Mentions of Dazai Osamu's Entrance Exam


1

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Accidents always happened in a regular basis.

Car crashes, food poisoning, multiple cases of suicide, the like. Death rates rose and fell with them, after all. Its unpredictability didn't make people turn at it with a blind eye when bold headlines and newsfeeds drew attention to its occurrence—and now, within the building of Hishou Delivery Services, behind the head office webbed in police tape, was a scene nothing short of an accident.

According to the police, the death of Nobu Hideyoshi was publicly stated as a suicide. Reporters ferreted for scraps of information regarding his untimely death; while small in name, Hideyoshi was known for managing a three-star courier company and what drove a businessman to commit suicide at the height of his success made it all appear strange, but not unlikely. Rumors spread about his shady dealings, secrets and conspiracies from an unearthed past that was indebted to that success.

Regardless, it coincided fittingly to the case that his death had been an act of suicide.

That being, theoretically speaking: Hideyoshi's past must have come to haunt him to the point that he'd been willing to put a bullet in his head. End the suffering and all that shit.

But it would have been a simpler case, if the deduction had ended with it and it wasn't filed as homicide in the Special Ability Department. In a detailed report, Hideyoshi's past associations were pinned down as possible suspects. Objectives remained unknown. The culprit—unidentified.

Keigo Higashino hummed at the confidential document, further examining its contents on the screen. Baisotei-Ise-gumi. Kurogo-kai. Kobayashi Residence Towers. He smoked, ashes dropping on his keyboard. He didn't bother wiping it away.

Photographs and newspaper clippings splayed before his eyes, trailed after by long footnotes. Higashino scrolled down, hoping to find a portrait but he couldn't quite find what he was hunting for. Slipping off his cotton glove, he touched the screen, and it glitched under his fingertips, after fondly whispering: "Suspect X. . ."

Withdrawing his hand back, he snapped back to his senses. He would give credit to the government. They made this ordeal easier. If only there's a lead I could get my hands on.

Taking one last drag, Higashino tamped down his cigarette on an ashtray. The dying scent of tobacco and sweet menthol filtered the room. He welcomed it inside his lungs.

The next stop was Yokohama, it would seem.


Kunikida still disliked how it all went spiraling down in his hands. The case was meant for Ranpo, but he declined, settling for another one that the police asked his assistance for in Okinawa. Regardless of his job, he had a growing aversion to anonymously sent requests. It was paid in full as well, which made it difficult to turn down the ordeal.

Please apprehend the Kurogo-kai, was the primary request in the email; a matter which Kunikida would rather be cautious enough to send to Katai for tracing down the sender. Despite his suspicions, he was able to discern that that sender was possibly a whistle blower around the area from the message relayed. There was also an address of the warehouses where illegal firearms were safeguarded and smuggled.

However there was a loose thread that he couldn't quite grasp regarding the case: why the sender hadn't come clean to the Yokohama police and the potential pursuit of a murder. A gunshot was heard in the distance, was also written in the given information, so he recalled.

Kunikida had theories on the former, but he wasn't certain in the latter. The gang had a rising reputation for violence as of late, and as there was a determinable count of victims, the number of deaths were narrowed down to ten—or more. Five people were also missing.

Finishing his last report on time, Kunikida decided to consult the case with his partner. There were individual files of Kurogo-kai's victims scattered haphazardly all over his desk. That wasn't the issue, though. While it involved the case, there was a pattern he was sensing in the manner his partner chose them, biasedly. His brow twitched.

"What's gotten in to you to just gawk at women's pictures?" Kunikida demanded, snatching one of the papers as to prove a point. "Don't you have any shame at all!"

Dazai stared at him, and then at the paper wrung by his hand. "That's," a slow smile curled the corners of his mouth, "an interesting pick. Nice choice."

Raising a suspicious brow, Kunikida glared at the file of Yuriko Kirino. Aged twenty-nine. Missing person. Stuck next to her name was a photograph of the said woman; she looked younger, despite her age, with translucent pale skin and a fair face that was nearly reminiscent to Sasaki's. He withdrew from the comparison all at once, because what transpired between him and Sasaki concluded a year ago and to dwell broodingly about the past wasn't written in his ideals.

"She's the first one I've taken notice too," Dazai admitted, head lolling to the side. "Well, it's impossible with those eyes."

A pale gray, like a flash of silver, those sharp eyes. "Yeah. . ." Kunikida caught himself in mid-sentence, before clearing his throat, "and just where are you going with this?"

"It's a shame she disappeared. Though, there's this intriguing bit about her; she worked in the police at the time, got involved in a case tracking down one of Baisotei-Ise-gumi's men all the way to Shibuya," Dazai slumped back on his chair, recounting: "even got into an accident with the Kurogo-kai and her partner got shot in the crossfire."

Kunikida read the document in a brief appraising scan. "It doesn't provide more than that."

The best Dazai could offer was a nonchalant shrug.

The exclusion of particular details didn't bother Kunikida. It served well to cut half the trouble in running down the information, however there was a concerning matter regarding her involvement with the yakuza.

The Baisotei-Ise-gumi ruled over Ikebukuro, at times extending farther than Tokyo with their overseas connections. It operated like any organized crime syndicate in the underbelly of Japan, with various networks and multiple businesses lucrative in drugs, gambling, prostitution, human trafficking, and so forth. While not as large in number as the infamous Yamaguchi-gumi, their strength also notoriously relied on the recruitment of ability-users. It's what kept them steadily in power for years.

And it's another thing messing with the yakuza's affairs, Kunikida thought in contempt. That always led to a string of complications. It didn't help at all that a small rampant gang such as the Kurogo-kai had in a way merged with the Baisotei-Ise-gumi, either.

"But it ends here. She just lives in Kohoku," Kunikida skimmed again, learning that she was last sighted in her apartment, in the hours six to seven in the evening, presumably alone. Prior to the day she disappeared, the history of her emails and call logs were deleted.

"Hey, Kunikida-kun, are you familiar with Hishou?"

"The controversial company," Kunikida recalled, then darted back his eyes on the paper. He had to readjust his glasses on what he read, twice. "It says here. . ." That company is also linked to this old case?

"That's our starting point," Dazai said—eagerly? He was never that motivated in a case. It's already a telling matter that he'd done his part, tracking down a lead, of all things.

"Well, I'm done."

"What—where are you going? It's still early!"

"I'm going on a downtime," Dazai stood up with a light stretch and began to don on his sand-colored coat. "You handle the rest. I'll just hang myself under a bridge."

Incensed, Kunikida raised his voice. "You can't just—" before he could even finish his sentence, the door was shut. His partner was nowhere to be seen and his schedule for the day was partially ruined. He refused to curse. It wasn't ideal.


An inquisitive voice had gotten a hold of him: "what are you doing?"

Spoken out from an offhanded turn, he took note. Dazai could tell from the moment her mouth screwed shut, lips indecisive, a split second of silence droning in until the grate of a chair broke between them and she moved on from the question, taking a seat right next to him. She ordered for a glass of whiskey.

From the corner of his eye, the woman was a shadow against the dim light, clad in an array of black and denim that almost defined her like a second nature. In a turtleneck, she seemed more approachable from being shed off a layer of intimidation from a leather jacket, which mildly disappointed him.

"Still thinking what to say?" it almost sounded like a mock, but he dismissed it for her straightforwardness.

His hand finally nursed his sweltering glass, flourishing it. The ice melted away a minute ago. "Am I, though?" he asked, bringing the glass to his lips. The liquor was smooth, but it was the gradual burn he appreciated. The trails of fire lining down his throat.

She sighed after swallowing down her drink. "Do you always answer with a question?"

A pleased smile lit his face. "Not always," he replied, but he preferred teasing her for it. "You've been poking me with questions yourself. It kind of gives this impression that you're actually curious of me."

Thinking, she craned her neck, a mop of hair bobbing above her shoulders. Blond—a platinum blond, likely bleached beyond recognition, because it was evident from her dark brows, the long lashes curled over her eyes. Then he realized that he wasn't fond of her drab glasses; how the plastic blue concealed the power within, kept it from reach.

Dazai was anticipating for a quip, a blatant retort that would force a chuckle out of him, but he wasn't expecting the next words coming out of her mouth.

"It's only fair. You kept on asking me all sorts of things since the day we met."

"Well, I did admit that I found you interesting," he played along, his damp fingers tapping on his glass. "I'm not wrong."

"I am, though," she said, sighing under breath. Then she drank and had another refill. "To carelessly attract this kind of attention to myself."

"It's not such a bad thing. You get to go out and drink with someone for the rest of the evening."

"That's because you asked," she told him, her whiskey almost forgotten, "and I didn't have much of a choice."

This time, her eyes were fixed on him, patient . . . dangerous, almost. There was a silver lining from her stare, behind the frames of her glasses, and he couldn't shake off the feeling how she made it so simple to raise the hair behind his neck. However, this won't do. He had to brush it aside, affecting an undaunted smile.

"Natsuo."

She put her glass down abruptly, a heavy thud echoing after.

"Why," she began, "are you calling me that?"

He grilled for a reaction. "Does it bother you?"

"That's not my name."

Not the one you gave me, yes. There was a tenseness to her that he could mistake for latent stress, perhaps even a brand of fear one could inspire when a certain cord was snapped, but it wasn't quite like that, when she could stare at him dead in the eye with the underlying promise of threat. "Well, you did tell me before that you don't mind me calling you with any name," he reasoned, shrugging. "I thought that it suits you."

She regarded his excuse with a front this time, maintaining the image of aloofness. Honestly, she was good at it. All the more reason he wanted to break that façade. See the human underneath all that composure. "I . . . suppose," her hand took hold of her glass again and swished the liquor, letting the ice clash against each other. "When I gave you my name, do you think I'm lying?"

The question weighed on her lips, but he felt that there were more words lingering at the back of her tongue. "You're not honest."

Natsuo scoffed. "Same difference," she brought the whiskey to her mouth, taking it all in a gulp. "By now I think you did your research about my life. Well? I did my end of the bargain. What's there to discuss?"

He interlaced his fingers together and delicately placed his chin above them, his cheek brushing against old bandages. "Hm, so you've been supporting yourself ever since you left your orphanage?"

"Yes. I got too old anyway."

"And you never finished school?"

"I dropped out."

"Oh, I see. Then you have not met any relatives at all? Or have at least searched for some?"

"None that I can recall . . . Dazai, what is the point of asking me when you should have known all this information already?"

"Ah, for confirmation, of course! I don't want to be the one to say this, but there's a lot of room for doubt in your story; there're no pictures of you when you were younger. Your orphanage shut down for years and your records are jarring to say the least. No social media presence as well or anything. You're quite a mystery."

"I'm a private person. I don't see what's the point in poring over every little insignificant detail about my life."

"I guess I could understand that," he replied, taking a sip of his drink. "But there is one more thing," and then in a measured unsuspecting voice: "so how did you die?"

"What," she said blankly.

"How did you die," Dazai repeated, throwing back the question at her face. "The name you gave me has a death certificate recorded in Zōshigaya Reien. I must say it's quite a nice place to be buried in."

After awhile, a chuckle worked its way out of her; it was a shallow sound, empty and humorless. "Followed me all the way to Tokyo, huh," her lips contorted into some crooked semblance between a sneer and a scowl. "You're quite something."

He merely took the truculent glint in her eye as a warning. No more but a minuscule matter. Perhaps, it lacked a bit of bite, but he gave it a pass. He shrugged. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"You're tracking skills makes me wonder if you're some kind of former agent," observed Natsuo, sharp-worded, "or a criminal," there was the deliberate slip of tongue, the small disclosure that she did in fact know who he was.

From where, he made guesses. She couldn't be in the Port Mafia; an ability like that was hard to miss among their ranks, and she was too autonomous for her own good. An asset like her was likely to be controlled and kept under strict surveillance. There was a high chance that she aligned herself with its rivals, but there was a broad selection to choose from . . . and that was taxing.

Perhaps, it was a little cruel of her. There was that slight lilt from her lips, a form of wry amusement. "But I'm going with the hunch that you're a full-fledged stalker."

Then later on, he realized he'd been smiling with her. Not quite the practiced one permanently plastered on his face, but something building up, emerging underneath the surface, something he hadn't felt shoot up from the back of his spine for such a long, long time. Thrill.

"Believe what you want," he told her anyway, because it's the closest thing she'd gotten right about him while he was already sprinting at a head start from this whole chase. "Ah, but stalking is a serious job, you know. How could I call myself a detective if I couldn't even follow a woman who's using a fake identity?"

She didn't comment on that. Instead, she ordered for a strong gin and swallowed down the shot. Sucked on a lemon wedge.

Dazai stared at her.

"You're quite reckless, aren't you?"

Wiping the smear on the side of her mouth, she breathed out. "Not reckless," she denied. "It's an appreciation. I savor the alcohol I drink."

He arched a questioning brow. "With that much abandon?"

She snorted. "That doesn't concern me."

"Ah, did I upset you?"

In a brittle tone, she asked, "And why do you think so?"

He looked at her, amused of her irritation. "For one, you drink like a fish."

Natsuo might as well have rolled her eyes, though she ignored him and coolly ordered for her second shot, putting on a bluster of indifference in proving his point. Despite her composure, she acted as if she'd been challenged to participate in a childish drinking game and it showed when she was eager for another round. He considered if this rash behavior was to spite him in some way.

He cocked his head at her, intriguingly watching her lick off the salt from the rim of her shot glass. "Ah, so this is about me shocking you," she downed the gin, "that I caught you red-handed," and then bit harshly on the lemon, "in using another person's name. It must've been too much for you, it seems. You worked so hard in keeping it such a big secret from me, yes? Oh, do I have to apologize?"

She gave into an offhanded huff. "No, you don't," she spoke out breathily. "Stop being such a—ha, actually, never mind. It shouldn't matter at all. I can't blame you for doing your part, hmm, your job, whatever," she said, raising an empty glass at him. "'Good for you. Cheers.' Is that what you want to hear? Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to be drunk for a night."

Dazai decidedly finished his drink, pushing back the idea of ordering liquor. "It would be a shame, Natsuo," he said, surmising, riling her even further with that intentional drop of that name. "I'd like to talk to you when you're not drunk."

Her shoulders heaved up a careless shrug. "How's that not a good thing to you? I tend to blabber when I am," she enthused, leaning her cheek at the palm of her hand. She called for the barman. "Another shot, please. Two lemon wedges."

"And water," he said right after her, comprehending well enough to not trust her word for it.

The order was set in place. She plucked the lemon wedge, chewing at it musingly, refusing his offer of water.

"You don't seem to understand."

She gave him an indignant snort, the glass hovering near her lips. "Oh, I know perfectly well."

"No," he pushed it down, denying her from a shot of gin. Her blue-tinted glasses slanted in an awkward angle from the movement, pale gray eyes partially obscured; his fingers curled over hers, stripping away the strange pull that compellingly drew gazes at them—at her. The power was gone, but it was a little difficult looking away. "You don't."

Dazai leaned in closer, as if to share a secret. "I'd rather confront you sober than intoxicated for this."

"That's," she started, flustered, her voice caught in a stutter. "That isn't your decision to make."

He always did wonder how often she wore her heart on her sleeve, how it was easy to get a rise from her with a few spoken words, a small gesture, when she hadn't anticipated it, especially under the influence of alcohol.

His knowing smirk had her bristled. "Of course."

Then Natsuo withdrew back from him and promptly adjusted back her glasses. Caution? Not quite. She acted like she'd been disturbed, he noticed. Understandable, given the borderline aggression in his actions. Though it was meant to put his point across, a part of him mulled over the unspoken thought if she'd always been uncomfortable in being touched.

Regardless, whether it was true or not, it was still a crucial piece of information to bear in mind because if the situation demanded it, he could exploit it as a weakness.

Dismissing what happened earlier, he was the first to initiate the question: "I've been meaning to ask, but by any chance, do you know who this is?" he showed her a photograph, perusing her beneath his stare. "Her name is Yuriko Kirino. She was a police officer awhile back."

Reluctant at first, she scrutinized the woman in the picture. Her face didn't jolt at the shock of it, but there was a tick on her cheek and her lips were pressed into a thin tight line. "No. I don't know her," she slid back the photograph, her hand covering the victim's face. "Why would you bring her up?"

"She's reportedly missing for about two years from now," he elaborated. "From the recent leads gathered, it was speculated that one of Hishou's customers sent a specific package for her, just a few minutes away before she disappeared."

However there wasn't any sign of a package in her apartment. Nothing seemed out of place in her room, but there were missing valuables, such as her wallet and her handgun, which led to the theory that she might have run away in the night. Her colleagues contradicted it. To further support this, two neighbors did witness Hishou's involvement; one met a courier driver climb in the elevator with him and the other spotted the company's motorcycle parked at the curb.

"Well, I'm not sure," she told him, contemplating. "It could've been anyone else assigned to deliver her package. Shouldn't you have considered asking the company that I work for instead of me? It would have spared you the trouble. Informally disclosing confidential information of the customers by the employees isn't allowed," and then she added: "even to a detective."

"It was worth a shot," he said, slipping back the photograph in his pocket. "It's rather convenient having to meet you, especially having to deal with a case like this. Saves me the trouble of going through certain lengths, you see."

Natsuo sighed exasperatedly, eyeing her untouched gin. "Now what next? Am I part of a motorcycle gang?"

"Well, I didn't really think about it," he admitted, almost chuckling at the idea, as his thumb cupped his chin. "Though I thought of asking you again to reconsider my offer."

"Not interested."

"Oh, come now, it must be hard earning as a part-timer. I can certainly guarantee you that you'll be a full-time employee in the Agency."

"As I said, not interested. Why are you so insistent about it?"

"Well, we are somewhat short-handed at the moment."

"That's not what I meant," she snapped back at him. "You don't trust me at all."

"You don't, either." Dazai deflected the question casually because he realized at some point, their paths were bound to intertwine, and deep down, he knew it was visceral, more than coincidental, that he would eventually discover that she was dangerous and it bent everything around her with but a stare.

"For a good reason," said Natsuo, and he couldn't agree more than that.

"Well, you could say I'm doing you a favor, but, really, I want you to think about this one. Regardless of your mysterious background, the job is always open, only if you ask nicely," he went back to using persuasion, taking in the role as this foolhardy man that most women predictably found charming, but she wasn't like most women and he couldn't fault her for being so impervious and wary of him—as an adversary. Though it was a little more trickier getting her to take the bait. "Besides, I'd still like to meet up with you."

He twirled his glass, watching his reflection warp in the water. "Maybe, I'll drop the questions next time."

Her brow curved up dubiously. "You will?"

"Tentative."

"Is it even necessary for me to meet up with you?"

"You've still been rather vague," he admitted, lifting a one-shouldered shrug. "Cooperative, nonetheless."

Folding her arms to her chest, Natsuo confirmed, "Then I shouldn't."

"I don't advise that. I suppose I'd like to know you personally," he said, and not a second later, a flicker of suspicion caught her eye, smoldering like a hot ember, "and, of course, you can get to know me. It's win-win situation for the both of us, no?" then he took a sip of his water, lips slowly tugging up. "Well, think of it as a date."

Her eyes pulsed wide in disbelief. "You're not really—"

There was some sliver of enjoyment he got from her surprise. "Is it wrong?"

"You just told me," she argued, her voice almost raising, when a thought seemed to haul at her attention, glaring at him. "No. You're messing with me," the words fell from her mouth, as if she meant to say this to herself, but as she quietly reflected on it, she then found a conclusion: "that, or . . . what are you scheming this time?"

Tilting his head innocently, he humored her. "How I'll get you to say yes. Does that count?"

Unconvinced, she pried further. "And what do you expect out of it?"

"Nothing much. Fooling around, maybe," he lied as sweetly as he could. Everything about it appeared like a warm open invitation to an omen. "Meeting up with you again wouldn't be such a bad thing, would it, Natsuo?"

She lied, too. "Perhaps. But I'd rather pass."

Dazai smirked. "No, I think you won't."


A/N: Some things changed and some things were just written over. Overall, the plot is still the same. The staple of their relationship is still basically passive-aggressively shit-talking at each other. Will do my best to finish those next two chapters after slogging through another month in unemployment hell. Hello again.