The air felt like a fresh sheet of ice. As if, one false move could shatter everything into a million irreparable pieces.

Despite that, Chuuya had never personally been all too fond of caution. Neither was he a fan of letting people get away with what he considered to be absolute bullshit.

"I'm not his fucking dog," Chuuya spat out between gritted teeth. "And if you've already written down what happens in that goddamn book, then what's the fucking point of us fighting anyway? I mean isn't all this shit supposed to be predestined now?"

Dostoevsky kept his attention on Dazai, refusing to answer him.

The bastard was acting like he wasn't even there.

"Hey! I'm talking to you, you asshole. If you're going to pull me into a fight to the death, the least you can do is answer my fucking question."

Again, nothing.

Up until Dazai finally spoke.

"Answer his question, Dostoevsky." Dazai's voice was low, dangerous almost. A dark glint highlighted his russet eyes.

"And why would I answer a question that you already know the answer to? Tell him yourself Dazai, if you're so desperate for him to know."

Dazai stiffened where he stood, as if all the puzzle pieces Dostoevsky had scattered to the wind had finally managed to slot together into a pyrrhic masterpiece, while Chuuya just watched the interaction dumbfounded.

"What the fuck does he mean by that? Dazai, what the hell's going on?"

An apprehensive silence hung between the two of them.

For a moment, albeit a brief one, Chuuya was terrified that even Dazai might not answer him. Until finally, to Chuuya's relief, he spoke.

"He never wrote the ending. That way, I'm forced to choose between you or the Agency. That way, I can't blame The Book or anyone else for what happens, because whatever I choose will end up being of my own free will."

Dostoevsky smirked from where he stood while giving a small nod to confirm what Dazai had said.

Chuuya wanted nothing more than to beat that smug look off of his face. In fact, he already would have, if he wasn't so wary of all the power Dostoevsky now had with The Book in his possession.

However, that didn't mean he'd refrain from any other means besides the physical.

"Are you sure that this is what your brother would want?" Chuuya asked, forcing his voice into a more genuine tone, in a hopeless attempt to try to get through to the monster before him or at the very least just make him feel something; anything. "Mikhail? That was his name, right? Are you sure that he would want this bloodshed in his name? Look, you're not the only one who's lost people. Hell, I get it, I've lost more people I considered family than I can count. And while I sure as hell made sure I got vengeance, I never intentionally pulled other innocent people into the mix. Doing that won't solve anything, it just makes you a reflection of everything you claim to hate."

The temperature of the room seemed to drop several degrees, as Dostoevsky's previously negligent gaze suddenly bore into Chuuya's own at the mention of Mikhail's name.

"Don't you dare speak his name, like you know anything regarding what happened. What I am doing is a punishment fit for the crime committed, and everyone here is complicit by association, so there really are no innocents like you seem to be implying. Regardless, Dazai killed my family, so now I will kill his. It is as simple as that. An eye for an eye. So why should I not be allowed to even out the red in our ledgers? It is only what is just."

"But is that really justice, or just impudence?" Chuuya countered.

Instead of answering, Dostoevsky simply turned his back to Chuuya's words, letting them echo before falling silent to the world forever, as he took a seat in the corner of the room. Just far enough from where the action was sure to soon take place.

Then, with four simple words uttered from his treacherous lips, everything erupted into chaos.

"Kill the gravity manipulator."

17 Years Prior

It was warm that June, as Fyodor found himself curled up on the soft plush couch of The Circle's library. Above him, open windows let the soothing heat of the afternoon sun warm his back, while simultaneously allowing a calming breeze to drift throughout the room.

In his hands was a well-loved book gifted to him by Mikhail, the spine bent and pages worn from its many years of usage.

So lost in the text, Fyodor didn't notice that Mikhail had joined him until a strong hand was ruffling up his hair, and his familiar, carefree laugh lit up the room.

"Mikhail!" Fyodor protested, but it was obvious that his heart wasn't in it, as he made no move to get away.

"Oh come on," Mikhail jested in turn, but stopped despite his protest, "you know you love me." He sat down, taking a seat next to his little brother, before wrapping an arm around his shoulders, and pulling him closer for emphasis.

After squirming in his older brother's arms for a few moments, with no actual intention of getting away, Fyodor finally gave up. Much to Mikhail's satisfaction, as he slumped deeper into the half-embrace.

"Giving up?" Mikhail teased.

"Shut up," Fyodor replied, but there wasn't any heat to the words, as he leaned over to rest his head against his brother's shoulder.

They stayed like that for a moment, before Mikhail, with his brother's permission, pulled the book from his hands.

"You know when I first got this book for you, I never expected you to like it this much. How many times have you read it now? Like seven?"

"Thirteen," Fyodor corrected.

"Impressive," Mikhail mused, glancing down to see which spot Fyodor had left off at, before handing the book back.

"You know, when I was younger, someone who was very special to me gave me that very same book," Mikhail said, with a small squeeze of Fyodor's shoulder and a reminiscent look in his eyes accompanying his words. "I remember that after we'd parted ways and I accidentally lost the copy, it was something that I searched long and hard for, in an attempt to find it again, just because I had enjoyed it that much. It was irritating though, because I could just never seem to find it. Like the story had just been a figment of my imagination that I must've dreamt up or something. It wasn't until after I found you that I found another copy in town. It was sitting at this empty table in a cafe, lost and abandoned. It seemed a waste to just let it sit there collecting dust, so I grabbed it and gave it to you shortly after. I'd always thought that I'd want to read it over and over again once I managed to find another copy, but I think I'm just happy letting the book be and moving on with my life. Still, I'm glad that you're getting a good use out of it, and even though once was enough for me, I'm glad to see that you enjoy it so much that you've someone managed to read it thirteen times. So, I just want you to know that I'm really proud of you. You know that right, Fedya? You're a good kid. A smart one too."

Instead of saying anything Fyodor just let his eyes close, head resting upon his brother's shoulder and enjoying the feel of basking in the warmth of the sun's gentle rays radiating through the openings of the windows up above.

Mikhail pulled Fyodor closer, letting him drift off in the peace of the moment.

"I love you, kid."

Present

The sound of a gunshot rang through the air, as Kunikida fired off his pistol and the bullet slammed into Chuuya's chest, before bouncing off and clattering to the ground.

Before him, Dazai stood stock still, as though he were caught in a nightmare. Which honestly, Chuuya supposed, he kind of was. But now, wasn't really the best time for breaking down the weight of it all. Therapy and all that other crap would just have to come later if they wanted any chance of survival

"Dazai, snap out of it," Chuuya pleaded. "I don't want to kill your friends, but they're kind of leaving me no choice unless you figure out a way out of this for us."

The sound of a katana being unsheathed, forced Chuuya's gaze away from where Dazai stood, to warily eye Fukuzawa.

The older man met his eyes unflinchingly, before barreling towards him faster than Chuuya's eyes could track.

The blade swung through the air, headed straight for his heart. It all happened so fast that instinct alone had him reversing the pull of gravity on the blade the moment it made contact, intending for the blade and Fukuzawa to be sent careening off in the opposite direction.

Except instead of that happening, the moment contact was made, Fukuzawa and his katana just flickered and glitched out of existence, covered in a snow-like green light, as though neither had ever even been there in the first place.

"What the fuck…" Chuuya backpedaled, reevaluating the area to discover that not only had Fukuzawa vanished, but so had everyone else. So now, it was only him, Dostoevsky, and Dazai, who was still frozen amid the hellbent conundrum.

Searching his mind for answers as to whether any of them had ever been there at all, he suddenly remembered the feeling of Kunikida's bullet slamming into his chest, before clattering harmlessly to the ground.

That had to have been real. He'd felt that.

But when he looked, the bullet was gone too.

Unless…

Chuuya headed back over to the spot where he remembered the bullet having fallen, feeling around for it with the point of his shoe. For a long moment, there was nothing, until suddenly he felt something roll beneath the craftsmanship of the fine leather.

This was an illusion. One of them was casting an illusion.

Tensing, Chuuya waited for the inevitability of facing his would-be killers essentially blind. Casting his mind back, he tried to think about who exactly it was that was doing this. It took him a moment until finally he remembered a snippet of conversation he'd once had with Dazai about some kid from the Agency named Tanizaki. He could barely remember what the conversation itself had been centered on, but he was pretty sure it'd revolved around Dazai somehow using Tanizaki's ability to steal canned crab without his knowledge.

He'd thought the story had been pretty funny at the time, he recalls.

Now though, he finds nothing about Tanizaki's ability anything of the sort.

"I know what you're doing," Chuuya snapped, "just quit all of this illusion crap already and fight me face-to-face."

Nothing of the sort happened, but he supposed the goading was at least worth a shot.

Instead, the sound of two guns went off, the bullets slamming uselessly into his side, before hitting the floor much like the first. His mind quickly tried to surmise who was doing the shooting, eventually concluding that one of them had to be Kunikida and the other perhaps being the American? It would at least be in character from what he'd heard of that country.

Still, it wasn't like the guns would do much to someone like him and they had to know that. This meant that this was being done as a distraction, to force his attention away from the remaining ability users who could use that distraction to take him on unawares.

The tantalizing whispers of Arahabaki began to grow in his mind, promising how quickly it could all be over if only he used corruption. Still, his resolve held. As much as he personally didn't care all too much for these people, they had given Dazai a better life at the Agency. At least far better than anything he'd ever had at the Port Mafia. They too were Dazai's family, and he just didn't have the heart in him to take that from him, despite any threats he might make. Hence why he let the bullets clatter to the floor, instead of just boomeranging them straight back into the bodies that had sent them his way.

That bastard, Dostoevsky, probably already knew all that too. He had to.

The compressing sound of a blade slicing through air caught his attention at the last moment before it struck. Spinning around, he caught the invisible blade in his hand, while using the other to land a punch against the swordsman's cheek, with enough force to send them sprawling unconscious to the floor. He took a moment to think of who it had been, before deciding on Fukuzawa, from the long brittle hair he'd felt upon his fist while making contact.

One down. Now there were just eight more to go.

Great.

The faint swishing of clothing behind him was the only thing that alerted him to the next attack.

Chuuya spun around, grabbing the fist headed for him on a lucky guess, just as the feeling of cold steel slammed into his back. Keeping his grip on the first attacker's fist, he reversed the gravity against the blade to send it careening in the opposite direction, but unfortunately not quite fast enough. Chuuya winced as the blade tore through his back, luckily only superficially. Still, he hated that someone had even managed to land a hit in the first place.

Forcing his mind away from the unfortunate hit for the moment, as there was simply no time to dwell on such things, he pulled his initial attacker forward by his grasp on their fist, before wrapping his other hand around their jugular and squeezing with just enough force to make their body sag in his grip.

He let the unconscious body to the floor. All the while, the irritating feeling of bullets continued to slam against his body, entirely useless and beyond aggravating.

It was time to deal with Blondie and the American.

Running towards the source of the bullets, Chuuya managed to slam into one of the gunmen, tackling him to the floor. The force of it all seemed to have knocked this one out too, as the person fell limp far too quickly for it to be a fake-out, yet their chest still rose and fell with each breath signaling that they remained alive. It was probably the American, he quickly judged, given that he was sure Kunikida had a far higher chance of dodging and knowing how to break a fall.

"Poe!" A voice cried out, somewhere to his right, and then uncoordinated fists were slamming uselessly into his side. The person, whoever it was, had to know that what they were doing was futile, but that hardly mattered. Whatever they were doing now, the gesture was entirely based upon emotion. So incredibly human.

His stomach sunk at the thought, an inkling of guilt settling into his bones for what he had to do next.

Spinning around, he slammed a fist into the person's stomach, letting them fall unconscious next to the American.

That made four. He was halfway through and had managed not to kill anyone yet. Despite Dazai still being totally out of it.

Standing up straight once more, Chuuya surveyed his surroundings, listening for even the faintest sound of footsteps, the whistle of a blade, or a fist swinging through the air.

Instead, he was met with nothing. Even the gunfire from Kunikida's firearm had been silenced.

"Stop hiding already," Chuuya demanded, "it's already four versus one, are you really going to take the coward's way out?"

Again, there was silence. Nothing but silence.

Until finally, someone broke it. Shattering what had felt like a film of ice coating the air into a million irreparable pieces.

"Chuuya," the voice, both a familiar and welcome one, rang through the air.

He turned around to face it.

Before him stood Dazai, seeming to have finally come out of whatever trance he'd fallen into.

"Dazai, thank fuck. You got a plan? I've taken four of them out already, but don't worry I kept them alive. So I'm guessing it's just Yosano, Kenji, Kunikida, and Tanizaki now. Those are their names, right? Please, tell me you've got a plan."

"It'll be fine," Dazai assured him, "of course I've got a plan. I always have a plan."

Closing the distance between them, relieved that Dazai had finally snapped out of it, an odd almost unsettled feeling began to fill his chest.

Something sounded off about Dazai's voice.

But that was crazy. Wasn't it?

Yes. It was, he decided.

For, in the end, his loyalty and trust for Dazai would always win out.

He let himself relax just a bit, relieved that now that Dazai had a plan maybe they'd both really be able to get The Book and get out of here alive without killing everyone from the Agency.

With Dazai here, perhaps everything really would be okay.

"Everything will be fine," Dazai said, echoing his thoughts, "I promise."

Then, before he could even register what was happening, the feeling of a cold steel dagger slammed into his left shoulder and twisting, making it explode with pain and just narrowly missing his heart.

This wasn't Dazai.

Dazai didn't sound quite like this.

Dazai would never have such shit aim.

Of course he wouldn't.

The image of Dazai before him flickered into something resembling pixelated green snow, before vanishing. In Dazai's place stood Tanizaki with the blade still firmly planted in Chuuya's shoulder, before tearing it out and fading back into the background, leaving Chuuya gasping in pain as blood began to pour from the wound in what seemed like dangerous amounts.

If that Dazai hadn't been real, then where the fuck was the real Dazai? He scanned the area, while his right hand came up to his shoulder in a rather useless attempt to stop the bleeding.

Only Dostoevsky remained in sight, a smile lighting up his face in the distance.

Dazai was gone.