Authors Note: I am sorry for not posting more of this here (its up-to-date on AO3) but there didn't seem to be any interest in it for a good while. Now that it seems to have some attention I'll catch it up and keep it up-to-date. I really enjoyed writing Akutagawa and Dazai.

Chapter Summary: Truths are revealed and they break the walls Atsushi had so carefully built.

III. Breaking

In the quiet corners of my mind,

Linger echoes of a war unkind.

Whispers of battle, lost in time,

Invisible wounds, the soldier's prime.

*/\*

Initially, Kunikida had felt quite positive about the situation. They didn't seem marked for death by the group, and despite the intoxication ability being far stronger than expected, they had managed to eavesdrop and take note of how the group interacted. Understanding their dynamics could help answer many of the questions surrounding this mysterious group.

Atsushi had done well, clearly trying to fulfill the mission despite their predicament. Kunikida made a mental note to give the younger man some praise later—he knew he wasn't always as forthcoming with positive reinforcement as he should be. While that was his fault, he partly blamed Dazai—the headache-inducing mentor—for influencing that habit.

However, things had quickly gone downhill. First, the tank lit up, and that had affected Atsushi somehow. The boy had tried to regain control of himself, and Kunikida had been proud of him for that. But it was the second event that changed everything.

His gaze flickered between Atsushi and the Obsidian Sun members, struggling to focus his eyes as they hovered over the boy with undisguised predatory delight. Kunikida swallowed painfully, his throat dry. What was this?

The man gave Atsushi only a quick glance before his companion joined him, also staring. At first, he didn't seem to see what his friend had, but then his entire demeanor shifted. Kunikida felt a deepening sense of dread swirling in the pit of his stomach, mingling with the agitation and vertigo that left him even more unsteady.

It quickly became clear from their mocking that the men knew Atsushi, and just as quickly, it became clear that the boy would be the target of more than just their abusive words. Kunikida didn't immediately realize he had tried to shout when Atsushi's face hit the floor. He tried to convey reassurance with his eyes, but Atsushi's expression was filled with such fear and distress that Kunikida knew there was no way he could reach him.

This was all wrong. This wasn't part of the plan. He had promised the younger man that going undercover in this situation would be nothing more than a learning experience. Now...

Kunikida tried to keep his eyes on Atsushi's face—he really did—but when his gaze landed there, the boy didn't seem fully present. Still, the marred flesh drew his attention. Written on Atsushi's body was a history Kunikida had never fully grasped before. He knew Atsushi hadn't had a good upbringing at the orphanage and had assumed he'd been severely abused. The way Atsushi had flinched at the slightest touch—whether a pat on the shoulder or head—told a story the boy's tight lips didn't need to.

But now, seeing it, Kunikida realized "abuse" was too light a word for what Atsushi had endured. There were burns—some clearly from cigarettes, but the worst looked like they had been made by a poker or something similar. An odd scar wrapped around Atsushi's torso, and Kunikida couldn't quite place its cause. Electrical burns and countless smaller scars were etched into his skin. It was a story Atsushi hid, one he was clearly ashamed of. Yet Kunikida couldn't help but think that shame, along with the label of "monster," belonged firmly at the feet of a dead man—a man he wished had made it to the Agency, if only so Kunikida could have given him a piece of his mind, and maybe a word with Dazai's gun.

*/\*

Akutagawa stepped into the lounge, Rashomon rippling with deadly intent around him. His gaze swept the room, taking in the pair of Obsidian Sun members who remained—one lazily finishing a meal at the table, while the other stood to the side, neither seeming bothered by Akutagawa's sudden arrival. In lieu of a greeting, Rashomon struck with a flick of his wrist, taking the man closest to the door off his feet before he could reach for his weapon, slamming him against the far wall. He didn't rise again.

The man at the table watched as his companion hit the floor with a sigh. Despite the sudden intrusion, he took his time, pushing his bowl and chopsticks aside before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he stood. He glared at Akutagawa, mildly annoyed by the interruption. "You must be the one they sent to deal with us. Bit of a letdown."

Without a word, Akutagawa barked, "Rashomon," and the dark tendrils shot forward, but the man was ready. As the tendrils lashed out, the air around him shimmered, his form flickering like a mirage. "Spectral Veil!" he declared, his voice cool and composed. Rashomon's strike passed through him harmlessly.

Akutagawa coughed lightly, the rattle in his chest a reminder of his strained lungs. The man's lips curled in amusement, his ability allowing him to dance just out of reach. "Not so easy when you can't land a hit, huh?" he taunted, his voice distorted as his figure flickered in and out of reality.

Akutagawa's expression hardened, a cold smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You would do wisely not to underestimate the Rabid Dog of the Port Mafia," he said, his voice low and full of menace. "Your parlor tricks are nothing to Rashomon."

Rashomon retracted briefly before lashing out in multiple directions, faster and more precise, but the man's illusion held strong, flickering just out of reach once more. Akutagawa's hand twitched in his pocket, controlling Rashomon with silent veracity as the dark tendrils sliced through the air, seeking any weakness in the illusion.

The man's grin widened, confident in his ability to remain untouchable, but Akutagawa could feel the rhythm of his movement. He was starting to see the faint tells in the man's illusions that gave away his position. There was no way Akutagawa would let a mere trickster stand in his way. Akutagawa allowed himself a brief, knowing smile at the irony of fighting one illusion ability while another user, Dazai, slipped past them unnoticed. He could sense the familiar void of Dazai's ability nearby, even if he couldn't see him and his partner.

Rashomon struck again, faster this time. He was certain he landed some sort of blow from the sudden grimace on the man's face. Not a moment later, Akutagawa formed a space-eating vortex that devoured the bullets the man fired in a desperate counterattack. Regardless, Akutagawa advanced, his predatory grin widening as he closed in, the illusory movements growing more predictable with each passing second. He couldn't deny the satisfaction he felt in getting the better of his opponent.

"Your tricks won't save you," Akutagawa sneered, Rashomon swirling menacingly as the lounge darkened around them. He did his best to stay focused on the battle, pushing aside the distant voices coming through Atsushi's comm. He had to trust Dazai and the blonde agent—they understood Atsushi's limits better than he did. Though they had opened up to each other recently, Akutagawa couldn't yet claim to fully understand Atsushi.

Akutagawa's breath came in shallow, raspy bursts as he closed the distance between them. Rashomon lashed out again, a blur of black slicing through the air, but the illusionist dodged, his form flickering like a fading ghost. Akutagawa could feel his patience wearing thin, his anger simmering beneath the surface. Each time he struck, the man slipped through his grasp, a dance of shadows and deception.

With a grunt, the illusionist mockingly grinned, taunting, "You're fast, but not fast enough."

"Rashomon—Hōjō Agito!" Akutagawa hissed, his voice low, controlled, and dangerous. The dark tendrils surged forward with renewed force, forming into the shape of ravenous dog jaws, teeth bared in a relentless hunt. The man's form wavered once more, a specter slipping through the cracks of reality.

But Akutagawa had seen it. The briefest hesitation in the illusion, the smallest ripple of something real.

"You're slipping," Akutagawa growled. "Rashomon doesn't need to see you... to hunt you down." The jaws snapped and lunged, moving like a predator on the scent. The man flickered again, but this time his foot caught, the illusion faltering just for a moment.

That was all Akutagawa needed, and it was his turn to grin.

Rashomon's tendrils wrapped around the man's body, constricting tightly as the illusion dissolved like falling shards of glass. The man let out a strangled gasp, eyes wide with shock as the reality of his defeat sank in. "No... no, no!" The man shouted in disbelief.

"You should've run when you had the chance," Akutagawa jeered in reply, his voice cold, before slamming the man into the wall, leaving him to slide down unconscious as Rashomon retracted.

With the illusionist down, Akutagawa coughed. It became a long, drawn-out fit that left him briefly light-headed. Once it passed, he wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, slipping it back into his pocket. The fight had taken longer than expected, but there was no time to rest or catch his breath. He could hear, over the comm, the faint echoes of a struggle—Atsushi's fight wasn't over yet.

*/\*

"G" traced the point of the knife along a few of the scars. Since leaving the orphanage, Atsushi had never wanted to disappear as much as he did in that moment. "You are quite the canvas. No matter how much the headmaster tried to exorcise the beast, it remained. I was quite impressed when he had you—or shall I say, tried to have you—nail your foot to the floor," G glanced at Kunikida before turning back to Atsushi with a look of disappointment. "It was a pity you were too cowardly to do it yourself, meaning he had to do it, of course. But still, he never disappointed. Do you still have that scar?" The man grabbed Atsushi's foot, pulling off the shoe then the sock without too much effort. He looked up with a shit-eating Cheshire-cat grin at Kunikida. "He still has it, look at that. All that healing ability yet these scars remained." Atsushi felt a wave of intense, bitter-tasting shame wash over him. He couldn't even look at Kunikida, unable to handle seeing disgust on his face.

"G" continued, and if Atsushi wasn't mistaken, he sounded genuinely curious, "Did it ever start working properly? I know 'F' has theories on why it didn't when you were younger, but I never could understand his explanations." At that, "F," the man in question, pocketed his phone and moved to stand in front of their prisoners. "G," showing a form of deference, stepped back to allow "F" to take his place. Kneeling in front of Atsushi, "F" appeared almost amused by the boy's exposed torso, his cold eyes roaming over the scars with a detached interest. Atsushi, still lying on his back, was frozen in place—the shock of having his scars revealed had paralyzed him. His body felt distant and cold, as though his soul had been torn from it, leaving him a helpless observer to his own torment, trapped in his worst nightmare.

After what felt like an eternity under that cold gaze, "F" stood, his movements deliberate. Atsushi's focus remained fixed on him, far more aware of the man's presence than he wanted to be. The fear "F" inspired was consuming, numbing, and painful all at once. Atsushi missed whatever else was said as he tracked "F" with terrified eyes, watching as he exchanged words with a few others who then disappeared from sight. "F" stopped beside "G" and pulled him aside to whisper something, a phrase Atsushi could still hear but that was lost to Kunikida. The weight of those whispered words filled Atsushi with a terror that seemed to break down his mental walls—walls he had forgotten were there until now.

Water. Cold, relentless water. He could feel its icy grip, not around him now, but in a memory that clawed its way to the forefront of his mind. His head forcibly held down, cheeks distended with the desperate need to breathe. The surface of the water shimmered just beyond his reach, mocking his pain.

The room dimmed as "F" eyes trapped his once again, and Atsushi's breath caught sharply—a reflex of terror rather than pain. His heart thrummed a frantic rhythm, overshadowing the distant sounds of the Obsidian Sun members moving about. Everything else faded away, leaving only the immediate threat of 'F' and all he represented before him.

The present flickered, momentarily replaced by a visceral flashback. A larger bowl, its rim cold against his skin. Harsh whispers filled the air, the murmurs of a detached spectator observing his punishment—his struggle—as if it were an experiment.

The smell of blood on his face, from his nose breaking, and water from all the tanks around him in the present bled into the terror of the past. Water and blood. It was always water and blood—the sticky warmth of it clinging to his skin, impossible to wipe away.

His hands flailed ineffectively, nails scraping against unyielding ceramic as the grip holding him submerged tightened. Trails of blood followed the lines his nails had cut, dissolving into the water that sought to claim him.

A sudden sharp pain snapped him back to reality. His eyes widened, and he found himself staring at a knife embedded in his shoulder. "F" loomed over him once more, somehow managing to seem both annoyed and satisfied at the same time. "Can't have you disappearing yet," he said, pushing the tip of his finger roughly into Atsushi's forehead. "No hiding away in some corner of your mind. Not when you have yet to perform."

Atsushi's gaze flickered around, desperate to avoid looking into "F's" eyes again. His disoriented thoughts whirled—he didn't fully understand what was happening, couldn't quite remember where he was. A flicker of relief rushed through him when his wide eyes met Kunikida's, but then the shame hit. The scars. His exposed skin. The torn clothes that couldn't cover his broken body. He struggled to catch his breath, the weight of it all crashing down on him, pulling him under. His vision swam, and his stomach lurched. He leaned to the side and vomited.

"You are truly pathetic. Still… it is foolish to expect anything less from such a dull-minded beast." F's voice was cold, dripping with disdain as he yanked the gag from around Atsushi's neck and used it to wipe his mouth. The motion might have seemed tender, but there was a chilly anticipation and perverted delight in the gesture. He dropped the cloth and seized Atsushi's hair, forcing him to meet his gaze.

When it was clear he had Atsushi's full attention, "F" bent lower, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, yet loud enough for Kunikida to catch every chilling word. "I remember everything. Those memories are a treat. You were my favorite." His grip tightened in Atsushi's hair, drawing a whimper from the boy. "Did you know it was me who told the headmaster about your curse? That you had an ability? I triggered your regeneration multiple times. It was a mystery at first why you were taken from your parents, but then it made sense."

His words slithered into Atsushi's mind like venom. "Your parents treated you like a buffet. They cannibalized you."

Atsushi's breath hitched, his body trembling as a broken whisper escaped him, "No." His throat felt constricted, like the water from his memories had found its way back, filling his lungs.

And though you healed, your regeneration stopped working for years. Made you such a lovely canvas. I could test the limits of my ability, and you were the perfect subject." "F" leaned in closer, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "You couldn't remember what they did to you... but your body did." The words were like acid, seeping into his ear, eating away at his mind. "The psychological effects of abuse on the mind... fascinating."

F smirked, his voice lowering to a more intimate tone. "Thank you for such lovely memories. And for one last test today.

He was drowning—not in water, but in the flood of his repressed memories, each wave of fear threatening to pull him under once more.

"Just a little longer... let's see how much he can take."

The weight of the memory and the present twisted together in Atsushi's mind, blurring the lines between now and then. Surrounded by enemies both real and remembered, Atsushi Nakajima was just a child again—helpless, drowning in despair, pulled into depths he'd thought he'd escaped.

A shadow loomed, perhaps "F" or another tormentor—it didn't matter. Each figure now wore the face of his nightmares, the faceless entities of his past that had held him down, watched him suffer, and their voices spoken in tones of cold curiosity about pushing boundaries and achieving new thresholds.

"We'll see how much he can endure."

The terror of the memory bled into the dimly lit room, coloring every shadow with menace, every touch with the chill of remembered water. As the figures around him discussed his fate, Atsushi could hear the whisper of the past mingling with the present. A promise of pain, as inevitable as the tide.

*/\*

Dazai moved through the dimly lit office with practiced ease, his eyes scanning the room for anything of value. The faint glow of a small flashlight illuminated a mess of papers scattered across the desk. Jun'ichirō stood silently at the door, his fingers twitching ever so slightly as Light Snow kept them hidden from sight. To anyone passing by, it would appear to be nothing more than an empty office—not the Obsidian Sun's operation center being picked apart by two intruders.

Dazai pocketed a few scraps of paper, his eyes narrowing as he spotted a map of Yokohama pinned to the wall. Several locations were circled in red ink, each ominously marked with dates. His gaze flickered to the nearby desk, where blueprints of the plant lay partially unrolled. Beside them were order receipts—one for a tank measuring 12 ft x 15 ft x 10 ft, and another for metallic water guns. The number of guns matched the circled spots on the map. Dazai's brow furrowed as he took a few quick pictures with his phone, his mind racing with the implications.

In the background, muffled sounds of a struggle filtered in from the lounge. Akutagawa, as requested, was handling a couple of Obsidian Sun members who hadn't left with the rest. However, the fight sounded trickier than Dazai had anticipated. He paused for a moment, tilting his head toward the noise before glancing at Jun'ichirō. The younger man's eyes were wide and focused, keeping his attention on maintaining their cover while also hearing bits of what was happening to Atsushi. Dazai doubted it helped calm his already frazzled, ability-influenced nerves. With a brief nod of encouragement, Dazai returned to his task, wanting to finish as soon as possible, especially considering what they were overhearing concerning Atsushi.

There had been an uncomfortable itch at the back of his mind, an irritation that started with Kunikida's unease about Atsushi's role in the mission. It only grew worse with the knowledge that the Obsidian Sun had ability users. Something about Atsushi seemed to attract trouble, no matter where he went. The poor kid just couldn't catch a break. But the truth was, they couldn't just hide Atsushi away or wrap him in bubble wrap to keep him safe, nor could they stop a mission from going sideways just because he was involved. To be fair, most of the agency members were trouble magnets in one way or another. Atsushi just happened to fit right in—maybe a little too well at times. This whole thing of running into two people who knew—well, more than knew—him from the orphanage only proved the point.

Dazai wasn't a bleeding heart sort of man. He had borne titles with words like Demon for a reason. But with Atsushi, he found it hard not to actually care (and if he was honest with himself, the orphan wasn't the only one he cared about). It had started off because of his promise to Odasuke—Save the weak, protect the orphaned—but by the end of the boy's first week at the agency, that was no longer the reason. Atsushi really was an antithesis—Dazai couldn't say exactly what that meant as far as abilities go, but for hardened hearts, it was absolutely true. Atsushi had a surprising number of (former and current) murderous hearts eating out of his hands, all courtesy of his own good nature. Knowing what he did of Atsushi's past, it still surprised Dazai—and surprising him wasn't easy—how genuinely kind-hearted Atsushi remained after everything he had experienced. Dazai knew people whose hearts had grown cold for a lot less.

"Your parents treated you like a buffet. They cannibalized you."

Dazai had frozen at the revelation, his gaze meeting Junichirō's, whose focus on Light Snow had faltered for just a second. The truth was worse than he had imagined. In all honesty, he had figured Fitzgerald was just being sensationalistic when he told Atsushi that what his parents had done was far worse than anything he had experienced at the orphanage. For one thing, the orphanage's sins weren't excused simply because there had been worse abuse in the past. And second, abilities didn't generally show up that early—Atsushi had been barely more than a toddler when he had come to the orphanage. Perhaps it was the boy's age that made that aspect of his ability so unreliable. Regardless, to cannibalize one's own child was, for lack of a better word, beyond grotesque. Dazai shuddered at the thought. Still, one thing was certain: this would do nothing good for Atsushi's mental health or self-esteem.

Pulling himself back to the task at hand, Dazai snapped several more pictures before pausing to take in the chilling implications of "F's" words. One last test. There was nothing good implied in that cryptic statement. His dark eyes fell on a laptop half-buried under some papers on the desk, the screen still open. Odd, Dazai thought. For a group that didn't keep much of an online presence, they sure had some valuable information. He scanned the screen briefly—there was more here than expected. Plugging in a portable drive, Dazai began copying the hard drive. It was slow, but he knew there might be valuable intel here, possibly even information about the Obsidian Sun's main base.

He glanced toward Junichirō. "This laptop might be important," he muttered. "We'll need everything on it."

"Dazai… Dazai, shouldn't we—" Junichirō whispered urgently, his nerves barely holding together.

Considering the current state of the younger man's mind from the lingering fear ability, Dazai decided to respond instead of brushing him off. "Focus. I'm nearly done. We need this."

While the hard drive copied, Dazai continued his search. His fingers rifled through a nearby cabinet, finding more files neatly organized but damning. He spread the papers out and began taking pictures of each one as quickly as possible. He pocketed a few of the more incriminating ones, knowing they wouldn't likely be missed until it was too late.

One last test... His thoughts flickered back to Atsushi. Atsushi could hold on—just a little longer, Dazai hoped.

Jun'ichirō shifted at the doorway, his fingers tense as he struggled to keep Light Snow steady. Dazai shot him another look. "I'm leaving you here," he said. "The hard drive still needs time."

Jun'ichirō blinked, alarmed. "Wait, but—"

"I'll deal with Atsushi and the others. You stay here. Take pictures of anything else useful, and wait for the drive to finish copying," Dazai said, his tone firm. "Keep hidden."

Jun'ichirō swallowed hard, nodding as he tightened his grip on his ability, focusing on maintaining their cover. "Right."

"The fear you're feeling," Dazai began, trying to decide how much he should say. "It's from an ability. Knowing that should help." Of course, it was probably bullshit, but the redhead didn't know that. There was something to be said for mind over matter, sometimes. Maybe it was true this time.

With one last glance at the younger man, Dazai turned and slipped out of the office, leaving Jun'ichirō alone, the faint hum of the laptop and the slow crawl of the progress bar his only companions.

*/\*

The moment "F" leaned closer, Atsushi's breath hitched in his throat. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out the man's chilling words. His senses felt disjointed, the room warping and twisting around him. It wasn't just the pain from the knife still embedded in his shoulder—it was something deeper, something clawing its way up from the pit of his stomach, into his mind.

That smile. That mocking grin from "F." It felt too familiar, too close to something buried in his past. Atsushi's vision blurred, and suddenly, the cold floor beneath him wasn't the only thing he was feeling. Another place. Another time.

"Hold him still."

The present flickered as the words echoed in his ears, dragging him into a memory Atsushi had long fought to bury. The cold floor beneath him shifted into something familiar yet distant. He wasn't just pinned down anymore.

Cold metal against his skin. Harsh, clinical lighting above, flickering and dimming in his memory like a forgotten nightmare. He was younger, so much younger, his wrists bound—not with ropes, but something harder. His throat was dry, his body shaking as the sterile, sharp scent of antiseptic filled his lungs, making it hard to breathe. He wanted to scream, to cry out, but his throat was too damaged and no one would hear him anyway.

Pain pulsed behind his eyes. The present snapped in and out of focus, and for a moment, the face of "F" blurred into something darker, something half-remembered. That suffocating dread, that paralyzing fear, and the overwhelming urge to disappear.

A shadowy figure, looming over him, speaking words he couldn't understand—couldn't comprehend in his terrified state.

Franz.

The name, barely more than a whisper, slipped through the cracks in his mind, sending a shiver down his spine. The present receded further as a sharp pain bit into his neck. A needle? Or was it electricity? His body convulsed, the pain disorienting him further.

"We'll fix him… one way or another."

Franz's voice. The voice of a man who viewed him as nothing more than an object for his experiments, his 'toy.' Atsushi's chest tightened, but it wasn't just the ropes holding him down now. It was something inside him—something twisting in his mind, amplifying his fear and despair, pushing him to the edge of panic. His memories had always been hazy, scattered, barely accessible—but now they surfaced with a horrifying clarity.

His heart raced. His breath quickened. The sensation was like poison in his veins, amplifying his despair, twisting his fear into something unbearable.

"You're cursed, Atsushi… unwanted, broken, and doomed."

The words weren't real, but they sounded so much like what he had heard over and over during those years—the voices of tormentors, of Franz, of the headmaster, all bleeding together in a cacophony of despair.

Atsushi could feel himself slipping further, his rational thoughts smothered under the weight of the memory and the emotions it dredged up. The pain, the fear—it was too much. He couldn't escape it. His body tensed, the chains of memory pulling tighter around him.

"You should have died back then. You were never meant to survive."

The memory surged again: Franz standing over him, a shadowy figure with cold, uncaring eyes. The man spoke calmly, even as Atsushi's body convulsed, his skin burning, nerves on fire, his mind unraveling with every passing second. His small body had trembled under the weight of it all—desperate to get away but knowing he couldn't.

Byakko had always protected him, burying the worst of the memories deep within his mind. But now, under Franz's looming presence, the protection was slipping. He could feel the tiger's instinct struggling to hold the trauma at bay—but it wasn't enough.

Atsushi's senses blurred again. His breathing was erratic. The memory, the present—it was all blending together. There was something about "F"'s presence, something in his voice and the way his eyes gleamed, that was dredging up memories Atsushi had long tried to forget.

"You've always been a broken little thing, haven't you?" "F"'s voice pierced through the haze, the man's mocking tone pulling Atsushi back into the present, but barely. His heart pounded painfully in his chest, his mind still stuck between now and then.

The world around him spun. The ropes digging into his wrists, the cold concrete beneath him—it was all too familiar. He felt small again, powerless, just like before.

He couldn't fight. Couldn't think.

"You'll never escape this."

A cruel laugh echoed in the present, and Atsushi realized with a sickening jolt that it wasn't just "F" taunting him now—it was Franz. It had always been Franz.

His mind spiraled, the despair and terror seeping into every corner of his being. He was drowning in it—his worst fears, his deepest pain—all crashing down on him at once. He was worthless. He was broken. He was—

Atsushi gasped, his breath ragged and shallow. He was falling. Falling back into that helpless, terrified child they had tried so hard to break.

And maybe, just maybe, they had succeeded.

End Note:

Poetry line by Unknown.

Does it say something bad about me that I enjoy reading and writing Atsushi whump?

The cannibalism I don't know if that's in any way a fact for reality or the manga. I just have it as head cannon from several fanfiction I've read.

Comments are cookies, feed me.