1 Day Prior

He had it. He finally had it.

Upon the wooden desk before Fyodor lay The Book.

All around him, the walls of the hotel room he'd found, thanks to the body in the closet, seemed ever so near. So indubitably claustrophobic.

Whatever he did. Whatever happened next. He could not mess it up.

It was incredible how something so ineffable, something so powerful, could be so seemingly diminutive.

Small. Unassuming. Impuissant.

The riotousness of it all almost made him want to laugh.

Because out of all of the things in the universe, the most puissant thing ended up being a fucking book.

But honestly, did any of that even really matter? Matter and meaning were constructs anyway, so who was to say a book couldn't be the most powerful thing in the universe? All that mattered right now was that he'd won. He'd triumphed and now he'd finally be able to give Mikhail his beautiful world.

No one would stop him. No one could stop him.

A few meters away, he watched as Camille's child played with a Rubik's Cube he'd found in the bedside drawer, much like the one that Mikhail had given him in a time that now felt so long ago.

He missed him so much.

There were many times following Mikhail's death when he'd wondered what they'd be doing in that very moment, had he not fallen. Most often, whenever he was sad or reminiscent.

He'd think about them creating a new world together, going out to a warm diner to eat piroshki, going skiing at Red Valley in the Kastorensky District, making bliny together, playing a game of Durak, and so much more.

But that life had been stolen from him by Dazai.

Even now the curse that Dazai had placed upon him on that day had yet to end.

Dazai had made him kill. Dazai had turned him into a killer. Dazai had constructed him into a person whom his brother could never love.

So now, he would build this new world. He would give Mikhail piroshki and skiing and bliny and Durak and everything else. Except in this reality, he would not be there to see it too.

And although he knew it was necessary, he hated it.

He hated it so fucking much.

Not because he was afraid to die. Sure, the uncertainty of what came after or the lack thereof had left him lying awake some nights, but he'd mostly accepted the inevitability that death eventually came for everyone. So, there was no point in fearing something that he simply could not control.

It was more because Dazai had stolen his humanity. Dazai had stolen the kind relief of knowing that even if all of the world were to hate him, there would be at least one person who defied the rest. Someone who truly cared.

But he was a killer; a murderer. He was irredeemable and unworthy of any form of unconditional love. No matter his convictions or reasons.

If he saw him now, Mikhail would hate the man who he had become.

So, he would die as unloved as the day he was born.

But if that meant that Mikhail could be happy again. Then, he supposed that maybe that was okay.

The pages of The Book felt deceivingly soft and almost warm beneath his fingertips. It was as if the paper had only just been freshly printed with that new book smell too. It wafted through the air like vanilla and almonds. Ever so soothingly.

It was time to test it out.

His gaze settled upon Camille's daughter, Yuan, who still sat there playing with her Rubik's Cube on the floor of the hotel room.

He began to write.

As he wrote in the scrawling cursive of his native tongue, the words seemed to almost twinkle ethereally.

It was beautiful. Like a galaxy being created by the serpentine intricacy of his words and penmanship.

It didn't take long until he'd finished his addition to the world. His first test.

Now, he just had to wait and see if it worked.

In the place where Yuan had previously been playing with the Rubik's Cube, it now fell from her fingertips.

She stood up and as she did, something miraculous happened.

However, it was not unexpected.

All signs of vampirism left her eyes. Almost as though, somewhere else in the world, Fukuchi had dropped dead and Bram had regained full power of his ability once more.

And Fukuchi aside, who would willingly enslave a child? At least not Bram of all people.

Still, despite Yuan regaining full control of herself, the young girl did not panic. Instead she just slowly walked up to Fyodor with the appearance of naïve innocence and wide inquisitive eyes. An expression and air that only a child could ever capture.

"Do you know where my mommy is?"

It was a question he'd expected, but it did nothing to help him feel like he was swallowing glass shards down his throat.

The death of his own mother flashed before his eyes.

"Why don't we go down to the police station? I'm sure they can help you there and we can find your mommy."

"Okay," the little girl nodded.

And so they left.

The walk to the station was spent quietly and upon entering the station no one even batted an eye at him.

Almost as if they had spent too many sleepless nights to be wakeful or watchful enough to keep an eye out for a face like his.

"Excuse me," he greeted an officer near the entrance, "I believe this girl is lost."

"Oh, and who might you be?" Looking down at the small girl next to him, the officer gave her a quaint smile.

Yuan however did not answer, instead, she was silent and sent Fyodor a look of utter confusion.

"She only speaks French and a bit of English," Fyodor explained. "But her name's Yuan."

"Ah, well I don't speak much of either, but my partner took French back in school. Have her come with me. We'll take good care of her."

Fyodor nodded, "thank you." Then turning to Yuan, he crouched down so that he was at her level.

Wringing her hands out before her, the girl suddenly looked ever so small and so very afraid.

"You need to go with that man," Fyodor told her, pointing to the officer in question, "he's going to take you to someone who can help you."

"Why can't you help me?" Yuan asked, her eyes finally flicking upwards to meet his own, glassy and sad.

"You'll be happier with them. I promise," Fyodor said, smiling reassuringly. Then reaching into his pocket, he grabbed out the Rubik's Cube that she had dropped earlier. Something that he'd made sure to grab just before he made his way out the door.

He passed it to her, all the while being incredibly careful not to make direct contact.

"When I was your age and lost my own family, my brother got one of these for me," Fyodor said. "So, if you're ever afraid or unsure or maybe you just feel stuck and don't know what to do, you can fiddle with this and know that just like the colors can be turned back to their proper sides, everything in real life can be okay again too. There will always be another sunrise and another sunset, and I can promise you that at the end of this, everything will be alright. I made sure of it."

Then, he stood up and left, the door of the police station closing soundly behind him.

And although he didn't look back, he could've sworn he'd heard a small voice calling out a goodbye and perhaps even a thank you.

It wasn't a very long walk back to the hotel, but once he'd made it a laugh of astonishment burst forth from deep within his chest because it had actually worked. The words that he'd written on the page to free Yuan of all of this had come to life.

Somewhere out there, Yuan would get connected to a long-lost Aunt, who would then bring her up safe and happy in the French countryside. She'd live a good, long, happy life.

Just as Mikhail would soon have too.

Now, with that out of the way, it was time for the second test. The only difference with this one would be that it was definitely not quite as philanthropic.

Still, that wouldn't make it any less satisfying.

Most of all though, he was excited for the grand finale that came after. Still, he couldn't rush it. So picking up his pen he began to write. A tale of Ango contacting the Detective Agency right before his death, and giving them a number by which they could contact Dazai. A tale of realization and betrayal.

A tale that would never be forgotten by Osamu Dazai.

Present

Dazai had never run so fast in his life. His heart nearly felt like it was about to beat out of his chest.

That scream had been Kunikida. In all of his life, he'd never heard Kunikida scream like that or even scream much at all.

It almost sounded as though he were dying.

Upon reaching the door, Dazai yanked at the handle, half expecting it to be locked.

Surprisingly enough, it wasn't. Almost as though he were supposed to and expected to go into the room.

It was a trap. That much was certain. However, it wasn't like he really had many other options in terms of next steps at the moment.

He couldn't just not go through that door. Not after what he had heard.

If Kunikida was hurt or even dead, and possibly the others as well, then there was simply no other choice.

He stepped inside, Chuuya right on his heels.

He expected to see torture devices. He expected to see blood coating the walls. He expected to see death. He expected to see carnage.

What he did not expect to see was Dostoevsky standing tall behind the members of the Agency, whose eyes turned to him immediately upon his entrance with varying looks of horror and betrayal.

Fists were clenched at their sides in silent rage, and all was quiet for a few more moments until Dazai finally spoke, raising his gaze to meet Dostoevsky's own. Breaking through the tense ice-like quality of the room.

"Why are you here? What did you do to them?"

"Oh, why I'm here hardly matters, don't you think? Besides, I'm sure you already know why. As for what I did to them… well, you see, I just thought that this whole lot was a bit uneducated as to the truth of our shared past. So, I decided to educate them."

There were many things that Dostoevsky could've meant by that but one possibility and possibility alone stood out in Dazai's mind among the rest.

Mikhail.

"You told them about The Petrashevsky Circle, didn't you? About your brother? Then you took away their true judgments of what happened and manipulated them to your side with The Book. Like puppets."

"Manipulated them like puppets?" Dostoevsky's gaze hardened, his voice low and angry, "you forced me to kill my own brother. The only person who'd ever really cared about me in this whole horrid world, and then after that, you just left me there to die. But it doesn't end there, does it? Because all of this was over a book. A powerful one, sure, but still just a book. A simple book that you never even ended up having the decency to use, be it for good or bad. Which, when you think about it, means that my brother died for nothing. So no, I didn't manipulate your agency, I've simply enlightened them to the real Osamu Dazai. Perhaps I used The Book to encourage the route of thinking that they ended up on. Yet, no real story can ever be brought into reality without believability, so I'd take their hatred for what it's worth."

"He was a child when that happened. What happened wasn't his fault." Chuuya, despite not knowing all of the circumstances surrounding what had happened, took several steps closer to Dostoevsky. At the same time, Dazai noticed that he had shifted his position so he stood slightly ahead of Dazai, almost as though he were using his own body as a human shield.

Still, despite the valiant defense, it did nothing to deter Dostoevsky.

"Well, so was I," was all Dostoevsky said in return, only briefly sparing Chuuya a glance before he turned his attention back to Dazai.

A beat of silence stretched throughout the room, before finally, one of the agency members spoke for the first time since they'd been reunited.

Kunikida began to walk forward until he was only a few feet away from where Dazai stood. Just ahead, Dazai noticed Chuuya tense, as his focus seemed to narrow in on whatever was about to transpire.

He had always been so loyal. Perhaps even to a fault.

"Why did you do it, Dazai? Trading a life for a book?" Kunikida took another step closer, pulling his gun and flicking off the safety.

Chuuya shifted closer to Dazai.

"To think that for all of these years, I've been careless and let your foolishness go, because, at the end of the day, I thought that you were a good person deep down. That somewhere within you, you had a good heart. But to kill someone over a book? Why would you do that? He was so young Dazai and so good. How could you take his life away from him?"

Dazai didn't answer that. He couldn't answer that. So instead, he looked past Kunikida, letting his eyes settle on Dostoevsky's once more.

"Taking my family away won't bring yours back, Dostoevsky," Dazai said, "it'll only bring about more death. So if you want to kill me, then just do it already. And not with them. If you want to kill me, I want you to be the one taking my life. I'm done with your games. It was fun at first, but now I think I've quite lost my appetite for it."

"You thought I brought them here to kill you?" Dostoevsky asked incredulously. "Think about it, Dazai. I know you've been failing at that lately, but this is just embarrassing, even for you. I'm not going to kill you. Not yet, because before I do that I want you as your world burns to the ground, just like mine did. So no, your agency, your precious Kunikida, Ranpoo, Poe, Yosano, Naomi, Kyōka, Kenji, Tanizaki, and Fukuzawa aren't here to kill you. They're here to kill your pet, just as my story commands what with your beliefs of manipulation and puppetering. For not only have they realized the cruel havoc that you've wrecked upon my own life, but so too the havoc that is wrecked upon the earth by the vengeful god Arahabaki. Something that powerful and deadly simply cannot be allowed to live. Not even its vessel. So now you've got a choice, Dazai. Will you let them kill your dog or will you kill your so-called family to save him? The choice is yours."