Knights and Knaves puzzles

Chuuya   The thing that stuck with me most wasn’t even the sex itself — though yeah, we fucked properly afterward, and it was good. Really fucking good. But what got me was that moment with the gloves. The way he slid his fingers into them, like he was slipping into my skin. I didn’t come right then and there only because, well, I wasn’t thirteen anymore. Dazai’s completely fucked in the head. Then again, so am I. Anyway, it was great. And only later, after washing up and changing (my “Good boys go to Heaven, bad boys go to London” tee wasn’t too dirty yet, so I put it back on), when my mind finally started clearing from that dreamlike darkness Dazai’s touch had left me in, I realized — the living room was empty. Empty when it damn well shouldn’t have been. I even walked over to check with my own eyes, though thanks to my For the Tainted Sorrow, I already knew perfectly well — our two prisoners were gone, the ropes cut. Anne and Wilde had escaped. “Ah, what a shame,” Dazai tutted as he strolled in behind me, clicking his tongue. “This is what happens when you fool around at work. I always knew it’d lead to trouble.” Bullshit. I knew bullshit when I heard it. I knew that particular tone, the way he peppered his speech with dumb little words that weren’t his. “You…” It suddenly hit me, and I was so fucking stunned I actually took a step back. “You fucked me just to distract me?” Jesus Christ. "You absolute piece of shit." "Let’s not be dramatic." He smiled, all pleasant and easy, stepping toward me. "I slept with you because I wanted to. And it was good, wasn’t it? Maybe we should do it again." He actually had the audacity to reach for me. Like hell. And why did he need to hug me anyway? Not just because, that’s for damn sure. "Don’t touch me! Keep your filthy goddamn hands to yourself!" I spat, stepping out of reach. "You’re like that fucking king from the myth — except everything you touch turns to shit. Your friends, your students, your relationships — everything you put your hands on, ruined. So back the fuck off, Shit-Midas." I really hoped that one landed. Dazai paused, crossed his arms, and put on that cold, unreadable face. "Well," he said lightly, "you’re not wrong. I needed your For the Tainted Sorrow turned off, and I needed Wilde and Anne to see — or rather, hear — that we were... sufficiently occupied. I had to move things along. Sex was simply the easiest, most logical solution." "Oh yeah? In what fucking universe is that the logical solution?!" I snapped. "You couldn’t think of anything else?! Or are you so fucking addicted to lying now that you get off on it? Just another pathological liar who doesn’t give a shit who he tricks, as long as he’s tricking someone?” "One question at a time, please," he said, all mock patience. "I already forgot what you started with." Smug bastard. "I get why you needed to fool them. But why the hell did you have to lie to me?" My voice cracked. I hated that it cracked. "Why pretend like you still—" I bit my tongue. Dazai smirked — the worst kind of smirk. "Oh… Chuuya, I didn’t realize you were such a romantic. Did you actually think that meant something?” His tone dripped with mockery. “Sex is wildly overrated. Though I suppose you’d know that already — you’d sleep with anyone who’ll have you." "The fuck I would!" I shot back. "Maybe you’ll stick it in any goddamn hole in a fence you find, but unlike you, my dick actually talks to my brain before making decisions." Not that he was totally wrong. Yeah, I’d had my share of mistakes — getting wasted and letting some not-too-shady guy (preferably tall, skinny, dark-haired) fuck me in a bar toilet. And even then, not that I was collecting all the West End trash possible. But there’s a difference between that and— Ugh. And now this asshole was trying to lecture me about sex? Give me a fucking break. And anyway, he was overplaying the cynicism. I saw it now. He’d failed to properly trick me, so now he was trying to piss me off. Which only became more obvious when he curled his lips into that deliberately nasty little grin. "And are you so sure," he mused, "that you’re not just a hole in the fence for the guys you sleep with?" My teeth ground together. My fists curled. But I swallowed down the urge to slam his head into the nearest wall. "We can discuss the ‘hole in the fence’ issue later," I said, way too calmly. "Oh? And you’re not going to hit me?" Dazai prodded, not even bothering to be subtle. "Nah." I flashed a slow, deliberate smirk. Then, as an afterthought: "Speaking of random hookups — there’s a fantastic gay bar right across from this hotel. Best one in Soho, actually. Full of posh British guys fucking each other senseless all night long." Dazai blinked, caught off guard. "...And?" he prompted. "Where exactly are you going with this fascinating piece of information?" "What I’m saying, genius," I said, enjoying the flicker of confusion on his face, "is that if I wanted a meaningless fuck with some dick-for-brains idiot who can’t keep it in his pants, I’d have gone there." I folded my arms, leveling him with a look. "Instead, I’m stuck here with a control-freak asshole. I’ve known you for too long, Dazai. This ‘brilliant deception’ of yours? Not exactly your best work." I tilted my head. "So tell me — what do you really want now? Another shutdown of my For the Tainted Sorrow? Why not just say that out loud?" His expression settled into something unreadable, a smirk hovering at the edges. This was his thinking face. The one he wore when he didn’t know how to play his next move. Fuck, I should get a degree in translating Dazai’s bullshit into actual human speech. "You’re so damn perceptive when it’s inconvenient," he muttered at last, watching me like I was a tough chess problem he couldn’t quite solve. "Fine. You’re not falling for the bait. Good for you. But do you really think I don’t have another plan?" Bluff? Not bluff? Eh. Didn’t really matter. "Is that plan of yours, with turning off my abilities, really the best one you’ve got?" I asked. “That plan…” His voice went soft. “You won’t like it.” "Just shut up and hug me." "What?" I rolled my eyes. "I’m not gonna punch you, dumbass. Hug me." I was waiting for some smart-ass remark — Make up your mind, Chuuya, first don’t touch me, now hug me — but for once, he didn’t say shit. Instead, he just frowned, let out a strange little sigh, and hesitated — before finally, begrudgingly, wrapping his arms around me. Dazai was cold. And stiff. And terrifying. And, as always, he smelled like absolutely nothing. He, like Mori, was obsessed with those goddamn game theory strategies. So fine. Let’s call this a game, then. We were both willing to make a few sacrifices to push our own agendas forward. Dazai, to play his move, had lowered himself to simple, human fucking. And I was willing to play along if it meant reminding him, for just a moment, that he was human. And somehow, I didn’t feel like I’d lost this round. Even if I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant. Whatever he said about meaningless fucks, I wasn’t blind. What happened here, half an hour ago — on this very bed we were now sitting on, awkwardly pressed against each other in grim silence — that wasn’t pretend. You don’t kiss someone like that as a joke. You don’t kiss someone like that even to win a game. You kiss someone like that… You kiss someone like that when you’re saying goodbye.   We were still sitting there, tangled up in each other, when the door burst open. And there she was — Joanne Ruskin, gun in hand. The next second, a whip of electricity from one of the Brontë sisters seared through me. So, Dazai’s brilliant plan was for Joanne to catch us. A goddamn tactical genius. Yeah, no shit I wouldn’t have liked this plan. She was supposed to shoot him on the spot and fry me to a crisp until I was nothing but charred remains. And just like that, Dazai’s strategy would’ve collapsed like a house of cards, leaving nothing but two neat little graves. Just the way he likes it — tragic romance for suicidal teenagers. But Joanne made the classic villain mistake — she didn’t just kill us outright. Instead, she took us prisoner and decided to give a fucking speech. Dazai was probably counting on that. They’d built up some twisted little dynamic while I wasn’t looking. And, well, she probably wouldn’t mind having a couple of new subordinates. Even without our abilities and with our minds all scrambled, people like us aren’t exactly dime a dozen. Then, our old pal Wilde showed up. First thing he did? Slammed his fist into Dazai’s face a few times, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring it. That asshole! No one gets to hit Dazai except me! “I see, Wilde-san, you’ve given my ‘eye for an eye’ strategy… ughh… some thought,” Dazai chuckled, blood dripping from his busted nose onto his lips, his neck, his collar. “Shut him up!” Anne shrieked. “Or he’ll start talking again — saying things — he’s like the devil, the father of lies…!” Anne clearly had complicated feelings about her ability and wasn’t in a rush to reveal it had come back. Because when they attacked us, only the two older Brontë sisters had used Wuthering Heights. They tied Dazai and me together — his left wrist to my right, his fingers pressed tight against my skin, just above the edge of my glove. Clever bitch, that Joanne. She figured out that Dazai’s touch cancels out my ability, so why waste the Brontë girls’ energy on barriers when she could just use him as a failsafe? Joanne’s son, Billy Blake, was here too. I finally got a good look at the kid. He was in a school uniform, tall but slouched over, blonde hair hanging in limp, grayish strands. Pale as hell, eyes burning with some kind of feverish, unhealthy gleam. Yeah, not exactly a surprise. Didn’t expect Prince Charming. Joanne sat down in a chair right in front of Dazai, resting her chin on her hands. “And now, the inevitable conclusion of this farce, Mister Ikita… Or rather, Mister Osamu Dazai. Yes, I know who you are. You’re an exceptional actor, containing within you a multitude of personas, able to become anyone you imagine… and yet, even you have limits. Do you know when I first saw through you?” Dazai had a gag in his mouth, so he couldn’t answer even if he wanted to. But that question was rhetorical anyway. “Remember our conversation about The Snow Queen and the conflict between individualism and collectivism? You used the word ‘herd.’ Such a small thing, isn’t it? But that’s when I decided to take a closer look at you. And one person from the Port Mafia helped me a great deal with this... Sometimes, the words we choose say more about us than we realize. Even if a person genuinely believes in their neutrality. The choice of words… hats… the people they select as their partners.” She shot a quick glance at me. Dazai looked at me, too, and his expression turned… complicated. And what the hell did hats have to do with anything? Dazai’s fashion sense is garbage. We’ve got nothing in common. “...What a shame, Mister Dazai,” Joanne added coolly. “Such a brilliant, unique, extraordinary mind, wasted on someone so empty. Someone consumed by vanity, money, and fleeting pleasures….” “The fuck?!” I snapped, since I was still ungagged. “So what, good people aren’t supposed to care about money or loving themselves? Should we just spend our days preaching about sin, praying, eating stale bread, and flogging ourselves?” “Like all common folk, you mock what you cannot comprehend,” Emily Brontë chimed in, all high and mighty. “Self-indulgence is corrupt. And money brings no one happiness. Everyone knows the soul is elevated through poverty.” What a load of horseshit. Oh, right. Religious daddy issues. These sisters could probably spew this crap all day long. Honestly, kinda surprising they still turned out semi-functional, almost normal — biology, painting, a pet cat… I thought about it. “Personally, my soul elevates when I’m speeding down a highway at 250 km/h on my bike, or sipping some high-end drinks, or looking at good art — music and fashion included. Travel’s nice, too… What, you think loving money means diving into piles of gold like Uncle Scrooge? Also, speaking of soul elevation, a good fight and, obviously, a good fuck do wonders too—” The girl recoiled. “You don’t even feel ashamed… My God, that is immoral and… simply vile!” What’s so immoral about it? Anne — my little art room buddy — flushed so red, you’d think I’d just listed all my favorite positions in detail. And even if I had — so what? What’s natural isn’t obscene. “Maybe try it first, might not be so vile after all,” I smirked. “Emily,” Joanne sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Don’t lower yourself to arguing with a man barely more literate than a monkey.” “Oh yeah? And from up there on your fucking Mount Olympus of intelligence, I bet you can even see Japan.” I drawled. “Maybe you should untie your favorite genius’s mouth, huh? If you’re so eager for a chat with someone smarter than me.” “Oh, I’ll untie him,” Joanne promised. “I wouldn’t want to waste the chance for such a fascinating conversation. But not just yet. You, however—” She turned to Wilde and gave him a slight nod. “You are starting to get on my nerves.” Wilde shoved a gag into my mouth. Pretty sure Joanne only did it to humiliate me, since it’s not like I was saying anything particularly profound anyway. Dazai, though? His goddamn mouth was his deadliest weapon. And of course, my brain had to pick this moment to remind me of all the other things that mouth could do. Fucking hell. Not the time. But hey, I never claimed to be the smart one in this duo. Dazai could polish his brilliant schemes all day long — me, I was busy wrestling with an important moral dilemma: if you want someone so bad it physically hurts, so bad your knees damn near buckle when you look at them, but they keep fucking with you — though they’re not exactly against literally fucking you — should you tell them to go to hell once and for all? Or are you just screwing yourself over? Oh, and I was also trying to figure out what the fuck he was thinking. Why he did it. Lied to me. Not that I was all that hurt — except, yeah, I kinda was — but mostly, it was just fucking stupid. There was no logic to it, no reason, except to piss me off… Our hands were still tied together, skin touching, and it was kind of making me twitchy — because without my ability, I felt helpless, like being trapped in total darkness. But at the same time… it was sort of nice. Calming, even. “Bill, touch Mr. Dazai.” Joanne said it so casually, so matter-of-factly, that it didn’t even click right away what she meant. Like she was asking him to turn off the TV. Just like that? No sacrificial altar, no stupid robes, no “purity of the first snow” bullshit?! Dazai jerked his free hand up — his right, the one that wasn’t bound to mine — like he was trying to shield himself. Then their palms met. Dazai and the boy named William Blake. It probably only lasted a second. But to me, it stretched into eternity — the two of them frozen there, palm to palm, eyes closed. Then Dazai’s arm dropped limply, hanging lifelessly by the chair. His hand was open, fingers slack, like a silent plea, and something about that helpless gesture twisted my insides into knots. “He could be faking,” Wilde warned. “His ability—” “I know what his ability is,” Joanne cut in. She hesitated, then pulled the gag from Dazai’s mouth. “Who are you?” she asked. His voice was completely devoid of emotion when he answered: “I am darkness and nonexistence.” And then he fell silent. “Care to elaborate? What do you remember about yourself? What is your name?” Dazai lifted his head. His gaze was hollow, empty as shattered glass. Dried blood crusted black beneath his nose, on his lips, down his chin. “I remember everything about myself, Madam Joanne. My name is Osamu Dazai. I was a man gifted with the ability to nullify others’ powers. And it is an extremely dangerous, utterly monstrous ability by its very nature. You want an explanation? Very well. Each of us is an idea given human form; those with abilities have it easier than others, because a power is the tangible expression of their essence. The wings of your freedom, the claws of your courage, the lightning of your will, the dark fire of your strength… You are universes clothed in human skin, with souls of flame. The greatest joy in life is to explore that universe, to discover what we could become. “But if a person stops seeing their own life as the purpose of their existence — if they lose sight of their own meaning — then death becomes their driving force. It should come as no surprise that such a person’s ability is to erase the power of others, shouldn’t it? What awaits them is death in life, an existence lower than that of an animal — a state of non-being, an endless agony of self-destruction. Nothing brings them joy. They don’t even understand what joy is. They see the world through a dull, fogged-up glass, nothing more than a collection of gears pointlessly turning. They know the sky is blue, that chocolate is sweet, but that’s just data — information that means nothing to them. They have to strain themselves constantly, forcing emotional reactions they might have once felt long ago but have now all but forgotten. They try to construct meanings, set goals, but all those goals do is drag them down like dead weight. “They can lie to themselves all they want, tell themselves that their actions serve some vague greater good — but in truth, such a person is nothing more than a psychopath, trying to escape the very fact of their own existence. That is the kind of person I was. Why should such a man live? He has nothing to give to the world, and the world gives him nothing in return. The only thing he has left is pain — feeling it, inflicting it. Snuffing out other people’s flames, breaking their wings. A creature like that is a freak, a blight on society. The best thing he could do is a beautiful, clean suicide. And if he lacks the guts for that, then at the very least, he should rid the world of his accursed ability — cut it out like a festering tumor. “How could I ever have doubted that I wanted to be free of it?” It was disturbingly convincing, even to me — and I’d heard him whine about this shit five times a day. The problem was, everything he just said was the complete opposite of Joanne’s ideology. And if even I could see that contradiction, then she sure as hell must have picked up on it too. Billy Blake had gone pale — no surprise there… Joanne watched Dazai with sharp suspicion, clearly trying to decide if he was faking it or not. Fuck, even I haven't ever been able to tell the difference. "...If you doubt that I've lost my ability and stopped being that person, you can test it on another gifted anytime you like," Dazai added in that same empty voice. Joanne's gaze flickered toward me, but she couldn't use me to test it — I was already nullified, what with mine and Dazai's hands still bound together, skin against skin. I was gonna be stuck like this for a while. So instead, she turned her eyes toward the Brontë sisters — she didn't know Anne had her power back, but she'd already figured out that leaving just one of them with the ability was a dumbass move. In the end, she settled on Wilde, who was standing right beside her. "Oscar, would you be so kind..." "Gladly. It’s not like it’s permanent," he said, stepping closer and dipping his head slightly toward Dazai. Dazai touched his forehead. "You can’t divide by zero," Joanne murmured. "False," Wilde answered — and seemed genuinely surprised by his own words. I let out an indignant, questioning grunt through the damn gag. I mean, I wasn’t exactly a star student, but even I knew you can’t divide by zero! That’s, like, preschool-level math! "In standard arithmetic with real numbers, division by zero is undefined," Joanne explained condescendingly. "But in other branches of mathematics, the expression does hold meaning. Mr. Wilde is well-educated, but his knowledge leans more toward the humanities, so I suspected he wouldn’t be familiar with real analysis, the Dirac delta function, and so on. I wanted to test him on something outside his expertise." Yeah. Yeah, I was definitely in hell. What else could explain people around me having a casual fucking chat about math? A bunch of brainy assholes showing off their brainy bullshit. In Dazai’s world, maybe this was heaven. Either way, we were both dead. Or as good as. If No Longer Human didn’t work on Wilde, then Joanne’s nasty little pet had really turned out stronger than Dazai — she’d actually done it. Now was the perfect time for Joanne to burst into maniacal laughter, throw her head back, and go, "I have triumphed! You miserable worms have lost!" But instead, she just let her eyes slip shut for a brief, satisfied moment. Then she said, "Now touch Mr. Nakahara, Bill." Billy looked pale as hell. Guess Dazai’s little monologue had really gotten to him. And suddenly, it hit me — I needed to tell him about Ginny. That she remembered him. Anything, just something. If he was hesitating, that meant he was still a person with his own will, not just Joanne’s little tool... Too bad my goddamn mouth was stuffed with a gag. The kid hesitated, but in the end, he touched my forehead. His fingers were cold, a little damp. That was all I felt. But then, I wouldn't have understood it if I had lost For the Tainted Sorrow now — thanks to Dazai, I was already floating in a fog of numbness, like I was wrapped in a thick, dark cloud. At least my mind was still my own — I wasn’t drooling like I’d been lobotomized or anything. I knew I was Chuuya Nakahara, and I fucking loved being alive. I loved myself, loved sex, money, the feeling of speed and flight, danger, strong cigarettes and the smoky bite of Laphroaig, the taste of fresh-baked bread, scalding hot showers, how soft and prickly a cat’s whiskers feel. I loved sunsets and sunrises, the ocean, the forest, April, November, anything and everything beautiful — and the world was fucking beautiful. I even loved dumb jokes and shitty memes, even the sting of bruises and scrapes from a good fight. And most of all, I loved my ability — the way it let me bring order to chaos, shift the world around me however I pleased. Yeah, sure, it was dangerous as all hell, to others and to me. But sinful? Evil? Fuck that. I just hoped I still had it. My For the Tainted Sorrow. Dazai suddenly let out a short, dry chuckle. "Do you remember when we talked about the Milgram experiment?" he asked. "An inaccurate comparison, Mr. Iki... Mr. Dazai," Joanne said unexpectedly coldly. "The effect of Cursed Child is not painful." "Perhaps," Dazai agreed. "It just occurred to me that such an experiment doesn’t just hurt the victim — it also harms the executioner. Why did that come to mind, I wonder? Why did I suddenly think of the Milgram experiment? Do you know?.. Well, your ability serves the greater good, after all, not harm..." "I'm pleased to see you finally agree with me," Joanne murmured — and then her eyes narrowed slightly, as if struck by a thought. "And since you bring it up, let me ask you this — what would you say if I ordered you to kill your delightfully dim-witted lover, Mr. Nakahara?" Dazai didn’t even blink. "I’d ask why," he answered, tone flat as ever. "Are you running low on minions?" "I have plenty. But I doubt he’d be willing to work for me, even now. People like him — people who think they’re the center of the universe, people without values or ideals — are potential criminals, a threat to society even without abilities." "Absolutely true. He is exactly that," Dazai agreed without hesitation. "But from a utilitarian perspective, he'd be more useful to you than I would. He’s much better in a fight. Though… I am the better shot." "Shall we put it to the test? Compare your skills?" she suggested. No evil smirk, just that calm, scientific curiosity. I had a pretty good idea why she was doing this — Joanne still had a sliver of doubt that Dazai was really on her side. She just couldn’t figure out how the hell he could be playing her. But I hadn’t expected him to go along with it. He was stalling, obviously, hoping my ability would come back in time. But also… Joanne was standing with her back to the Brontë sisters. I was facing them. She couldn’t see their expressions. I could. And whatever they were feeling, it wasn’t excitement. For all their religious baggage, they were good girls. The kind who’d never spent their childhood tearing the legs off spiders or popping frogs with a straw. And maybe Saint Joanne should’ve thought twice before setting up a dogfight right in front of them — because no matter how much they wanted to believe that Dazai and I were criminals, degenerates, immoral scum, whatever — what she was doing right now looked bad. And as far as Charlotte and Emily were concerned, Dazai was still, in some way, the smiling, gentle Mr. Ikita from the plane. Almost a friend. Joanne had a problem with the whole human factor thing. Then again, so had Dazai... But long ago. We were finally untied from each other. My wrist had been twisted at an awkward angle for so long that it had gone completely numb, but at least it didn’t seem dislocated. “You say you’re a good shot? Well then…” With those words, she placed a Browning Hi-Power on the floor a short distance from us and stepped back toward the Brontë sisters, like a curious spectator settling in for the show. While I was busy trying to spit out the gag and figure out what the hell I was supposed to do — what Dazai’s plan was, what he expected from me — he wasted no time lunging for the pistol like it was his long-lost best friend. Joanne clearly had a weird idea of what a fair fight looked like, because last I checked, both contestants were supposed to have a weapon. But she seemed to have conveniently forgotten about that little detail. When Dazai aimed the Hi-Power at me and pulled the trigger without a second of hesitation, I barely managed to dodge in time — the bullet tore through the wall right where I’d been standing a split second ago. And that’s when it finally hit me. This was a fucking terrible idea. Saying Dazai was worse than me in a fight was… well, only half true. Objectively, sure — if you threw us against the same opponent, I’d take them down way faster. Problem was, he knew me too damn well. Then again, I knew his shooting style too — his quick fake-outs, his love for ricochets. If I was reading this right, we were supposed to put on a fake fight. His job was to predict my movements and make sure he didn’t actually kill me — at least, not fatally. My job was to anticipate his shots and dodge them, while also making sure I didn’t snap his neck with a palm strike, cave in his skull, or drive his nasal cartilage into his brain with a bad hit… You might think I know too many gruesome ways to kill someone, but hey, that’s part of my job — knowing all the ways a human body can break. I wasn’t too worried about leaving him with a couple of busted limbs — he could always get patched up at the Agency. If it’s not fatal, it’s fine. That was practically the motto of my relationship with Dazai. But injuring someone precisely, with surgical accuracy? That was way harder than just beating the shit out of them. And whatever I did, I couldn’t touch his bare skin again. I still couldn’t feel the world around me, like I was cut off from it. Couldn’t feel my own power. How long would it take to come back? Since he had a gun and I didn’t, my strategy was mostly running — short, unpredictable leaps. His second bullet whizzed right over my head as I lunged forward, aiming to knock him off his feet. I felt the heat of it singe the air, praying it didn’t leave me with some ugly bald spot… I had to remember — Dazai wasn’t just predicting my moves. He was predicting my attempts to predict his predictions, and so on, spiraling into infinity… Sounds insane? Welcome to the fucking circus that is dealing with Dazai. And as much as it pissed me off, I had to admit — it was fucking awesome. I managed to land a hit, but somehow, he turned the fall into a roll, came up on one knee, and fired again. The bullet ripped through my “Bad boys go to London” tourist tee, probably grazing my side, but it wasn’t bad. He didn’t look like he was faking. He was going all in. Even I started to doubt. I knew — or, well, I hoped — that Dazai was still Dazai, but I was getting lost in his layers of deception. I wasn’t sure if Billy Blake had really wiped out my ability or if it was still down because I’d spent too long, uh, holding hands with Dazai. Either way, it had to come back eventually. But even if Dazai was still himself, that didn’t mean I understood what he was trying to do. I knew he wanted to win. That was the one thing he always wanted. But at what cost — I had no clue. What if he really did kill me? Then again, when had it ever been any different? With Dazai, I never understood a damn thing. There was no truth, no lies, no “yes,” no “no.” A Hi-Power held thirteen rounds — an amazing gun, really, if it wasn’t being fired at you. I didn’t want to give him thirteen chances to test his aim, so after the fifth shot, I finally knocked the pistol from his grip (hopefully without breaking his fingers, but I wasn’t sure) and kicked it across the room, out of reach. I shoved him down, pinning him face-first to the floor, and started choking him out. Wasn’t planning to kill him — give it a minute or two without air, and a person starts convulsing, then blacks out. But then what? Joanne probably hadn’t expected me to win… and what the hell was Dazai even aiming for? He struggled, of course, tried to break free, but I had him locked down tight. Twenty seconds passed, then thirty… and suddenly, he stopped resisting. And I felt the barrel of a gun press against my side. This would’ve been the perfect time for a “you just happy to see me?” joke, but yeah — no. That was definitely a gun. I glanced down. A tiny Walther PPK. So he’d had a backup this whole time. Joanne and the others were watching with rapt attention, like it was the best damn movie they’d ever seen. All they were missing was popcorn. I let go of his throat. Dazai sucked in air in desperate, shuddering gasps, like a fish thrown onto dry land — but his grip on the gun was rock solid. “Get off me,” he rasped. “Very slowly… unless you wanna bleed out from a shot-up spleen.” Wise man that I am, I decided to listen. Carefully — so I wouldn’t startle his trigger finger — I pushed myself to my feet and backed off a few steps. The black muzzle of the gun followed me the whole way. What now?.. If For The Tainted Sorrow had come back to me, bullets wouldn't be a problem, but I was still in a goddamn fog. “I did warn you… ugh… he’s much better than me in a fight,” Dazai said, addressing Joanne. “But I do dare hope I’m more resourceful and inventive… Strategy number two, remember, Chuuya?” His voice turned cold, mocking. “I pretended to lose — and in the end, I came out on top. You never learn, do you?” What the hell was he on about? Strategy, what strategy? Oh, right. He’d said something like that when we were in the bath after he’d messed with Wilde, right before he grabbed that very same Walther, pressed it to Anne Brontë’s head and… "The bullets were blanks," I suddenly remembered. "I took out the real ones before shooting." Did he really see this all coming and drop that little nugget of info on purpose back then? No — no, not quite. It hit me then that we’d already rehearsed all of this at the very start — back by the tree with the red ribbon, a week ago. The trap, the fake betrayal, my doubts… "You see, Chuuya, there are difficult challenges, like back in the Double Black days…" There was no goddamn way he planned everything out back then. Not in detail, at least — he didn’t even know all the players yet — but still… “You know, Madame Joanne,” Dazai said thoughtfully, still aiming the gun at me, “you might think it’d be hard for me to kill him. But the truth is, my relationship with this man has always been… complicated. There was a time when he thought of me as his best friend, but me? I was never sure of anything. As I’ve said, people like me struggle immensely with emotional responses. The only thing I’m ever certain of is my own capacity to feel pain. And you know… it hurts to face people who clearly experience the world in a way I never will. The ones who make it all too obvious just how much I want to hide, to disappear. They bring out every doubt, every fear of life, every unanswered question about its meaning, its mysteries. And the ones who hurt the most… are people like Mister Nakahara. "People who make me realize how lesser I am. People I’ll never be like, no matter how hard I try. People whose very essence is fire — clarity, joy, fearlessness, flight…” That last word — flight — he lingered on just enough to make it count. Billy Blake was listening, pale as a ghost. Yeah. Dazai had that whole “human factor” thing down to a goddamn science. “...People like that are always kind, because they’re brave. But they’re not invincible. Their trust makes them fragile. You want to tie them to you, feel like some cunning, lucky hunter, a bird-catcher who’s snared something rare — but instead of joy, all you feel is guilt. You become a jailer, an executioner, admiring your captive while constantly fighting the urge to grip tighter and—” He trailed off. What a fucking load of bullshit. Supposedly, he was talking about me, but that wasn’t the real message here. No, this was all for Ginny Woolf. And yet… Mr. Human Lie Detector was eating it up. But Dazai never wanted to harm me. I knew that. Billy was trembling, tears running down his face. Dazai’s finger twitched on the trigger. I lunged. Two shots. Either he missed — unlikely, given the range — or I’d guessed right and those bullets were just for show. I slammed my fist into his solar plexus, then, when he crumpled, drove the toe of my boot into his temple. He went still, a thin trickle of blood leaking from his ear. A precise hit. Sharp, clean, like a Dutch master’s painting. Enough to knock him out for seconds — maybe minutes — but no more. Just looked worse than it really was. Was it the right call? Who the hell knows. But he was asking for it. Seriously, it was like he wanted me to knock him out. Either way, hell of a fight. Top-tier acting. Damn, that was a rush. Wouldn’t mind doing this every day! Joanne only realized Dazai had never been on her side when she finally noticed her kid’s tear-streaked, shattered face. “What a marvelous performance,” she said, somehow keeping her composure. “Charlotte, Emily — trap Mister Nakahara in a cage. His ability might return soon.” “And what makes you so sure it hasn’t already?” I shot back, all defiance. She gave me a look. The kind you give a particularly dim-witted child. “Perhaps the fact that I am not currently splattered across the floor, crushed under an unfathomable gravitational force?” Yeah. Okay. Fair point. Lying’s not exactly my strong suit. The sisters obeyed, though not eagerly. Shit. Guess I was hoping the fight might’ve knocked some sense into them — that maybe they’d see Joanne for what she really was. But nope. A hum of electricity crackled around me, a forcefield that had grown almost… familiar. “Billy, please,” Joanne said. “Touch this man again.” “Yeah, kid, c’mon, lay a hand on me,” I offered helpfully. “Like you did with Ginny Woolf…” Billy flinched — not just at Ginny’s name, but at the fact that someone other than his mother, for once, was actually speaking to him. Acknowledging he existed. He’d been invisible for so long, just a blind spot no one noticed. “You… you saw Ginny? You were in Summerisle?” His voice was flat. Hollow. Like someone who hadn’t used it in years. “Yeah,” I said. “Billy,” Joanne started, cold as ice. “Wait, Mom. I need to know. She… does she remember me?” Shit. Dazai was right. Sometimes a simple yes or no just wasn’t an option. It’s like dividing by zero — you have to decide for yourself what’s true, what’s false… The kid already feeds himself enough with guilt and self-deprecation, he needs to hear something good, right? How do you answer that? She doesn’t remember you, and she never will. She’ll never fly again. Never even walk. This is the only real truth. The voice in my head sounded suspiciously like Dazai’s. We’ll fucking see about that, I thought back. But saying "She remembers you" outright would be a lie. So I worked around it. “How do you think we even knew about you? She told us. Told us all about you — how you were friends, what you were like. Said you were a cocky, antisocial little shit. Loved reading about space and dinosaurs. What else… oh yeah, you two were always arguing. And you’d have to be a real bastard to pick fights with a girl like her.” His eyes widened. Gray as twilight — huh. Funny how I hadn’t even noticed their color before. “She… she remembers me,” Billy whispered. “How… how is that possible?” “Billy,” Joanne warned. “Hold on, Mom.” His breath hitched. “Then I—I didn’t ruin everything? Abilities… can they come back?” “Oh for fuck’s sake, kid, didn’t you listen to Dazai? He gave you a whole poetic-ass speech — stars, universes, all that jazz,” I said. “Our abilities are us. You think that’s something you can just take? Hell no. You can kill someone, sure, but if they’re still standing? Their ability ain’t going anywhere.” "Enough of this pompous nonsense," Joanne snapped. "It’s all lies. Bill, you’ve disappointed me greatly. Charlotte, Emily, take care of Mr. Nakahara." "Take care of...?" Anne repeated, alarmed. If Joanne were even slightly more emotional, she’d probably have rolled her eyes. "‘Take care of’ means ‘kill him.’" "But... he’s already a prisoner," Charlotte said. "I don’t want to kill someone who can’t fight back." "That was an order," Joanne clarified. Charlotte was clearly afraid, but she still stood tall, her head held high. "No. I won’t do it." Joanne frowned. "Charlotte, if you can’t use violence, you’ll never be able to protect yourself." I thought that sounded almost like what Dazai had told Anne about her ability — but twisted, somehow. "I see no need to protect myself from an unarmed prisoner," Charlotte stated firmly. "But there is one!" Joanne insisted. "Believe me, pity and chivalry are entirely misplaced here. If he unleashes his ability at full force, your restraints won’t hold him — Mr. Wilde can confirm I’m not lying. Kill him, unless you want to die yourselves. And do it quickly, while the other one’s still unconscious. I’m done with prisoners and experiments, done casting pearls before swine. It’s time to end this. Both of them." She picked up the Hi-Power and headed toward where my suicidal bastard of a partner was lying. She knew about Corruption...? So that’s why she’d had us tied up together from the start, not relying on the Brontë sisters’ barrier alone? Joanne had mentioned doing some research — it wasn’t surprising that she’d mapped out the mechanics of our abilities in detail. But Corruption... That wasn’t the kind of thing you’d find written up on the internet. Even in the Mafia, only a couple of people knew about it. "One person from the Port Mafia helped me a great deal with this..." That’s what she’d said, wasn’t it? Now that was what Dazai would call quite an interesting piece of information... "Why do you keep following her orders? Maybe we’re criminals, but she’s no better than us!" I shouted. "Anne, you know abilities can come back! You know that’s not a lie!" Anne pressed her lips together stubbornly, refusing to answer. "Charlotte, Emily," Joanne called back to them, "do as I say." The sisters hesitated — very obviously — but still, greenish sparks flickered at their fingertips. I still couldn’t feel the world around me. The silence was thick and deafening. Could I call on Corruption? Dazai, you bastard, what do you want from me? Did I get it right or not? Why do I always believe you? You press your hands over my eyes and lead me forward. Like a sheep on a leash of endless lies — straight to the slaughter. Your hands smell like death. And I always follow. Whether I know where I’m going or not — makes no damn difference. I hate myself for walking blind after you. But if I said I wouldn’t — I’d be lying. Am I gonna die now? No idea. I know I matter to you, and that’s enough of an answer. I used to think there had to be a way — a magic word, a secret potion — to turn you into a normal person. But screw that. There’s a whole world full of normal people, and I love you the way you are, because there’s no one else like you. You’re fucking brilliant, you soulless bastard, a black hole of self-loathing. I used to search for something to hold on to, to keep from drowning in that black hole. Now, I don’t even try. As long as I’m by your side, I’ll keep walking through the ink-black dark, no matter how many pairs of iron shoes I wear down, no matter how many iron loaves I bite through. Even knowing there’s no ‘happily ever after’ at the end. People like us don’t get those. And we don’t need them. Maybe the end comes right now. So what? The only thing that matters is that we existed. That it wasn’t just in my head. Dazai, my black guide, my angel of death, my unjoy, my curse, my soul, my Grantor of Dark Disgrace... I take a deep breath, like before diving into ice-cold water. And pull off my glove.   Greenish lightning bursts from Charlotte and Emily’s hands, but I’m faster. Corruption? What a joke. This is power. I am power. Power that can tear the whole world apart. The barrier around me shreds like a cobweb, the Brontë sisters’ electric charges scatter uselessly, fading into sparks. The whole world feels weightless, fragile — almost like a mirage, trembling under my breath. A twitch of my fingers is all it takes for Billy and Joanne Ruskin to collapse under a crushing force, her gun slipping from her hand. “This is bullshit… You’re the liars. Your Saint Joanne has been feeding you nothing but lies.” I shape a small sphere of pure gravity — a miniature black hole — and hurl it at Anne Brontë. She throws up a barrier just in time… and, as I figured, judging by the look on her sisters’ faces, they had no idea her ability had come back. “See that? Our abilities never leave us. No one punishes anyone for their sins. No one purifies anyone! There are no fucking sins! It’s all a lie! I bet she’s lied about everything. Tell me the truth, Madame Joanne — did you really have a husband, children, all that nonsense they write about online? Those students you supposedly taught math — did you actually like them? A nice house? A cat? A favorite drink? Was there anything — anything — you ever loved?” I am power. Power that doesn’t just destroy but craves destruction. And it’s getting harder and harder to hold it back. The walls and ceiling tremble like a fever dream. We’re still inside the Excelsior Hotel, and somewhere in the murky depths of my mind, I realize that if I don’t get out of here right now, this place will collapse into a heap of rubble and shredded bodies. “I didn’t like the students,” Joanne Ruskin snarls from the floor, still struggling to reach for her gun. “I liked math.” “What does it matter if she liked anything? If she had a husband or kids?” Anne snaps. “It matters. Every single person I’ve ever seen who preached some bullshit about the ‘greater good’ had one thing in common — they had nothing of their own.” I flick my hand, and a wave of force shatters the windows — no, the whole damn wall — hurling everyone out onto the street. Second floor. No one’s dying from this. …Pity. The power inside me, locked away for so long, smothered under these stupid gloves, wants to rip, tear, obliterate everything that breathes and moves. To drown the world in agony. To hear the screams, the death throes. It pours out of me, unstoppable, like blood from a slit throat. And honestly, something in my lungs probably did rupture — there’s blood foaming at my lips. “…And your Saint Joanne? She never loved anything or anyone. Not even herself. That’s her whole ideology. She was miserable and decided that’s how it should be. That no one should have anything. That happiness is dissolving into the crowd, becoming nothing.” The Brontë sisters hover midair, wrapped in greenish spheres. Their electric tendrils lash toward me — do these idiots seriously think they still have a chance against this? I swat them away like flies, hurling black holes of rage in their direction. The city is crumbling. Buildings crack. Streetlights bend. Glass shatters from windows and bus stops. Stones, cars, people — they all lift into the air, asphalt swelling, caving into craters. The world is falling apart. And so is my body. My muscles, my tendons, my veins — bursting, snapping, tearing. Warm, sticky blood drips down my face, coats my hands. I lift a hand — like a conductor directing an orchestra — and rip slabs of asphalt, stone, and earth from the ground. They twist, reshape themselves under my will. Cages rise around the woman called Joanne Ruskin, the boy named Billy Blake, the guy named Oscar Wilde. Though, honestly, I’m losing track of who they are and why I’m even doing this. Why not just kill them? Tear them to shreds. Reduce them to nothing with a snap of my fingers. You liked keeping me in a cage? Here. Have one of your own. Cage. Cage. Cage. “…You said… our abilities are scars. And you’re right. They are marks of our strength, our triumph. Scars mean we survived, we fought, we learned. And even though they remind us of pain, no one can erase them…” A wall of stone and metal rises over Charlotte and Emily, sealing them in. I throw the same kind of dome over Anne. Just to be sure they can’t break out with their electricity, I restructure the material — turning it into some ultra-strong glass. I rearrange the tiny things everything is made of. I could turn it into gold, or water, or anything I wanted. I am omnipotent. But it fucking hurts. It hurts like hell to try and create instead of just destroy. The blood choking me is thick and sickly sweet. It spills from my ears, my nose — my left eye is almost blind, the veins inside shredded. I hear it, see it, feel it — the breath of the world. The shifting of every cell, every molecule. And there’s something even smaller than them. I don’t know what the hell it’s called, but I see it clearer than ever, as if under a magnifying glass. At the same time, I see everything — so far, so high — I could probably take in the whole planet, maybe even the universe, if I weren’t so focused on this one tiny piece of land in London’s Soho. The infinitely vast and the infinitely small bend under my will. Like a child shifting LEGO blocks. But every movement costs me another wound. This body — this mangled, bleeding, barely-standing body — is paying the price for every second. “…They can’t be taken from us… because they are us — our pain, our memories… And from that pain… comes our…” A red haze drowns my vision. I am still too alive. Dazai always says that any plan with more than three variables is doomed to fail. I only have one: Did I kick him too hard in the temple back there? Will he get to me in time — before I drop dead or lose control completely?