Authors Note:
I can't believe I went so long without writing between this story and my DW ones. I'd forgotten how much I love writing and seeing stories come to life. I had this one in my head for months before I finally decided to write it. It's always kind of strange, watching it go from something only I can imagine to something other people can as well. Weird!
Love you all for reading and commenting!
P.S. trigger warning for self harm references.
Summary: Sometimes masks and mirrors break.
V. Disconnection of the Soul
- Life flickers faintly in brittle bone,
beneath hands that fight to call it home.
In shadows thick and breaths that still,
we're fighting fate with fractured will. -
*/\*
The world jolted back into motion as Atsushi's final breath left him. His body, once full of struggle, now floated limply, his eyes staring sightlessly at the bottom of the tank.
Akutagawa bent over as pain ripped through his chest like nothing he had ever felt before, a sensation of being carved out, eviscerated. He screamed again, but then found he couldn't breathe or cough. His head swam with questions. Why did he always lose those he cared for? Had this been because of his darkness? "No! You can't—" he rasped, not even sure what he was trying to say. There was too much.
The sound of sobbing from one of the detectives snapped the brittle sense of control inside him. Unable to feel anything other than rage and grief, Rashomon burst out in a destructive frenzy, lashing out wildly, barely missing those around him. The force of it made Akutagawa stumble, the demon ability tearing through metal and pipes, leaving wreckage in its wake. It slammed against the tank, causing tiny cracks to form and heal, before he felt a hand placed on his shoulder, the familiar tingle of void—the usual cold of Dazai's ability felt like warmth to him.
It stopped the madness, giving him back his breath and the empty, crushing sense of loss. Disoriented without Rashomon's rage to anchor him, he relented to his former mentor, who pulled him close, tucking Akutagawa's head under his chin. The past between them was forgotten in the moment of shared grief.
"We… we lost him," Akutagawa whispered hoarsely, barely managing the words. His chest heaved as the reality sank in deeper, an unbearable weight pressing on him. He hadn't realized till that moment how deep his attachment to Atsushi truly was.
Dazai, for once, had no quip, no flippant remark. His hand tightened slightly on Akutagawa's shoulder, a rare gesture of comfort from the man who so often kept his distance. "We did all we could," he said softly, though the words felt hollow to them all.
Kunikida collapsed to his knees next to a sobbing Junichiro, feeling unsteady from his own grief. He had known something was wrong, something terrible was going to happen, but never would he have imagined this. It was ultimately his fault. For not listening to his gut, for not protecting Atsushi. He couldn't get the look on the boy's face out of his mind—when the scars had been revealed. They had known Atsushi had a painful past, that he had been hiding something. They had failed him. If they had pressed more, maybe… maybe he would still—
Kunikida drew a painful breath, but a sob tore unwillingly from him. His thoughts spiraled, crashing around in guilt and helplessness, until a hand was gently placed on his back. A voice followed. "Stop. Whatever 'what ifs' you're thinking—stop. I don't know him very well, but I know him well enough to say this: Atsushi wouldn't blame you. So don't."
Nodding, Kunikida thought the mafioso sounded weary. He looked up to see Chuuya staring at the tank, a haunted expression etched into his features. It gave Kunikida the unsettling feeling that Chuuya understood this kind of loss intimately. His eyes drifted to Dazai, a man who felt deeply, even if he tried to convince himself and others otherwise. Kunikida couldn't believe that someone who had once, and maybe still, self-harmed and thought of suicide daily, could truly be incapable of feeling. That was part of the mask Dazai had so carefully built. Kunikida thought they'd need to watch him—to make sure he didn't spiral too.
That thought brought a fresh wave of grief, and the image of sunset-colored eyes dimming replayed in his mind. He sobbed, covering his face, trembling with sorrow and stress.
Chuuya took a deep breath, letting the other four men have their moment, though he knew there were still things that needed to be done. The Agency's strong blonde kid, crazy doctor, and Kyōka were out there, not just monitoring and recording but also stopping any possible escapees. But here, the unconscious Obsidian Sun members remained where they had fallen, left unbound due to the unexpected turn of events. Someone would need to deal with that. There were the usual tasks typical of a mission cleanup like this, but one task stood out—one he didn't want to do, yet knew had to be done now. For the sake of the others. And in respect for Atsushi.
The kid who had challenged Akutagawa and somehow managed to reach the rabid dog deserved to be freed from his watery prison.
With a second deep breath and a hand running down his face, Chuuya moved toward the stairs leading to the loft platform above the tank. As he caught Kunikida's watery eyes, the unspoken question lingered between them.
"I'm going to... get him out," Chuuya explained quietly. He could feel Dazai's dark eyes on his back.
Kunikida nodded blankly, pushing himself to his feet. "Yeah, that... that would be..."
He trailed off, the words sticking in his throat, refusing to come. But Chuuya didn't need them. He turned and began his grave mission, trusting that the blonde detective would follow.
Yet fate, it seemed, had other plans.
A sudden flash of familiar blue light exploded within the tank. All five men recognized it instantly: an ability. What they didn't expect was for it to be coming from inside the tank—or for the sight of a massive white tiger, straining to keep its face above water, leg still bound by the supernatural chain and anchor.
White tiger.
Byakko. Atsushi's tiger.
A new chaos erupted. The sliver of hope given by Byakko's appearance spurred all five men into immediate action. Chuuya and Kunikida raced up the staircase, while Akutagawa, without hesitation, used Rashomon to lift both Dazai and Jun'ichirō to the platform above. From there, the four men took in the sight of the lid and the damaged control panel. Dazai and Chuuya exchanged a glance, their thoughts in sync: hot-wire the control panel.
Chuuya tore the front of the control panel off, tossing it aside with frustration, while Dazai slipped beneath the wiring. He began to work with nimble fingers, trying to bring the lid to life. The minutes dragged painfully, the tension thickening. They discussed in hushed tones and quick sentences, formulating a plan to overcome the anchor. Once silence had settled between them again, Akutagawa called out from below, his voice tense with urgency, "She... the tiger... it's slowing down."
"Damn it!" Chuuya cursed, the eruption of frustration startling Jun'ichirō so badly that he nearly slipped from the platform. Kunikida steadied him, keeping the flashlight fixed on Dazai's hands as he continued to work, the pressure mounting on them all.
The weight of failure loomed over them, threatening to choke the last threads of hope. They had already failed Atsushi once. They couldn't fail again.
Then, Akutagawa's sharp intake of breath cut through the silence. He had been watching the tank intently, and now his expression twisted in confusion and alarm. "He's... switching," he tried to say, the words catching in his throat. "Atsushi... he keeps switching between himself and the tiger."
Jun'ichirō immediately rushed down to confirm it for himself, eyes wide as he saw the same bizarre sight: the lifeless form of Atsushi flickered in and out of existence, only to be replaced by the struggling tiger. "He's right," Jun'ichirō called up, voice shaking. "He keeps switching—but the tiger... the tiger she's alive." He swallowed, choking on the unspoken truth that Atsushi wasn't.
Even so, it was hope. The tiger was alive—so Atsushi could still be saved. If they could free Byakko, Yosano could heal him. As that thought struck Kunikida, he didn't hesitate. Grabbing his earpiece, he shouted, "Yosano! We're getting him out! There's a chance you can save him!"
Before she could respond, a sudden mechanical grinding noise filled the room. The lid of the tank began to lift. Dazai had succeeded.
Kunikida, Dazai, and Chuuya wasted no time. They stripped off their outer layers, preparing for the icy water that awaited them. As soon as the lid had moved enough, the three of them dived in without a second thought. Kunikida clutched a pair of metal cutters, Dazai swam straight for the anchor, focusing his ability, while Chuuya used his gravity manipulation to work on the chain.
There was a battle between their abilities and the anchor's supernatural resistance, each man working tirelessly, pushing against the forces holding them back. Dazai had never focused and pressed his ability into anyone or anything as intensely as he was now. It was incredibly painful, but he felt it was worth it, judging by the continued weakening resistance. The room filled with the groaning of metal—abnormal and strained. The tension was unbearable—until, with a terrible snap, a flash of green light blinded them all.
For a moment, everything went still.
Dazai winced as Byakko's claws managed to nick his shoulder—a feat in itself. The anchor must have drained enough of his strength, he realized, leaving him uncharacteristically vulnerable. When his vision cleared, he saw Kunikida's metal cutters had finally worked, severing the chain.
They all rushed to the surface, Chuuya guiding the tiger carefully as they reached the platform where Jun'ichirō and a drenched Dazai waited. In a single fluid motion, Dazai touched Byakko, turning the massive creature back into Atsushi, limp and unresponsive. Together, they pulled him from the tank, moving quickly but carefully.
"Take him," Dazai ordered, his voice grim. Akutagawa stepped forward, his expression unreadable, but his movements were surprisingly gentle as he took Atsushi's limp body and carefully lowered him to the floor.
The others rushed down the stairs, gathering with grim determination as they prepared to perform CPR. Jun'ichirō was already gone, speeding off to meet Yosano and help her reach them faster.
Around Atsushi's cold, unresponsive form, the desperate attempts to bring him back began. They laid him carefully on Dazai's long, tan trench coat spread across the concrete, his body heavy and unmoving, filling them all with dread. Time was slipping through their fingers, but hesitation wasn't an option. Akutagawa rolled Atsushi onto his side with care, ignoring the unsettling feel of his scars beneath his fingers. Water spilled from Atsushi's mouth, but it wasn't enough. Dazai stood back, a dark look shadowing his face; if he touched Atsushi now, his ability would sever any hope of Byakko's healing power activating.
Akutagawa's hands trembled as he pressed two fingers to Atsushi's pulse point, searching for any flicker of life. "Nothing," he whispered, his voice hollow, chest tight with the weight of helplessness. His breath shuddered, but he forced his focus forward, running purely on determination.
"Move," Chuuya's voice cut through the rising panic. He pushed Akutagawa aside, brow furrowed, his concern evident—not just for Atsushi, but for Akutagawa as well. He could see the strain weighing on the younger man, the toll it was taking. "You'll only hurt yourself."
Akutagawa faltered, then nodded, stepping back, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. His chest rattled with the effort to keep his breathing steady, his eyes locked on Atsushi's still form. This can't happen, his mind raced, frustration swirling. Rashomon was useless now—he couldn't do anything to bring Atsushi back.
Kunikida knelt down, positioning himself with practiced precision. His hands were steady, though panic gnawed at the edges of his resolve. He began chest compressions, counting under his breath. Beneath his hands, he felt the fragile sternum crack, he faltered for a split second, dread seizing him, but quickly resumed, fighting to keep Atsushi's heart going. There's no heartbeat, but I won't stop. Not yet. Not ever.
Chuuya moved in smoothly, tilting Atsushi's head back and giving a sharp breath into his mouth before stepping away, letting Kunikida continue the compressions.
Each movement felt like a battle against time. Kunikida's arms strained, his breath harsh as beads of sweat mixed with water on his skin. Still, Atsushi lay motionless. No pulse. But they couldn't stop. Not now.
Dazai stood nearby, the weight of his inability to help crushing him. His gift, so powerful in most situations, felt like a curse now, its strength waning after the effort he'd poured into shattering the anchor. "Come on, Atsushi," he muttered softly, his voice a quiet plea. "Don't give up." Even as diminished as it was, his power could still be lethal if he tried to help.
Kunikida's arms began to tremble, not from weakness, but from the unbearable weight of the moment. His steady rhythm continued, even as Atsushi's body suddenly morphed—transforming slightly, taking on a more tiger-like appearance. His furred face remained still, lifeless, but the fact that Byakko was still present had to mean something. Hope flickered, faint but alive.
Then, for a moment, something shifted. A faint blue shimmer appeared along Atsushi's skin, barely visible but there. It wasn't Byakko—not fully—but his ability was trying. Dazai noticed it too, his breath catching. The shimmer faded quickly, the sluggish attempt at healing seemingly stalling almost as soon as it had begun.
"I should be doing something," Dazai muttered, frustration lacing his voice. He glanced at Akutagawa, who stood beside him, equally powerless.
"Don't," Chuuya cut in, his voice firm. "You'll kill him if you try."
Dazai didn't respond, his gaze fixed on Atsushi's pale face. It was true—he'd likely kill him if he tried. Just because it didn't appear that Atsushi's self-healing was doing much didn't mean it wasn't working internally. The autopsies of the mutilated testing victims that had prompted this mission had shown significant internal damage. Still, he silently begged for another sign, anything to prove they weren't too late—that Atsushi was still with them, not just Byakko clinging to life.
Just as Kunikida prepared to switch with Chuuya, a faint flutter thrummed beneath his hands. He froze, eyes wide. "Did you feel that?" he asked, urgency sharpening his tone.
Chuuya leaned in, pressing two fingers to Atsushi's neck. His expression softened slightly. "There's a pulse. Weak, but it's there."
"We can't let it stop again," Kunikida muttered, voice tight as he wiped the sweat from his brow. "Yosano's close… we just need to keep him going."
Atsushi's breath was shallow, his pulse fragile, but it was something—just enough to keep hope alive.
"Come on, kid," Kunikida whispered, his teeth clenched. "Stay with us. Don't you dare give up."
But before they could check for more water, Atsushi's body went still once again.
"Damn it!" Chuuya swore under his breath, moving back into action as Kunikida resumed compressions, each push growing more desperate.
"One, two, three…" Kunikida's voice was barely audible, his rhythm precise as he pressed down on Atsushi's chest.
The seconds dragged painfully. Sweat beaded on Kunikida's brow, but he didn't stop. Chuuya continued giving breath after breath, his breaths becoming more ragged as the minutes passed.
"He's not breathing," Dazai's voice was tight, his gaze locked on Atsushi's chest. "Come on, Atsushi. Breathe."
Akutagawa's heart clenched painfully. Not again, he thought, stepping back. He couldn't tear his eyes from Atsushi's face, the water-slicked hair clinging to his pale skin.
And then—a weak, fluttering beat beneath Kunikida's hands.
"He's got a pulse," Chuuya said, though his voice was thick with frustration. "But it's too weak."
For a fleeting moment, it seemed like Atsushi's chest rose, just slightly. But the relief was short-lived. His pulse faded, his breathing ceased once more.
"Not yet," Dazai growled, kneeling beside his mentee. "We're not losing him again."
Kunikida continued compressions, his movements fueled by sheer desperation. "Come on, Atsushi! Fight!"
The seconds stretched into agonizing minutes, and they all felt it—the clock ticking down, their time running out. If Yosano didn't arrive soon...
There was a sudden change in the air—a presence that couldn't be explained but was felt deeply by the agency members. The imminent use of Thou Shalt Not Die washed over them like a silent promise. Kunikida and Dazai instinctively looked up in the direction Jun'ichirō had gone, and to their collective relief, there was Yosano, her expression a complex mix of determination and emotion. No one dared to speak. As she approached, the four men silently moved back, making way for her.
Yosano's arms spread wide as she released her ability, a soft cascade of glowing purple and blue butterflies flooding the space. The luminous creatures swarmed Atsushi, enveloping him from head to toe. Her expression, though grim, held an intimacy that felt almost sacred—none of the men dared meet her eyes, instead focusing intently on Atsushi, trusting her power to do the impossible once again.
There was no agonizing wait this time, no drawn-out battle between life and death. It was just a pause—long enough for each of them to catch their breath. The butterflies pulsed with light and then seemed to dissolve into Atsushi's body.
Dazai realized he had been holding his breath when he heard it—that sound, clear and beautiful. Atsushi inhaled, his chest rising with a deep, life-affirming breath.
A moment of stunned silence hung in the air before giving way to a flurry of joy. A palpable relief surged through them all, a brief, wondrous commotion as they registered what had just happened. Akutagawa, unable to stop himself, reached down and grasped Atsushi's wrist, feeling the steady pulse beneath his fingertips. He exchanged a small smile with the others, rare and unguarded, the weight of their grim dispositions temporarily lifted by the pure elation that their comrade was alive. Not just alive, his wounds from the weapon were even healed.
"He's alive," Jun'ichirō breathed in awe. Despite having faith in Yosano and in their collective efforts, seeing Atsushi drowned and lifeless had been a shattering experience. But now, Atsushi would rise, walk, and return home with them—just like before.
Filled with relief, the men eased away from Atsushi, allowing Yosano to examine him while they took a moment to rest. No one spoke. They were either too exhausted or mentally drained to carry on a conversation after such an emotionally taxing rescue. And what was there to say, really, after everything that had just happened?
It was going on five minutes when Junichiro leaned back against a low wall, licking his dry lips and wishing for a tall glass of water. But the question that left his mouth had nothing to do with his thirst and shattered the elation the group had been riding on.
"How long is he going to sleep?" The question was innocent enough. Junichiro was used to people waking up shortly after Yosano used her ability, and in Atsushi's case, this had been true before. But this time, though Atsushi's breathing was steady and strong, he hadn't stirred.
Yosano sat back on her knees, her expression instantly dropping a heavy weight into the pit of Kunikida's stomach. Her response didn't offer any comfort. "Atsushi… I don't know." She looked at her patient, apprehension clouding her features. "I can bring someone back and heal mortal wounds, but there's only so much Thou Shalt Not Die can do." She paused, her frown deepening. "I won't know what's going on until I run some scans."
Dazai's expression darkened. He didn't like what he was reading between the lines. Atsushi wasn't just sleeping. That should have been an easy enough question to answer, but Yosano had avoided it. His eyes flicked to Kunikida and Chuuya, and the concerned looks on their faces confirmed they had picked up on it, too.
Seeing the growing anxiety in the faces of the two younger men, Junichiro and Akutagawa, Dazai knew what needed to be done. He took a slow, deep breath before clapping his hands loudly, the sharp sound causing Chuuya to flinch. The fact that it happened right next to Chuuya's ear? Totally an accident—promise. "Well, that's a mission accomplished. Let's secure our new friends and get our tiger-kun out of here."
Chuuya retaliated with a swift punch to Dazai's stomach, causing him to double over slightly. The fact that Chuuya's punch landed successfully showed Dazai, once again, just how drained he was tonight. The runt got lucky, Dazai mused with a weak smirk.
Yosano gave Dazai a grateful glance, appreciating his attempt to ease the tension as the group shifted into post-mission cleanup mode. Chuuya gently lifted Atsushi into his arms, carrying him with care for the doctor, while Dazai's gaze followed them.
Wake up, Atsushi, Dazai silently pleaded. Please… wake up and be your usual self.
- Between two worlds, he floats and waits,
The tug of life, the grip of fate.
In this abyss, where nothing's clear,
He finds himself, but no one's near. -
*/\*
The first thing he became aware of was darkness. Not just any darkness, a darkness as deep as the orphanage's cold, shadowed corners that had once terrified him. It was much like being in the cold dark basement alone. The headmaster had made sure that during those times he left him chained alone and hungry that there wouldn't be a sliver of light to comfort the orphan.
Atsushi cried out, but the darkness answered only with silence. This time his other half was not there to comfort him, he was truly alone in a black abyss. Chained to the emptiness that was just as infinite as the white had been. So dark that he yearned for the shadowless place.
"Please help!" he pleaded to the dark. Desperation clawing at him, opening his scars, remaking them into fresh wounds. His blood mingled with the darkness till he felt like he was now swimming in it. Wading around in a circle he caught sight of a flash of something. Whatever it was didn't belong in the dark.
He tried to move towards it, swimming in his black blood that left his skin sticky. After several minutes of earnest swimming he realized he was not any closer to the object. However, Atsushi could now make out what it was. First he realized that what had caught his attention was a frame, and although he wasn't closer to it, the details of the object had become clearer. It was a mirror.
Just as he had known he was dying. He now knew he had to get to that mirror. It felt so impossible however, no matter how much effort he put into swimming towards it, he made little headway. In fact Atsushi realized with fresh despair, it was drifting away from him.
"NOOOO!" he yelled.
Soon he stopped struggling, Alone and afraid Atsushi let himself drift. Perhaps this was what came after life, a place for the dead and undeserving?
- Yet hands reach out, they tear the night,
Pressed to ribs that fail to fight.
They whisper words of hope's small spark,
A fragile flame within the dark.-
Yosano stretched her stiff arms, her eyes flicking from Atsushi's still form to the screen in front of her. The MRI machine's loud, rhythmic pounding filled the room, a relentless noise that was almost like a jackhammer against concrete. Even with ear protection for Atsushi, the sound did little to calm her thoughts. His head was positioned perfectly inside the machine as it captured image after image, revealing the truth she had been dreading. Even without being a specialist in neurology, Yosano could see the abnormalities on the scan. Her suspicions were confirmed by the consulting doctor beside her, and the weight of what she had to say loomed over her like a dark cloud.
She wasn't looking forward to delivering the news to the others. The agency members were expecting reassurance—something simple like, "He'll be awake soon. Nothing to worry about." But that wasn't the message she would be giving today.
Beside her, Kyoka stood quietly in the small observation room, her presence as silent as a shadow. Yosano glanced back at the girl, noting the serious expression that never seemed to leave her face. The sight of it made Yosano's chest tighten. Kyōka had been given the task of guarding Atsushi, though Yosano knew it was more for Kyōka's peace of mind than any real security need. To her, Atsushi was a guardian of sorts—not just in battle, but in showing her how to embrace the light. He was her older brother by circumstance, having pulled her from a life of murder for the Mafia. They were bound together in a way that few could understand, and it was that bond Yosano thought of as she stretched and straightened, preparing to leave.
As the machine whirred to a stop, she turned away from the monitor. A moment later, Atsushi was being wheeled out by a nurse, unconscious, his pale face framed by disheveled silver hair. Kyoka followed silently behind as they moved down the hospital hallway toward Atsushi's room.
Yosano's mind wandered as she watched the girl. Kyoka's quiet determination had become so closely linked to Atsushi's presence in her life. He had saved her, and as independent as the girl was, she still clung to him as if his survival ensured her own. Yosano knew she'd have to keep Kyoka close while Atsushi recovered. The bond they shared was strong, but with Atsushi unconscious, Kyoka would need something to anchor her. It was clear that having Kyoka stay in Yosano's care for the time being would be the best course of action.
When they arrived at Atsushi's room, a large space usually reserved for VIPs—thanks to Chuuya's connections—Yosano set to work, reattaching the monitors and hanging a fresh bag of saline. She chose not to dwell on how the mafioso was tied to the small hospital, simply grateful for the space. The room was big enough to accommodate the agency's inevitable meetings and visits, but Yosano had made it clear that she was in charge of Atsushi's care. The consulting doctors were there, but Atsushi was hers, and she wasn't going to share him with anyone who didn't absolutely need to be involved.
As Yosano worked, Kyoka quietly took her seat beside Atsushi's bed, her face unreadable. The silence stretched on until Kyoka finally spoke, her voice quiet but heavy with a weight beyond her years.
"Do you think he dreams… you know, like this?"
Yosano paused, glancing over at the girl. "Why?"
Kyoka tilted her head slightly, her dark eyes clouded with concern. "Sometimes he has nightmares."
The simplicity of her answer was packed with more emotion than Yosano felt ready to unpack at that moment. Instead, she offered Kyoka a reassuring smile. "I don't think he's had any nightmares, if he's dreaming at all."
The tension around Kyoka's eyes eased just a little, and with a sharp nod of acceptance, she moved her chair closer to Atsushi's bedside. Yosano's gaze lingered on the pair, her thoughts momentarily drifting back to the helplessness they had both felt in the van during the rescue. Those were memories neither of them would forget easily.
Before long, the door opened, and Akutagawa and Chuuya entered the room, nodding briefly to Yosano before taking their seats. She noticed that Akutagawa, the taller of the two, alternated between glowering at the machines monitoring Atsushi—as if personally offended by them—and staring intently at the unconscious man, as though sheer will could wake him up. Yosano turned her attention to checking Atsushi's vitals, focusing on her task and steeling herself for the conversation that lay ahead.
Not long after, Fukuzawa entered with Kenji, Naomi, and a newly returned Ranpo. They settled into the room unusually quiet, each stealing glances at their unconscious friend. Yosano nodded to Fukuzawa, her gaze then landing on Ranpo. The look on his face told her he had already figured out what she was going to say. Of course, she thought ruefully—nothing ever got by the world's greatest detective. She felt more irritated by the grim reality of the news than by Ranpo himself, who was as much a brother to her as Atsushi was to Kyoka.
Barely a minute later, Junichiro, Dazai, and Kunikida slipped into the room. Dazai chose to lean against the wall, while Kunikida busied himself fussing over making sure everyone had a place to sit.
Yosano could tell Kunikida was delaying the inevitable, his meticulous fussing a sign that he, too, knew the news wasn't going to be good. With nothing left to fuss over herself, Yosano picked up Atsushi's file and her notes. She took the backless chair with wheels, reserved for her, to face the others.
She turned to Kunikida, who stopped fidgeting in his seat to compose himself. Clearing his throat, he gave a quick update, his eyes occasionally flickering to Atsushi. Guilt hung in his expression for all to see.
"So we are all on the same page. The Obsidian Sun members left behind have been turned over to The Special Division. We already know there is little use in interrogating them, although Dazai was allowed a few minutes with one. All he gave was a name with no context. We believe it's either 'F,' the man who tortured Atsushi, or the leader of the Obsidian Sun," his voice sounded strained at the mention of Atsushi. He cleared his throat again before adding, "There's quite a bit of data to go through, and Junichiro discovered some information that we're currently verifying and will go over soon."
"Thank you, Kunikida-san," Fukuzawa's commanding presence drew everyone's attention. "Last night's mission was, for all intents and purposes, a success. I understand how it may not feel like it, but it wasn't in vain, and it's important to remember that. Additionally, the artifacts recovered have been locked up, and only those of us here know of them." Fukuzawa glanced at Chuuya, who gave a sharp nod. "They are too dangerous in the wrong hands."
There was a brief silence as the weight of those artifacts and the damage they could cause sank in. Fukuzawa looked over the forlorn faces of his people and their allies. Everyone in the room had experienced life and death in some of the most brutal ways, many of them causing their fair share of it. But what the detectives and mafiosos had endured the previous night clearly shook them all. Atsushi was likely clueless to the effect he had on others. The president had long felt they were fortunate that Dazai and Kunikida had run into him, that Dazai had been drawn to bring the boy into the fold. The boy—no, the young man—was something special, and it had nothing to do with his ability.
Sighing inwardly, Fukuzawa realized he had to be the one to push forward. It was better to deal with whatever Yosano had to say and move ahead as a family.
"For the moment, I believe we are all here for Atsushi-kun," his concerned gaze fell softly on the young man in question.
At the president's statement, there was some slight shifting among the room's occupants. The movement only heightened Yosano's dread, but she had been compared to a force of nature for a reason. She took a deep breath before addressing the room, her expression serious but controlled.
"Atsushi's condition is stable," she began, her voice even, "but… the scans show signs of hypoxic brain injury. That means he went without oxygen long enough for his brain to be affected."
She glanced at the others, watching as the weight of her words settled in. Dazai and Kunikida both had looked away, unable to met her eyes. "Now, how much damage was done, and whether it's permanent… we can't say for certain yet." Her gaze briefly flicked to Ranpo, confirming that he already knew, before continuing. "It's possible he could make a full recovery, but it's also possible there could be lasting effects. Cognitive functions, motor skills, memory—they could all be impacted to some degree."
Yosano's eyes shifted to Kyoka, softening slightly. "For now, we'll need to wait and keep a close watch on him. Healing abilities like Atsushi's make it hard to predict how his body will respond to this kind of injury. His ability may repair the damage completely or partially, and it might take longer than usual." She exhaled softly, her tone a touch gentler. "We just don't know yet."
It was silent for several minutes as the implications of Atsushi's future sank in. Kyōka was the first to speak. "When can he come home? I mean, to the infirmary at the agency."
"Once he wakes up and we have a better idea of the damage and what his needs are," Yosano replied. "Until then, someone will need to be here with him at all times. I'm concerned that if he wakes up in an unfamiliar place and finds no one he knows, he may react poorly." Her eyes shifted to Dazai. "It's best to have you close as much as possible. He'll likely need help managing his ability. On the way here, while unconscious, he partially shifted several times. It's not outside the realm of possibility that we could end up with a full tiger on our hands."
Dazai nodded, failing to muster his usual carefree attitude. Since that moment during the mission, when he had looked into Atsushi's eyes and realized the younger man had given up, a painful emptiness had settled inside him—along with the weight of guilt. He had failed his mentee. The kid had looked up to him, had even called him "good" simply because Dazai hadn't abused him. The irony of it twisted something deep in his chest.
His gaze flickered briefly to Akutagawa, who stood like a pale, haunted figure, barely present but unable to take his eyes off Atsushi. Good. If there was ever evidence of how untrue that word was, it stood there—like a Victorian ghost—carrying the scars of Dazai's past failures. No, Dazai wasn't good. But if there was a chance to earn that belief from Atsushi, it was now. He would do everything in his power to see him return to full health.
As Yosano surveyed the room, she noted the quiet resolve etched into each and every one of their faces. Chuuya's arms were crossed tightly, his usual irritation softened into something like fierce protectiveness; Kunikida's hands rested on his knees, fists clenched, as if sheer will alone could hasten Atsushi's recovery. And even Akutagawa, usually cold and detached, stood watch with an intensity that betrayed just how much Atsushi had come to mean to him. They were all here, unwavering. For the first time, Yosano felt a weight lift from her shoulders. Atsushi's recovery would not fall to her alone. They were a family in this fight, whether any of them would admit it or not.
- A second chance, a fleeting thread,
to draw life's breath from what was dead.
And though the night seems endless there,
the dawn will find its way to care. -
*/\*
Dazai caught Fukuzawa watching him as the others slowly filed out of Atsushi's hospital room. With the slightest tilt of the president's head, he knew what it meant. He wants to talk, Dazai thought with a sigh. Irritated at the prospect of discussing his feelings, he reluctantly followed Fukuzawa down the hospital hallway. There were a thousand other things he'd rather be doing, including being tortured. Conversations like this always left him raw and disoriented, and he wasn't in the mood for it.
Fukuzawa rarely spoke about emotions, but when he did, Dazai knew the older man wasn't one to be avoided. He had a way of seeing through Dazai's masks, past the carefully controlled exterior that Dazai had perfected over the years. He'd been taught from a young age to keep a tight control over himself, to watch for weaknesses in others and hide his own so deeply that no one could find them. Yet here in the agency, those masks were starting to feel flimsy, like cracks were showing. Even Kunikida, who often let Dazai antagonize him, seemed to know that the real Dazai was hidden behind layers that didn't match his words.
Once they were alone in the quiet hallway, Fukuzawa cleared his throat, drawing Dazai's full attention. Dazai shifted uncomfortably, his gaze fixed on the floor, struggling to make eye contact. When he finally did, he felt exposed under the weight of Fukuzawa's steady, knowing gaze. If my behavior feels out of character for me, how does it look to him?
"Yes, Fukuzawa-shachō?" Dazai managed to say.
"Dazai," Fukuzawa began, his voice low but firm. "You and Kunikida… I can see the guilt you're carrying. Atsushi's drowning was not your fault."
Dazai's jaw clenched as he looked away sharply. "Wasn't it?" His voice held an edge, but there was something more there—something vulnerable. "That's… that's not the reason."
Fukuzawa paused, taking in the younger man's words and the emotions they carried. His intelligent eyes, as always, seemed to see through Dazai. "I should've said this before, but I'm glad you brought Atsushi into the agency. He's a valuable asset, and I believe his potential is great."
Dazai shook his head, rejecting the word asset. The idea of Atsushi as nothing more than a tool—something to be used, unleashed on their enemies—felt too close to how the Mafia would have thought. Fukuzawa, as if reading his thoughts, continued.
"Even if he never had an ability, he has a rare gift," Fukuzawa said.
Dazai frowned, finally lifting his eyes to meet Fukuzawa's again. "Gift?"
"I know what it's like to look back and see only regret," Fukuzawa said quietly. "To loathe the person that once was. It's not easy to shed an old skin and become something new, unblemished. But Atsushi… he has the gift of seeing potential in people, not their past. He can see the pain in them, even in those who have caused pain to others."
Dazai swallowed, the words settling heavily in his chest. "He called me good," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "I'm not good. I can't shed my old skin. I'm still the same demon prodigy, even now. We all pretend—"
"No," Fukuzawa interrupted gently. "We don't pretend. None of us are good in the way you think, Dazai. We aren't heroes because we saved the city, and Atsushi knows that too. That's not why he sees you as good. He doesn't blindly follow—you and I both know that. But I've seen how he looks at you, how he takes what you tell him and uses it to grow. He doesn't see your past; he sees your pain and your purpose. That's why he forgives, even when others might not."
Dazai shook his head again, his mind reeling with the weight of the conversation. The guilt gnawed at him—guilt for the blood on his hands (that he often pretended didn't matter), for the manipulation of people he cared about, for the cruelty he'd inflicted on a 14-year-old Akutagawa in the name of training. He didn't know if he could ever stop. It felt like a shield sewn into his hands, something he couldn't put down even if he wanted to—protecting him from eyes that might see him and turn him to stone.
"Whether you agree or not," Fukuzawa continued, placing a firm hand on Dazai's shoulder, "Atsushi sees you as family. For him, your past doesn't matter. He judges you by your actions now, in the present. That's a gift. Don't waste it."
Fukuzawa gave a small squeeze of Dazai's shoulder before turning and walking off, silent as a shadow.
Dazai stood frozen in the hallway, staring after the president. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions—raw, exposed. The tunnel vision and light buzz in his head made him stumble slightly as he moved to a nearby bench and sat down.
Everything Fukuzawa had said was true. Atsushi didn't judge him by his past, but by what he did now. That was why Atsushi could forgive Dazai for slapping him during the mission involving Q, even though Dazai had felt nauseated afterward for striking an abused orphan. Atsushi had accepted it because it brought him back from the meltdown he was having over attacking Naomi and Haruno. In Atsushi's eyes, the outcome justified the action.
But that line of thinking was flawed. Some people, Dazai knew, shouldn't be forgiven so easily. Yet Atsushi didn't hand out passes to just anyone. He wasn't blind to what the Mafia had done or what Akutagawa had done.
So what does this mean for me? Dazai wondered, his head still spinning. The guilt was heavy, but he understood what Fukuzawa had been trying to say—Atsushi wouldn't want him to carry that burden. It hit him in that moment that Atsushi had come to terms with his fate, not because he was ready to die, but because he saw that people cared enough to try to save him.
Dazai cradled his face in his hands, breathing deeply, reeling from everything that had taken place in the last 36 hours. His usual control was frayed, and, try as he might, he could not get back his usual mask. The edges were damaged, and all that was left were the president's words playing in a loop through his head.
Swallowing, Dazai ran his hands down his face, glad for the empty halls, that no one was seeing him like this. The urge to move was so strong that he got up and headed into the nearest restroom. He splashed water on his face, relishing the crisp cold before it reminded him of when he stood dripping, freezing cold, sopping wet bandages clinging to his skin as he watched both his ex and current partner trying to bring Atsushi back.
Atsushi sees you as family. For him, your past doesn't matter. He judges you by your actions now, in the present. That's a gift. Don't waste it.
It was a gift, one he knew he did not deserve. Yet the idea of walking out of the restroom, putting his mask back on, and pretending as he always did that there was nothing to see, nothing to change. Dazai the untouchable. That idea made his heart clench.
A heart he shouldn't have. Dazai the untouchable was a myth. Everyone knew it, so why did he keep insisting on playing the part? No. He had promised Odasaku, both what was said and what had been left unsaid. His friend had wanted him to find the light, to find family and happiness—a reason to live.
Atsushi's gift, and everyone at the agency, was his one chance at living up to that unspoken promise. As for caring for an orphan, he could do that too. He would accept the gift that Fukuzawa spoke of. It wasn't easy—terrifying if he was honest—and he knew it would be something he'd have to accept over and over again. But he wasn't going to waste it.
For Atsushi, Dazai would do better. He could never take back what he'd done to Akutagawa, but he could be a better mentor for Atsushi. He would be.
- In the hollow space where shadows drown,
His breath is caught, his heartbeat bound.
In the dark, where silence reigns,
The pull of death, the pull of pain. -
*/\*
Time had no meaning. That, Atsushi found, was the only silver lining… sort of. On one hand, he wasn't suffering the slow, torturous ticking of the clock as one might on a sleepless night, or enduring the endless sense that something would never come to an end. On the other hand, that scuffed-up silver lining—time at a disorienting standstill—reminded him of moments when pain was so intense it muddled his mind. Or when solitude stretched on with no sun or moon to mark the passing days.
What hurt the silver lining further was the loneliness. Not just the absence of another presence, but the utter separation from Byakko. For years, he hadn't truly understood that the little ball of warmth he'd always felt deep inside his chest was her. Not until now. Now, that warmth was gone, leaving his chest cold, as though someone had filled his insides with ice. He tried calling to her, but unlike when he'd once found himself in the eternal white, she didn't appear like an angel offering mercy.
Instead, he floated, trying not to focus on the tormenting aspects of his situation. And he was failing. He just wanted the warmth of his tiger, the gentleness of a hug, the comfort of tea over ochazuke, the rare infectious laughter of his roommate and adopted little sister.
The lack of time meant he had no idea how long he had been dead. He was almost certain he was dead, considering he no longer had awareness of his body as he once did. It was fair to say that he had discovered the truth of hell. It wasn't flames and demons—it was never-ending solitude, forced to contemplate your sins while feeling them cling to your skin like filth. There was no escape, no cleansing.
This was truth to him, as certain as the sun rising or Dazai's allergy to paperwork. That was, until something beneath him slithered around his ankle, wrapping tight and snaking up his leg. His arms instinctively spread out as he tried to tread the black mire, peering into the darkness to see what had ensnared him. Confusion etched into his features, and before he could make sense of it, he yelped as the unseen force yanked him down.
He plunged deeper, faster, the pull relentless. Though the thick, sticky sensation of liquid surrounded him, it didn't feel right—there was no resistance, no sense of drowning, as if he were sinking through darkness itself. The oppressive void weighed on him, suffocating in its own way, even as the physical sensation was absent.
A cry of surprise ripped from his throat, panic tightening his chest as his arms flailed, reaching out, searching for something—anything—to stop the descent. But there was nothing but emptiness to grasp.
Suddenly, a flash of light below stopped his voice. The mirror. The same mirror he had seen before, its surface gleaming, was rushing up to meet him. Panic surged through him, and he braced for impact. When he collided with it, the mirror splintered under the force, breaking open with a sharp, crystalline crack. His body was pulled halfway through, his lower half submerged in the cold, fractured surface. The impact seemed to shatter something deeper within the mirror itself, releasing fragments of his past—echoes of words, fears, and memories—like pieces of him breaking free and spiraling into the darkness.
No. No. I can't go through!
He gritted his teeth, muscles straining as he clung to the frame, fighting against the force dragging him deeper. Yet, with each tremor of the fractured glass, more of his past bled into the void, voices spiraling around him, each carrying a piece of his own words:
"I've only ever regretted the things I didn't do."
The voices grew louder, sharper, each memory slipping away, each shard a part of him that drifted further from his grasp. He clung to the frame with all his strength, desperate to stop the parts of himself from spilling out completely.
"If I have any chance of saving them all… of returning them home safely, does that mean it's okay for me to keep on living?"
He gritted his teeth, his breath quickening as the words echoed louder.
"You've got the wrong idea. I'm not strong, and I'm not popular. My entire life has been cursed."
The pressure around his leg tightened, pulling harder.
"I don't fear the enemy. I don't fear the pain… What I fear is being alone. Solitude scares me."
A flash of himself, standing alone in the orphanage courtyard, shivered through him. Solitude. The word cut deeper than anything else.
"At the orphanage, they always told me I'm worthless. I have no idea where my next meal will come from or where I'll sleep. No one would care if I died on the street…"
His grip faltered as the words replayed, his heart twisting with the memory.
"It's true that I'm foolish and worthless. But it's better than being you—a murderer who just wants to throw around his power! ...you still fight 'cos you want to be feared! That's far more worthless in my book."
The sounds of the past tore through him, overlapping, loud and relentless. His arms shook, his body trembling as the pull became unbearable.
"I'm not that interested in justice. I just want to make sure that the people I care about are safe."
Then, through the torrent of his voice, something flickered far above him—a soft, glowing blue light. His breath caught as his eyes lifted.
Byakko.
The distant form of the white tiger hovered far above, faint but present. His heart surged, hope filling him even as he dangled precariously.
"Byakko!" he shouted, the name catching in his throat. His voice echoed, but the tiger remained far away, barely more than a distant blur in the black abyss.
Please, help me! His thoughts screamed, desperation clawing at him, but the force dragging him downward only grew stronger. His arms trembled violently, and with a pained gasp, his hands slipped from the frame.
"Atsushi…" a voice whispered, softer now, but it wasn't the harsh tone of his past. It was something kinder, warmer—something he didn't recognize. Yet bits of the past in his voice still swirled, the bad and the good blending together in a whirlwind.
As he fell, his arms reached upward, reaching for Byakko, for the light, but it was too far, and the force was too strong. His body twisted as he was pulled fully through the glass. His fingers brushed the edges of the mirror before slipping into the cold, broken surface, and then—darkness.
- His memories fractured, fragments stray,
In silent pleas he drifts away.
But hope's frail thread, though barely there,
Lingers still, like whispered prayer. -
*/\*
A quiet stillness had long since settled over the room, broken only by the steady, rhythmic beat of Atsushi's heart and the hum of the machines. It was the day after the meeting, and all any of them could do was take turns watching over an unconscious Atsushi. With a break between shifts, food was due to arrive in an hour along with whoever was scheduled to take the next watch. Yosano adjusted the last of the monitors, casting a quick glance at Atsushi, who lay unmoving in the bed. Kyōka sat beside him, her face unreadable, though the tension in her shoulders spoke volumes. Dazai came and went, always keeping close; currently, he leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching Atsushi with a depth of emotion he rarely let surface.
Then, without warning, Atsushi's eyelids fluttered. Yosano moved toward the bed, her professional mask firmly in place, though there was a flicker of hope in her eyes.
"Finally," she muttered, gently placing her hand on Atsushi's shoulder. "Atsushi, can you hear me?"
His eyes cracked open slowly, unfocused, as though he were struggling to shake off the fog of unconsciousness. Yosano, unsurprised by his grogginess, leaned in closer, offering quiet reassurance. "It's alright, Atsushi. Let's sit you up."
She slid her arm behind his shoulders, carefully helping him sit upright. Atsushi followed her lead, his body moving without resistance, but his gaze remained vacant, drifting around the room as if disoriented, without landing on anyone. Yosano stepped away to grab a nearby medical tool, not noticing the growing confusion on Kyōka's face.
"Atsushi?" Kyōka called softly, watching him. Her brow furrowed when his head tilted slightly in her direction, but without focus or recognition. She waited for the usual soft acknowledgment, but it never came. "Atsushi?"
No response.
Kyōka's fingers curled into the edge of the bed, her pulse quickening. She glanced at Dazai, who stepped away from his spot against the wall, his eyes narrowed slightly, serious expression unwavering.
Seeing Kyōka's growing concern, Dazai pulled his features into something more relaxed and moved toward Atsushi. "Look at you, Sleeping Beauty," he said lightly, forcing a smile. "You finally decided to wake up."
But Atsushi didn't react. No annoyed retort, no flash of exasperation—nothing. He simply stared past Dazai as if the words hadn't reached him.
Dazai's chest tightened, unease gnawing at him. He tried again, this time waving his hand in front of Atsushi's face. Atsushi's eyes followed the movement, but it was mechanical, devoid of awareness.
"Hey," Dazai said, his voice quieter now. "Atsushi." He tapped Atsushi's nose, a sudden gesture meant to startle, to provoke some kind of familiar response.
Nothing.
Dazai swallowed hard. Atsushi, who always flinched at unexpected touches, remained still, his expression eerily blank.
From behind, Yosano had returned and was watching the interaction with a growing frown. Dazai didn't need to say anything—his eyes met hers, the unspoken fear clear between them.
Yosano stepped closer, her clinical instincts taking over as she approached the bed again. "Atsushi," she said gently, kneeling beside him. "Raise your hand for me."
Atsushi blinked, his head turning slightly toward her voice. After a pause, he slowly lifted his hand.
Kyōka's heart clenched. "He's awake, but…" she trailed off, her voice barely a whisper.
Yosano nodded, her frown deepening as she performed another test, checking his reflexes, his gaze, his responses. But it was becoming more and more obvious that Atsushi wasn't truly there. His body was reacting, but his mind seemed trapped elsewhere, far beyond their reach.
*\
Time slipped by in slow, agonizing moments. The room was quiet, save for the soft murmur of Yosano's voice as she stood by the door, speaking quietly on the phone to Fukuzawa. Dazai barely registered the words—something about monitoring, about patience—but his focus remained on Atsushi, who sat slumped to the side in the cushioned chair by the window, his eyes distant, staring at nothing.
Kyōka sat across from him, her arms folded tightly across her chest. She watched him in silence, her expression guarded, but there was a tension in her body that hadn't been there before. Dazai's gaze lingered on her for a moment before he noticed the glint of moisture on her cheek—a single tear, trailing down her face. It was the first time Dazai had ever seen her cry.
A pang of something sharp and painful twisted in his chest. Old memories stirred, and with them, the dull ache of the scars on his arms—scars that once held a different kind of promise. His breath hitched for a second, the weight of the past threatening to pull him under, but he forced himself to breathe deeply, grounding himself in the present.
He wasn't going to let that happen again.
Pushing off the wall, Dazai moved toward the window, where Atsushi sat unmoving, his pale face turned toward the sky beyond the glass. Dazai studied him for a long moment, his mind racing with everything they still didn't know about his condition, everything Yosano couldn't yet fix. But what gnawed at Dazai the most was the thought that maybe Atsushi wasn't really there at all—that the person he had fought so hard to save was still lost somewhere, unreachable.
No, he thought, a surge of determination rising in him. He wasn't going to let Atsushi stay this way.
Dazai crouched down in front of Atsushi and exchanged a quick glance with Kyōka before his eyes leveled with the younger man's blank stare. "I don't know where you are right now, Atsushi," he said softly, his voice calm but firm. "But I'm going to find you."
He reached out, his hand hovering near Atsushi's arm, but he didn't touch him—not yet. The weight of the scars on his own skin pressed against his mind, but he refused to let them win. "If you don't come back on your own," Dazai whispered, "I'll fight until I can wake you up. I won't let you stay lost."
Atsushi gave no sign that he'd heard, his gaze still locked on the window, but Dazai made a silent vow in that moment. He wasn't going to give up—not on Atsushi, not on himself.
End Note: Poetry 'Between Worlds' is by me, FWvidChick. Written for this.
shachō means president of a company or group. Still not an expert on Japanese Honorifics so forgive me,
Also in case someone thinks I messed up, Akutagawa can use his ability to lift Dazai as long as he doesn't make skin contact. I double checked on that like three bloody times. Isn't it funny how Mori made sure they all knew CPR? Finally they had a use for it.