The Book was heavy in his coat pocket, as Fyodor fled the scene.

Before leaving entirely, however, he did make sure to gather Camille's daughter in his arms, taking her with him.

Another surge of hatred ran through Fyodor's veins, as he was reminded of his father who had left him in such a state many times. To see Dazai do the same to this girl was sickening and whatever reasoning he had hardly mattered.

He'd hurt a child.

How could someone hurt a child? Sure, she wasn't entirely human at the moment, what with Bram Stoker's ability, but that hardly mattered. At the end of the day, she was still a kid.

Dazai was none the wiser to any of this, lost as he was in his desperate attempts to bring Chuuya back to life.

For a brief moment, Fyodor considered turning back and ending them both right then and there for good.

Besides, with the current state of desperate vulnerability that Dazai was currently in, who's to say that he would even see such a thing coming?

Except that was the thing, a desperate and vulnerable Dazai was also simultaneously a dangerous and unpredictable Dazai.

So, despite his yearning desire to tear the two apart, Fyodor managed to shut the thought away at least for the moment.

The most important thing right now was The Book and preserving it. Later, he could erase both of them with it whether or not Chuuya survived this, because if he stayed here any longer it would only increase the likelihood of Dazai retaliating against him. It'd be much too dangerous, even if Dazai had been slipping lately. So in the end, it just simply wasn't worth the risk.

So Fyodor let it go, at least for the moment. Instead opting to flee the scene, as he had originally intended.

So that was it. He had finally done it.

Mikhail's beautiful vision would finally be shown to the world in an epoch of bliss.

A place where only those who were truly deserving would ever get to go.

It's why he couldn't find it within himself to care about Sigma and Gogol's deaths because he'd already come to terms with that inevitability a long time ago.

Sinners had no place in the new world, including himself.

Long ago, he had become a monster to destroy other monsters.

While at times vain and cocky, Fyodor within his heart knew that being a monster who killed other monsters didn't make him any less of one himself.

At the end of the day, he was a killer, which in turn made him a monster.

So when the time came that all monsters were expunged from the world, he too would fall to the depths of whatever awaited him on the other side. That was if there was even anything at all.

As much as Fyodor preached about following the will of God to his followers, most of that was just to manipulate them under a shared common guidance. Personally, he didn't know what to think when it came to all of that. Perhaps it was one of the only things he didn't know.

However, what he did know was that monsters had no place in Mikhail's world. So as much as he wanted to see his brother again, he'd long ago accepted that if Mikhail were to see him now, he would be horrified by what his younger brother had become. So because of that, Fyodor would do everything in his power to ensure that he never did.

Fyodor would die and Mikhail would live.

Fyodor would be saving him, just as Mikhail had once saved him in a time that now felt so long ago.

It was poetic almost, the world that he would make.

More than that, it would be utterly perfect in every conceivable way by which Mikhail had longed to live by.

A world that thrived through utopian socialism. A world where everyone lived happily and carefree. A world where Mikhail's original family was still alive. A world without war. A world without abilities. A world without hate, disdain, and monsters.

A world Fyodor would never get to see.

However, as much as he knew Mikhail's perfect world could not be so without the erasure of his existence, he also knew that there were intervening factors that would need to be taken care of.

In a time that had long since passed, Mikhail had told him that he wanted him to be there in that perfect world. So regardless of whether or not Mikhail could ever conceivably forgive him, if he remembered Fyodor then there was a chance that his death could hurt him.

So, he'd erase himself entirely. So that he no longer even lived on in memories.

He'd essentially be a forgotten martyr.

Still, the thought of such a thing didn't make him sad. His brother had given him his own perfect world once after all, so it was only fair that he now returned the favor.

He'd already gotten his taste of happiness back at The Circle anyways, so now it was Mikhail's turn.

There was still much to plan, however, as eager as he was to set everything into motion at that very moment. So he'd still need a bit more time before putting a pen to the paper that continued to weigh down his coat pocket.

This was a plan that he could not risk messing up. He'd have one chance at this and that was it. No more attempts, especially since he wouldn't be there to see it.

So, he'd make sure to ensure that every crack was sealed and every break was mended.

His brother, who had been and still was his best friend, deserved no less.

Chuuya's whole body throbbed as tendrils of adrenaline sprinted up and down his spine in nauseating circles.

He'd put himself through yet another literal hell only to be met with nothing to show for it all over again.

Next to that all of that, this felt like the umpteenth time he'd been drowned and nearly died, which was seeming to become an increasingly prevalent theme in his life that he most definitely did not appreciate.

Behind him, the sound of waves lapping hungrily against the side of the dock made him subconsciously inch further away from the edge, as he finally tried to stand only to immediately fall backward with a strangled gasp of pain. Meanwhile, jolts of what practically felt like electric shocks seemed to light up his whole rib cage.

He was surprised he hadn't noticed the pain in his ribs earlier. Perhaps the adrenaline from the whole situation had drowned the pain of it all out, but now that chemical response was finally fading from his body, he found himself to be left in excruciating pain. It was probably from the CPR, Chuuya distantly noted to himself. He thought he'd heard Dazai mumble something about that amid his existential crisis over losing The Book.

Given the life he'd led, Chuuya did have a fairly high pain tolerance. However, a fair amount of that was just learning how to deal with pain. So regretfully, it didn't necessarily excuse him from the stimuli.

Growing up in The Lab, then The Sheep, and finally The Port Mafia, he'd learned ways to manage pain.

By acknowledging it and moving on, by distracting himself with other things, by keeping himself in motion, by remembering how he'd experienced so much worse in the past that would make his current state seem laughable.

So he forced himself to swallow down the scream building in his throat, before turning to Dazai who was now sitting on the ground next to him with a glazed-over look in his eyes. Like he was both there and so terribly far gone at the exact same time.

"Did you really have to break my fucking ribs, bastard?" Chuuya quipped in a weak attempt to lighten the mood. Unsurprisingly, Dazai didn't grace him with an answer. It didn't even seem like he registered that Chuuya was even there.

"Dazai?" Chuuya prodded, before hesitantly setting a hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

It was a dumb question to ask.

Of course, he wasn't okay. Dostoevsky had taken The Book and everything was fucked now. The fact that he'd even tried to lighten the mood was laughable and apparently, Dazai must've thought so too if he was even thinking anything at all because he still refrained from saying anything or even merely acknowledging Chuuya's existence.

He hated this.

For the past year, it felt like everything had just continued to trend further down along a road made of utter bullshit. It made him long for the days back when he and Dazai had been in the Mafia together as Double Black. Back when it had been them against the world. They'd been happier then, right?

Except that wasn't true. Dazai had been actively suicidal and Chuuya had found himself lost in an endless stream of traumatic events, amongst much else.

Had there ever been a time when they'd been happy? Truly happy?

What did that even mean?

It was all just too fucking existential and left Chuuya feeling exhausted. Every fucking piece of what was happening made him feel like the world was slowly crumbling beneath his feet with nothing left for him to do, as gravity too slipped away from his fingertips, leaving him all alone in the blank expanse of the nothingness that greeted him every night in the place of dreams.

Yet, even as he felt hopeless, he refused to let the world crush his spirit entirely. His whole life had been built upon traumatic experience upon traumatic experience, and if he'd learned anything from it, it was that if he truly wanted to change his situation he needed to stand back up. Whether that be out of love, desire, spite, sheer persistence or anything else was irrelevant.

He just needed to get back up. Metaphorically though of course, because if he tried standing again without assistance, then with the current state his ribs were in, he was almost certain that he was going to pass the fuck out.

"Look Dazai, it's not over yet, alright?" Chuuya said, his eyes scanning Dazai's features as though trying to sort the fragmented pieces back together, "we can still fix this. I mean as much as I am loath to admit it, you really are quite a bit of a genius and I know that you think that you've been fucking up way too much lately, but here's the thing. If anyone else were standing where you are now, they would have been fucked before they'd even gotten started. So let's just get back to the apartment and then we can go from there. We'll figure out wherever the fuck that bastard is hiding and kill him. Then we'll take The Book and put it away somewhere where no one will ever be able to find it"

For several more moments, a silence lapsed between the two before finally, Dazai's eyes shifted to meet his own. They looked oddly heavy in their sockets with purple eyebags drawn into his gaunt face. He looked so very tired, as though having gone through a lifetime of sleepless nights. Almost as though he were so tired that he could no longer find it in himself to care about anything.

Almost.

"Yeah, I know," Dazai finally said, albeit warily, before making his way to his feet and stretching a hand out towards Chuuya, "let's just go home."

"I don't think I can stand…" Chuuya replied, apologetic notes worming their way into his tone, before trailing off as he noticed that Dazai was offering him his non-dominant hand. To the average person, it was doubtful that they'd even notice, but Chuuya had known Dazai for almost a decade. He knew Dazai intimately and he also knew that Dazai never did anything unintentionally.

"Why are you offering me your left?" It was only now that Chuuya noticed that Dazai had the offending right hand hidden behind his back, which was furthermore swallowed by the darkness that surrounded them.

Something was wrong.

However, despite the horrible implications that were seemingly approaching at the speed of light, Dazai just let out a small laugh, his eyes drifting away for a moment before settling back on Chuuya's.

"All of this happens, and you're paying attention to what hand I'm using? What, do you got a crush on me or something? I'm fine alright, I just wasn't thinking."

"Then why won't you show me your hand?" Chuuya retorted, his brow furrowing, as he quickly brushed past Dazai's comment about him having some kind of crush on him. Although, if his face turned a bit red at the comment, no one would ever know under the protection of the darkness surrounding them.

"Chuuya," Dazai insisted, sounding exasperated, "I already told you that I'm alright. So it's fine, okay?"

"No, Dazai. Show me your hand," Chuuya reiterated, remaining firm in his stance.

Their eyes met, both refusing to back down until Dazai finally relented.

"Fine," he sighed, "Dostoevsky shot me, but it's fine. I wrapped it in some extra bandages I had on me and sure it's a bit soggy I guess, but I'll change it when we get back to the apartment. I've dealt with worse and you're far more injured than I am, so just let me help you up and then we can walk back together and get all of this sorted out."

Dazai brought his hand forward to reveal it to him.

Scarlet wet bandages clung to it like Dazai had described and another bout of exhaustion seemed to weigh down upon Chuuya's shoulders.

They seriously couldn't catch a break, could they?

Chuuya sighed, his hand warily reaching up to pinch his nose in exasperation.

"I would kill for the day the universe finally cuts us a fucking break."

"C'mon," Dazai said, pushing past his comment, as he bent down to wrap an arm around Chuuya's right side, "I'll help you up."

Using Dazai as a support to get into a standing position, Chuuya gritted his teeth as pain flared throughout his whole body. It was agonizing, but having Dazai there to steady him prevented him from going through the more unfortunate side effects of his brutalized ribcage, like for instance passing out.

Then slowly, agonizingly so, the two began their trek back to the apartment, defeat weighing heavily down upon their shoulders and yet, the smallest glimmers of hope remaining lit nonetheless in both of their eyes.

They would fix this.

Anything less was simply unacceptable.