Avalon.) Thanks to my gravity control, I can move fast — run? jump? fly? Hell, I’m not good with words to begin with, and in this case, it was all of the above. I launched myself toward Avalon, bouncing off walls and whatever other vertical surfaces I could find. A whole lot of people probably saw me, but it was late, dark, and rainy, and I was moving way too fast for anyone to get a good look. In their memories, I was probably nothing more than a drunken hallucination — a nightmare on the wings of the night. Then it hit me — most people have phones. So much for staying under the radar. Oh well. Sometimes it’s a good thing when the body moves faster than the brain. I covered the one-kilometer distance from the market to Avalon in about thirty seconds. Not bad for a PE class, but in this situation? Maybe too slow. Maybe deadly slow... Dazai, where the hell are you, you idiot? I scanned the building with my inner vision; the place was full of unfamiliar silhouettes, none of them the one I needed. A few windows were lit — probably the kids waking up, startled by the gunshot so close by. Too late? Then I saw the roof. And a few very familiar figures on it. Dazai, standing right at the edge. Wilde, gun in hand — holding it with surprising competence for a rich boy. And pressed against his back, terrified, was my art room buddy, Anne Brontë. And the second I laid eyes on them, Dazai spread his arms out like a goddamn movie star and let himself fall backward — off the roof. I lunged after him in one huge, desperate leap, nearly having a heart attack in the process. Snatched him by the collar of his coat midair. “You fucking insane?!” I yelled. The sound he made in response was either a relieved sigh or a disappointed groan. “Knew you would catch me.” If you squinted, maybe we looked like Superman and Lois Lane. But in reality? Dazai dangled in the air like a kitten being carried by the scruff. His coat sleeve was dark with blood, but the wound was shallow — the bullet had just grazed his shoulder. “You rely on me way too much,” I snapped. “Who else am I supposed to rely on? Certainly not myself,” Dazai smirked. I shook him so hard his teeth clicked. Yeah, very funny, asshole. Then I shot back up and, with very little grace, dumped his ass back on the roof — from a safe height, sure, but I wouldn’t have minded if he broke a leg. Idiot. The other two were still there. Wilde fired a few shots at me — wasted effort, of course. I had already thrown up a gravity shield. Realizing his gun was useless, he tossed it aside and bolted for the exit. Anne just stood frozen, staring at me like she’d seen a ghost. I dropped down and, the second my feet touched the roof, made it as heavy as Jupiter. Okay, maybe not Jupiter — I’ve never been there — but heavy enough that everyone on the rooftop, except me, got slammed down and flattened against it. “There we go,” I said, pleased, stepping toward Wilde and Anne. With every step I took, the gravity increased, pressing them harder into the rooftop. “Nobody’s going anywhere.” This trick only worked on a solid, limited surface — just like this one. I was probably looking insanely cool right now. Or just insane. Judging by Anne’s terrified expression, probably the latter. “Chuuya, would you please...” Dazai groaned. “...cut it out? My intestines are tying themselves in knots...” “You got a better idea? If I lighten the gravity, they’ll run! And I can’t adjust it just for you!” “Also, I think I broke my leg when I landed,” he whined. “Did you break it, or do you think you did?” I asked shrewdly. “Chuuya, my head’s about to explode, and blood’s gonna start leaking from my eyes. Literally. I’m begging you — let’s go classic: gags, ropes...” I picked up the gun Wilde had tossed, flipping it in my hand. A Walther PPK — like Agent Scully’s. Small and deadly. Kind of like me. I checked the ammo — still a few bullets left. Crouching beside Wilde, I pressed the barrel to his head. Returned the gravity to a nice, normal 1G. Wilde, undoubtedly, felt the change. But he also saw the gun against his forehead — so did Anne — so nobody dared to move. “Alright, go get your ropes,” I told Dazai. He got to his feet, rubbing his forehead. His eyes — and everyone else’s, for that matter — were bloodshot as hell. Guess I overdid the gravity a little. “This is all your fault!” he suddenly declared and yanked a piece of paper from Wilde’s pocket, holding it up like a prosecutor presenting evidence. It was a sketchbook page, drawn in a style I recognized — Aubrey Beardsley knockoff. A delicate, androgynous figure perched on a windowsill, one knee bent, the other leg dangling, a gloved hand holding a cigarette. The coat was drawn with rough, flowing lines, folding behind them like wings. The face was pretty spot-on. And even though the whole portrait was in black and white, the artist had decided to color the hair — bright red. As if on purpose, so that no one would have any doubts about who the model was. At the bottom, in neat handwriting: "Angel of the Art Room ♥" “Oh, Anne, this is amazing,” I said, genuinely touched. Kinda made me feel bad for showing up like some nightmarish monster. “I love how you did the hair and the folds here—” “Quit complimenting yourself,” Dazai scoffed. “Mind explaining why the hell you were even here? What were you doing?” “Worried about your stupid ass! And I just saved you, in case you didn’t notice!” “Well, actually,” Wilde interjected angrily, “I never liked you from the start, Ikita, and this drawing — and my conversation with Anne — only confirmed my suspicions...” Dazai, ignoring him completely, kept ranting: “Did I ask you to save me? That’s the twenty-third beautiful suicide you’ve ruined for me!” “More like your twenty-third stupid suicide joke in the past three days.” (Okay, maybe just the seventh, but who’s counting?) “Idiot, I leave you alone for five minutes, and you immediately get yourself into some kind of shit!” “Oh, sorry for inconveniencing you. Must’ve interrupted your thrilling tour of clothing stores and gay bars.” “One more word, and I’m dropping you off this roof again.” “And you broke my leg, by the way, you incompetent hero.” “You’re just a clumsy sack of shit.” “You narcissistic moron.” “You pretentious asshole.” “Oh, for God’s sake,” Wilde groaned. “You’ve won. Isn’t that enough? Do you have to turn everything into some ridiculous farce?” Dazai grinned, like he’d just been complimented. “And we do it so well.” Then, turning to me: “Alright, truce. I think we can spin this little ‘incident’ to our advantage.” Limping slightly (nah, he clearly hadn’t broken his leg in the fall — just twisted it, at most), he headed for the rooftop exit and came back a while later with a coil of high-quality hemp rope and, uh... a large butcher’s knife. A cold shiver ran down my spine because the appearance of sharp objects usually signaled the return of Mori’s prized student in all his nastiest glory. “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.   ..."What the fuck?! That shit’s gonna haunt my goddamn nightmares!" My face was probably just as paper-white as that duo by the radiator. "Sorry," Dazai replied. "The bullets were blanks. I took out the real ones before shooting." "That’s not the fucking point! I mean, yeah, that too, but — I mean everything! You knew?! You knew from the start that abilities could come back?!" "Let’s just say I wasn’t a hundred percent sure. But hypnosis is still just hypnosis — it can be broken. I didn’t know how. Turns out, it’s simple: the will to live outweighs any values or beliefs, especially the ones forced on you." "Fuck..." I muttered. I sank onto the bathroom floor and leaned against the wall, 'cause I don’t know about Dazai, but I needed a fucking minute. "Besides, I pulled something similar with Akutagawa once," Dazai added. "He’s still alive, so, you know..." "Hell of a roleplay you two had," I muttered, just to say something. "How’d he not hang himself with you?" Dazai chuckled, sitting down next to me. "I offered." I cracked a smile. It was funny, in that fucked-up way. A pair of suicidal idiots — perfect leads for some kabuki play about double suicide. Then he suddenly asked, "How are they?" Didn’t take a genius to know who he meant. "They’re fine. What’s gonna happen to them?" I shrugged. "They’ve got keys to my place, food, Zelda, and more cash than they’ve probably seen in their whole lives..." "That’s not what I meant." I said, not looking at him, "Bad. You saw Atsushi." I wondered how easy it would be for Dazai to pull a gun on his little tiger boy. Or he’d just find a better way to bring their powers back — less panic, more planning... And then it hit me — this was the first time in all this mess that Dazai had asked about them. Like he’d erased Atsushi and Akutagawa from his life and only started giving a shit again once he was sure abilities could be restored, once they were useful again... I didn’t like that thought. Not one bit. So I shoved it into the darkest, dustiest corner of my mind. "What about Akutagawa?" "Oh, that bastard’s probably better off without Rashomon," I said, all cheery (total fucking lie). "Stopped coughing, doesn’t attack people... Said he wants to be a writer." I remembered suddenly. "Funny as hell, right? Who the fuck even wants to be a writer?" Dazai’s face darkened. "One of the few genuinely good people I ever knew wanted to be a writer," he said. "He was a damn good teacher too, for that matter." He was spiraling into some gloomy bullshit again, but I didn’t feel like lying to him. "Well, fuck… Bad news, but you’re not him." "Just say it straight, Chuuya," Dazai murmured, flashing that empty, terrifying little smile of his (lock away all humanity in the vault, toss the key into the ocean). "I’m only good at breaking and killing. Not like I didn’t already know that." I gave it some real thought. "Nah. You don’t like breaking and killing. You’re good at it — no lie — but you’re not a killer. You’re not a writer either. Or a teacher. You’re a player." He actually looked surprised. Crooked little grin. "And you? A toy?" I punched him in the stomach and told him to go fuck himself. Then I asked, "Why do you even care about being a good teacher? What does ‘good’ even mean to you?" "Probably someone who helps others find themselves. Like cutting a gem to bring out its shine." "In that case, Mori’s a fucking great teacher. Loves nothing more than... ‘cutting gems.’ Just… y’know, not much of a person." Dazai had nothing to say to that. I’d been trying to cheer him up, but somehow, the conversation just got heavier. "Zelda?" he repeated after a pause. "Yeah, it’s this game series where some fancy-looking elf boy with pointy ears and bare thighs has been saving his dumbass princess for, like, about thirty years, because the chick’s got a fucking death wish or something—" "Chuuya, I know what Zelda is. I play video games sometimes. I was just a little surprised..." "Why?" I scoffed. "Akutagawa bitched about it at first, sure, but he’s human in the end. Probably finished it by now — it’s been a week." "Akutagawa? Playing games? God..." Dazai looked honestly baffled. "I picked him precisely because he had nothing human in him." "The tiger makes him a little less of a freak. They’re kinda friends. Or fucking. Though, nah, this is Akutagawa we’re talking about..." "Why is everything always crude with you, Chuuya?" Dazai sighed. "They’re just friends. And if they ever get their abilities back, they’ll be better than us." "Bullshit," I shot back. "Nobody’s better than us. I mean, worse than us." "Alright, fair enough — we’re the worst," Dazai agreed easily. Sitting there wasn’t so bad. Actually, it was kind of nice. Just amazing how comforting a cold tile floor could be when no one was crying, bleeding, or scared out of their mind. Of course, those things were still happening in the next room. And nothing was actually over. We were still fucked. Realizing that, I asked, "Hey, what Wilde said… about Joanne knowing everything… that’s bullshit, right? He lied? He didn’t tell her, I know he didn’t." Dazai was quiet for a moment, then said, "He lied, but it could be true. A strange paradox — this story is full of them... But it doesn’t matter. My opinion hasn’t changed: I don’t think he told Joanne his suspicions about me. But if she knew all along? That’s possible." "But... But if she did know, then what, this is all for nothing? We really lost?" "Not necessarily. There’s always a second strategy." What was the first? I thought, but I didn’t ask. I just repeated, "Second?" "We pretend we lost." Didn’t sound very fucking impressive. And in our case, what was the difference between pretending to lose and actually losing? "If abilities can come back," I suddenly realized, "we could use those orphan kids against Joanne somehow. That what you were thinking? You already got a hundred sneaky little plans, don’t you?" "No," Dazai smiled faintly. "Complicated plans fall apart. Especially ones with too many variables. I’m not even sure if we should give their abilities back — some of them might be better off left alone… And I prefer working with familiar pieces. Ones whose moves I can predict." Yeah, I could see that. But something else was bugging me... "If you just wanted to test if abilities could come back, why not experiment on one of the other orphan brats? You said there were plenty of little shits in that place... Better to fuck with them than some innocent girl, right?" I still didn’t know all the shades of Dazai’s poker face. Like right now — his expression was unreadable. There were only two possible explanations for why he’d chosen to run this fucked-up experiment on Anne, of all people. Either the effort of luring some other kid into a trap seemed like too much trouble, or — worse — he just hadn’t even thought about it. Like all those kids were just... the same to him.  Hell, not just those kids. Like all people were just the same to him. That was one of those moments when Dazai scared the living shit out of me. The way he handled sharp objects — too skilled, too damn effortless — that was... well, expected. Natural, even, for the dear disciple of Doctor Mori. Unsettling as hell, sure, but at least familiar. But this — this way of not distinguishing one person from another… Though, I guess, one follows from the other, doesn’t it? I mean, not actually not distinguishing… Of course he kept the details in his head — names, height, eye color. Muscle and bone density, how long it would take to cut through. A special ability, maybe, that he could use in his next round of whatever fucked-up chess game he was playing. Which, at the core of it, was true. But also the biggest goddamn lie there was. I never went to university, so I can’t explain it all fancy, but I knew one thing for sure — if you actually start believing that people are nothing more than these things, you’re fucking done. “Why Anne?” Dazai said finally, tilting his head slightly. “Isn’t it obvious? I wanted it to be her. So her sisters would see Joanne is lying.” Huh. That thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. But yeah... obvious, really. Alright. Maybe he wasn’t completely hopeless after all. “We need to figure this out by morning,” he added. “Get to the bottom of whatever’s wrong with Joanne, even if we have to tear our own skin off to do it. Then we’ll come up with a couple of plans. Simple ones. So, we’re making strong tea — yes, I said tea, though I know you’d rather ‘make’ some wine or whiskey — and then we think.” “By morning,” I repeated. “So we’ve got, what, half a night to crack this case?” “That’s right,” Dazai said, flashing a quick smile. He leaned back against the tiled wall and murmured, almost to himself, “Has it really only been a week?” And in that moment, he looked like nothing more than a regular person — pale, hollowed-out face, a crease between his brows. Honestly? I liked him better like this. Well… maybe not better. The other Dazai, the first one, I wanted to fuck. This one — this one had been my friend. A long time ago, at least. I hesitated, then took his hand, even though it felt a little pathetic. “I’m fine. Just tired,” he muttered — but he didn’t pull away.