Author Note: Not been the most fun chapter to write only cause I caught some chest congestion virus with nasty headaches. Anyway, here is the next chapter. I think I could have done better at some parts but overall I am happy with it. I do hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it, which was a great deal—despite the sad nature of it.
Summary: Atsushi only remembers a life where he is worthless and a monster, new truths are not meant for him.
VIII. The Orphans Truth
The wilderness is not the enemy.
It is the question,
The choice,
The path untamed.
But even the wild remembers the cage—
The snap of chains,
The bite of commands,
And the aching weight of blood-stained freedom.
Beneath the stars, beneath the mask,
What remains is not a monster,
But a survivor,
Lost and searching for the name it once knew.
/\*
The moment the words left Atsushi's lips—"I'm fourteen"—something inside Akutagawa splintered.
Fourteen.
The weight of that number rooted him in place, even as the chaotic aftermath of Byakko's rampage unfolded around him. Fourteen should not have been an age to bear such scars, to endure the horrors etched into his trembling frame, yet the cruel reality made grim, awful sense.
Akutagawa's throat tightened as fragments of his own past surfaced—memories he thought he had buried beneath layers of anger and resolve.
Seeing Atsushi this way, so vulnerable and marked by pain, stripped away any façade of disdainful pity Akutagawa had once felt. Now, it was as if every blow Atsushi had suffered echoed in his own chest, a painful resonance that linked them beyond mere rivalry.
This boy, who should have been just another enemy, had become something far more profound—an echo of Gin, whose pain was once his pain, whose struggles he had felt acutely, sometimes feeling powerless to help. Though Gin now fought her own battles, Atsushi's current struggle stirred a protective instinct in Akutagawa. He wanted to shield Atsushi, to prevent him from hardening into what he himself had become.
Without realizing it, his feet began to move. Away from the others. Away from Atsushi.
The broken street blurred into a meaningless canvas of jagged concrete and twisted metal. Akutagawa's breath came sharp and uneven, his chest heaving against the ache that refused to subside. Rashomon rippled along the edge of his coat, mirroring the unease that coiled inside him.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, likely Dazai on the other end, but the thought of facing his former mentor's probing questions or thinly veiled taunts was too much—he was still grappling with the 'new' Dazai to think differently. He silenced the device with a harsh swipe and continued walking.
The dark streets he wandered turned into a blur. If any of the night's predators had thought to prey on him, the red outline of Rashomon likely deterred them, for he encountered no resistance. He could recall passing a few shadowy figures, but whether there had been any exchange, he couldn't say; his head was filled with static.
He hadn't planned on where to go, but his body instinctively carried him toward the port. The salty tang of the sea air stung his nostrils as the sound of waves lapping against the dock reached his ears. It was quieter here, away from the remnants of battle and the murmurs of concern that had filled the air. But the quiet offered no peace—only room for his thoughts to claw at him.
Atsushi had once told him he loved to stand on the dock and smell the salty air, his silver and white hair ruffled by a breeze as he bared his face towards the warmth of the sun. Akutagawa remembered making a snarky remark about him loving the sea like a feline loves fish.
Atsushi had laughed, full and bright, as if he wasn't carrying the burdens of his past. Akutagawa had scoffed, hiding the way it made his chest ache.
Fourteen.
He clenched his fists, the fabric of his coat straining under the force. He'd spent years convincing himself that the world's cruelty was a given, that survival required teeth and claws and the willingness to bare them when necessary. He had come to terms with being the monster in the eyes of others.
But Atsushi?
"People need to be told they're worthy of being alive by someone else, or they can't go on."
He wasn't supposed to keep suffering.
"It's true that I'm foolish and worthless..."
Atsushi wasn't supposed to be like him.
"..But it sure beats being you—a murderer who just wants to bandy his power around! Am I wrong? You've got the power and status but you still fight 'cos you want to be feared! That's far more worthless in my book."
He wasn't supposed to take his pain and hurt others in return. While Byakko's rampage wasn't exactly the same as him joining the mafia to get revenge, how much more pain until one day Atsushi was his shadow? The thought felt like a knife to the gut.
"Ridiculous," he muttered, the word slipping out before he could stop it. His voice sounded foreign, raw with something he refused to name. "You're supposed to be better than this. Stronger."
The sight of his own reflection in the water below made his stomach churn. The moonlight fractured against the rippling surface, distorting his image into something monstrous. For a moment, he thought of Gin—the only person he had ever truly cared for. The one he had fought to protect, no matter the cost.
As he watched the waves crash against the dock, Akutagawa felt a kinship with their relentless turmoil. Each wave was a reminder of the choices he'd made, each retreat back to the sea a chance for renewal he never took. He rarely felt regret, but tonight there seemed to be no escape from it.
For a moment, he saw himself before the mafia, before he had committed to being the Rabid Dog. "Have I become so different from who I was?" he murmured into the wind, his voice barely audible over the roar of the water. The cold spray of the sea mist felt like pinpricks on his skin—each one a sharp reminder of every time he'd let his harsh exterior repel the warmth offered by others, including his supposed rival and reluctant partner.
Bringing his thoughts back to Atsushi.
"I've lived a cursed life"
Atsushi, who reminded him of Gin in ways that made his chest ache. Atsushi, whose determination had infuriated and inspired him in equal measure. Atsushi, who was the reason he could no longer kill with ease. Atsushi, who had once found a way to make him laugh as if the world was lighter than it is. Atsushi, who now sat broken and lost, trapped in a mind that had regressed to a time when he was barely surviving.
The urge to vent his frustration through Rashomon was a temptation he could taste like blood on his lips. He held it back, breathing heavily, refusing to lose control. The moment of Atsushi's death flashed into his mind, bringing with it the memory of visceral pain. Since his rescue, the relief was tainted by Atsushi's continued suffering—to gain life but suffer brain damage?
Losing the battle with his emotions, Akutagawa turned to the ocean, arms spread wide, with Rashomon's jaws faintly visible in the flare of his coat. Against the protest in his chest, he began, "Motherfu..." yelling a string of curses into the wind as loudly as he could, many of which would have made Chuuya proud.
"Shit," he muttered as his chest won its protest, forcing him to catch his breath. The pain wasn't for nothing; some control had returned.
He exhaled shakily, dragging a hand through his hair. "This isn't fair," he said softly, though there was no one around to hear him. "Why is it always you?"
His thoughts spiraled, a chaotic tangle of guilt and frustration. He had spent so long pushing others away, convincing himself that attachments were a liability, that he could handle anything thrown at him alone. He believed he was strong enough to do what needed to be done. But now, as the image of Atsushi's bloodstained hands flashed in his mind, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had failed. That doing what had needed to be done—stabbing Byakko to pin her down—had been the wrong thing to do.
"Fourteen," he whispered again, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. Closing his eyes, the image of Atsushi's bloody hands flashed behind them, only this time he saw himself pouring blood onto Atsushi's hands, reducing the younger man to a lost forsaken boy.
And for the first time in years, Akutagawa allowed himself to grieve. Not for himself, but for the boy who had clawed his way into his life and refused to let go.
/\*
For as long as Atsushi could remember, his life had been defined by certain inescapable truths—fundamental realities that shaped his existence and could not be denied. Contradictions existed, but they were explained away as rules that applied to others, not to him.
The most important truths for Atsushi were these: he lived at the mercy of the headmaster, for nothing done to him could ever outweigh the sins of his parents. This led to the second truth: the abuse he endured—first from his parents and later at the orphanage—was justified. He deserved it. The third truth followed naturally: he was a monster. He stole food and shelter from children who deserved kindness, while he, burdened by sin, deserved nothing but chains and the cold, dark confines of the basement.
The fourth truth was the hardest: tears and pleading were signs of ingratitude. Any resistance, even a whimper, only proved he was unworthy of the small mercy of being allowed to live. Finally, the fifth truth: though he was a monster deserving of hate, he must never hate himself—he was to hate the headmaster. This truth was confusing to Atsushi and one he could only half obey. He hated the headmaster—though he would never say that out loud—but he also hated himself.
Sometimes, deep within his heart, Atsushi dared to imagine a life where he wasn't a monster. A life where pain and punishment weren't the cost of existence. In stolen moments at the orphanage's library—a meager collection of battered books at the back of a room—he would find solace. Atsushi wasn't allowed much time for lessons, but when he could, he would slip a book from the shelves, hide away, and lose himself in its pages. By the dim glow of moonlight or a flickering bulb, he would read tales of faraway places, of heroes and ordinary boys who laughed without fear. Those stories fueled dreams he kept locked away, buried beneath the weight of his truths.
Yet even in his wildest dreams, he couldn't imagine kindness for himself. He had seen it—the gentle touches and soft words shared with other children. But for him, hands were rough, voices sharp, and punishment constant. Freedom became his greatest fantasy—an existence beyond the orphanage's walls, beyond a world that cared nothing for him. That hope, faint and fragile, became its own truth.
Now, as he sat hunched, back against the inclined head of the bed, his hands trembling against the blanket tucked tightly around him, he knew the headmaster's people would return. They always did. He had no doubt punishment awaited him. The very idea that anything "good" could happen—that anyone could show him kindness—never crossed his mind.
Atsushi's eyes dropped to his clean hands—hands he couldn't remember cleaning, stark and pale against the unblemished light blue fabric of the blanket. The sight made his stomach churn. Whose blood had stained them before? What had he done this time? He couldn't remember—he never could—but the fear and guilt gnawed at him.
His gaze flitted around the room, curiosity sparking against his better judgment. He shouldn't let his wonder show; it was dangerous to draw attention. Still, the tangy scent of cleaner mixed with blood prickled at his senses, eerily reminiscent of the orphanage's ... the word for the place meant for treating the injured or ill escaped him. While the word teased at the edge of his mind, he was reminded of the punishments received there. His stomach knotted, not just with fear but with a flicker of rebellion against the memories that refused to fully surface, leaving only fragments laced with dread.
Then his heart lurched. A shadow shifted on the bed beyond the curtain—a man. Atsushi froze, his breathing shallow. How had he missed that? The scent of deodorant, faint but unmistakable, reached him now. Someone had been there all along, watching him. Of course, they wouldn't leave him alone. The headmaster would never allow that.
His mind raced, searching for mistakes he might have made. Had he done something to warrant more punishment? He pressed himself into the bed, his body rigid as he tried to recall everything since waking in the alley. His memories were hazy, disjointed, but one thing was clear: his hands had been stained with blood. He hadn't even dared to look out the car window on the way here, afraid he would earn more punishment for his curiosity or the passing world might remind him of what he'd done.
The blood. It was always the same. No visible injuries on himself, yet someone else's blood smeared across his skin. Proof of his monstrosity. He didn't need anyone to tell him what he already knew—the headmaster had drilled it into him enough times. Once, he'd even woken to the horrifying sight of a body, eviscerated and lifeless.
The memory clawed at the edges of his mind, fragmented but vivid in its horror. A man with long white hair, gentle words, and a voice laced with false kindness. He had smiled, acted like a friend, and coaxed Atsushi to sit in the strange, cold chair. Atsushi hadn't questioned it—why would he? Someone had finally treated him with a semblance of care. His heart had felt light at the gentle touch against his shoulder. Then came the betrayal. The crackle of electricity, the burning agony as his body convulsed, and the sickening realization that this man had never meant to help him.
He had smiled even as Atsushi begged him to stop. Smiled as the pain pushed Atsushi to the brink of death, when the world faded into a haze of suffering and darkness. And then… nothing. When he woke, there had been blood everywhere—on him, on the floor, on the shattered remains of what had once been the man.
But Atsushi had no memory of what had happened, only the horrifying aftermath: the mangled body and the thick, metallic smell of blood that clung to his skin. It didn't matter that he couldn't recall the moment itself. It didn't matter that he hadn't seen his own hands do the deed. It was proof enough. There was no denying it. He was a monster.
"You do not need to be afraid," the voice jolted him.
Atsushi's head snapped toward the curtain where the shadow lingered, though he still couldn't bring himself to look directly. He didn't want to answer. The man had made a statement, not asked a question, and he had no permission to speak. But the weight of the silence pressed against him, suffocating.
"You have nothing to fear from me," the voice said again, calm but strange, unsettling. A shiver crept down Atsushi's spine.
"Oh… ohh… kay," he stammered, the words spilling shakily from his lips. He didn't feel reassured. Not at all.
The curtain shifted slightly as if ruffled by a breeze, the shadow looming larger but remaining obscured. "Yes," the man said, his tone sharp and cutting now. "That's because I'm not the monster."
"What?" Atsushi whispered, confusion and fear knotting in his chest. He couldn't help himself; eyes wide he turned slightly toward the man. "I don't understand."
The shadow moved closer to the curtain, its presence pressing against him like a palpable force. The voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Of course you don't. You never do. So I will tell you plainly, Nakajima Atsushi. You are the tiger. The monster. The wolf in sheep's clothing."
Chills raced across Atsushi's skin as dread pooled in his stomach. He parted his lips to deny the accusations, but his voice was swallowed by fear. Behind the curtain, the shadow loomed, oppressive and smothering.
Before he could gather his thoughts, the shadow's sneer cut deeper. "You are a monster. Remember the thrill, that night with the white-haired man? How deeply satisfying it was to watch him fall."
Atsushi stiffened, the memory erupting unbidden—a surge of rage, the visceral satisfaction as the man crumpled. Images of blood, torn flesh, and the man's terror-stricken face just before his death flashed before him. The horrifying pleasure of it all overwhelmed him. He gasped, recoiling from the vividness, his hands clutching his head. "No, that wasn't me... I didn't enjoy it," he stammered, but doubt crept in, festering with each pulsing heartbeat.
Overwhelmed, he leaned over and retched, his body convulsing with dry heaves. Tears streamed down his cheeks. "Why would I feel that way? How co... could I?" Another wave of illicit pleasure washed over him, mingled with the stench of blood. "No... No!" he cried, shaking his head, his fingers tearing ruthlessly at his hair. "That's not me!"
"Oh, but it is."
"No. It can't be true!" His shout filled the room.
Only the shadow's mocking laughter echoed back as the door began to open.
/\*
The door creaked open, spilling soft light into the dim room. Atsushi flinched violently, his trembling hands clutching the blanket close to his chest like a lifeline. His wide eyes darted toward the group entering—the older man in traditional clothing at the forefront, his calm presence radiating quiet authority.
Behind him were three men and the woman who had helped him to the car, their gazes sweeping the room and landing on Atsushi with what he interpreted as varying shades of concern. The sight sent dread spiraling through his chest. What had he done?
As the tension in the room thickened, the older man paused, assessing the situation with a thoughtful gaze. He took a gentle step forward, his voice soft and reassuring. "Atsushi-san, are you comfortable? Can we get you anything to make you feel more at ease?" His inquiry hung in the air, giving Atsushi a moment to adjust to their presence.
The room remained quiet, save for the faint sound of the bustling city outside. Atsushi's response was minimal, but there was a slight shift; his eyes, previously glazed with an absent stare, briefly met the older man's before looking away, overwhelmed. It was a small sign, but it was heartening to see some semblance of presence in his gaze.
Recognizing the need to build a bridge of trust, Fukuzawa turned briefly to pick up a cup of water from a nearby table, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He then placed the cup on the bedside table, pausing at a careful distance from the bed. "Atsushi Nakajima, you're safe here," he began, his voice resonating with a calm but commanding tone that expected respect without demanding it. "I am Fukuzawa, and I promise you there is no need to fear us."
He gestured towards the woman with sharp magenta eyes and dark hair, who had pulled a chair up next to the bed and sat down, her demeanor deliberate yet relaxed. "This is Yosano Akiko," Fukuzawa introduced. "She treated your injuries earlier. Do you remember her?"
Atsushi's gaze flicked to Yosano, his fingers tightening on the blanket. He remembered a voice from the car ride, though the details eluded him. Yosano met his gaze steadily, offering a small, reassuring smile but not pressing further as his silence stretched.
Fukuzawa then nodded towards the man with glasses, who was sitting on the edge of an unoccupied chair across from Atsushi, maintaining a respectful distance. "Next to me is Kunikida Doppo," Fukuzawa continued. "Like all of us here, he's committed to helping you. You're in safe hands."
"And over there is Ranpo Edogawa," Fukuzawa said, nodding toward the relaxed man leaning casually against the wall. "He is the reason for this place. We solve cases, and Ranpo is our best detective." The man indicated puffed up slightly, muttering under his breath, "The greatest, you mean." Atsushi wasn't sure he was supposed to hear that, but he knew his hearing was exceptionally good—though not always to his benefit. In any case, Ranpo reminded him of one of the older boys at the orphanage who had always received praise for his reading skills.
Finding it hard to swallow and realizing how dry his throat was, Atsushi's eyes flicked to the cup of water Fukuzawa had placed down for him. While he would have preferred reassurance that the water was for him, he had learned it was best to take what was offered rather than risk offense. Hesitation wasn't his friend.
Ignoring the eyes on him, Atsushi carefully leaned to the side and, despite his trembling hands, managed to bring the cup to his lips without spilling. He took a sip, his gaze roaming subconsciously. It was then that he noticed the bandages covering Dazai's arms and neck, a flicker of concern passing through his mind. A bit of water splashed onto his hand, interrupting his thoughts. Before he could react, Dazai had carefully taken the cup without touching him.
Atsushi murmured his thanks, wide eyes fixed on the man, expecting to be scolded. Instead, the bandaged man simply gave him a soft smile, asked if he needed more, and at the barely perceptible shake of his head and "no, thank you," placed it back onto the bedside table.
This time, swallowing wasn't so painful, and his eyes were drawn again to the bandages. He feared he had hurt him. Yet, something in the way the bandage man moved, effortlessly and without any hint of discomfort, reassured him. Atsushi subconsciously sniffed, unable to detect any wounds beneath them. He could only assume they were there for looks— not that he was all that familiar with fashion.
Sensing he had Atsushi's attention, Fukuzawa continued nodding toward the bandage man now seated on the bed opposite the shadow, an easy smile playing on his lips despite the gravity of the situation. "This is Dazai Osamu," he introduced, his voice imbued with a hint of fondness despite the slight frustration that often accompanied any mention of Dazai. "A key strategist for our agency, his methods might seem peculiar at times, but they're effective."
Dazai offered Atsushi a lopsided grin, his demeanor relaxed as he added, "I'm the fun one of the group. Don't worry, you'll get used to us."
With introductions finished, Fukuzawa stepped forward again, his gaze steady as it met Atsushi's. "No one here means you harm, Atsushi," he repeated, his voice quiet but firm. "We want to help you."
Atsushi opened his mouth to respond, but the shadow's voice cut through the fragile calm, sharp and derisive. "Fools," it spat. "Do you really believe their words? Kindness is the prelude to betrayal."
Atsushi stiffened; he had momentarily forgotten the shadowy man and his painful truths. Slowly, apprehensively, he turned his head toward the curtain. The presence of the shadow loomed heavy, its whispers cruel and biting, feeding the rising panic in his chest. The others exchanged brief, puzzled glances at his cautious movement, but no one spoke. Their silence only deepened the knot of fear in his stomach. Why weren't they acknowledging it?
Fukuzawa stepped closer but kept enough distance not to overwhelm him, his expression calm and composed. "You don't have to be afraid," he said, lowering himself slightly to meet Atsushi's eye level. His tone was steady, each word deliberate, but it felt like an echo against the shadow's biting whispers.
Atsushi swallowed hard, his breath coming in short gasps. He didn't respond. How could he? The shadow's mocking voice cut through again, cold and taunting. "Afraid? Of course, he's afraid. He knows the truth now—he should fear what comes next."
The words struck like a physical blow, forcing Atsushi's breath to hitch as his shaky hands clenched the blanket with desperate force. His gaze darted frantically between the rippling curtain and Fukuzawa, his mind fracturing under the crushing weight of the conflicting voices. The shadow's presence loomed impossibly large, oppressive and suffocating, making the room feel as though it were closing in around him
Yosano leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting on her knees as she met his gaze with a calm determination. "Atsushi-san," she began, her tone steady but kind. "You're not hurt, and no one else is hurt because of you. You don't need to punish yourself." Clearly hoping to reassure him.
Dazai's gaze flicked briefly to Kunikida's arm, where the bandage peeked out from beneath his sleeve. Kunikida shifted slightly, his jaw tightening. His movements were subtle, but they didn't escape Fukuzawa's notice. The tension in the room thickened, but Yosano didn't correct herself, her attention focused entirely on Atsushi. It wasn't the time to dwell on technicalities—not when the boy already seemed so close to breaking.
"Lies," the shadow's voice spat, dripping with contempt. "They lie to control you. They're afraid of what you'll become—afraid of the monster they see. Better to be punished now than whatever they are planning for later."
The words stabbed into Atsushi's chest, each one slicing deeper than the last. He shook his head violently, his trembling fingers gripping the blanket so tightly his knuckles turned white. "No, you're wrong," he stammered, his voice cracking. "I have to… If I don't…" His words trailed off, swallowed by the shadow's relentless whispers and the chaos in his own mind.
"They're going to punish me," Atsushi blurted suddenly, his voice breaking. "They always do. They have to!" His hands shot up to cover his ears, trembling violently. "I'm a monster. I deserve it!"
Ranpo shifted against the wall, his usual air of smug boredom replaced with quiet seriousness. "Atsushi-san, no one here thinks you're a monster," he said simply, his perceptive eyes narrowing as he watched the boy's reaction. "You're safe now."
"Safe?" The shadow laughed—a low, cruel sound that made Atsushi shiver. "There is no safety for a monster. Punishment is mercy compared to what comes next."
Atsushi's head snapped up, his wide, tear-filled eyes locking onto Fukuzawa's. Safe. The word rang false and hollow. Safe was the shadow lurking behind the curtain. Safe was the headmaster's voice dripping with promises of mercy that never came. Safe was betrayal that led to pain.
He shrank further into himself, shaking his head furiously, unable to control the overwhelming wave of emotion rushing through him. The pressure in his chest threatened to burst as he shouted, his voice raw and desperate, "No! No, you're lying! Stop lying!" His anger boiled over, and Atsushi's hand struck his still full cup of water on the bedside table. The cup tipped over the side, the liquid spreading across the floor in a growing pool. Atsushi stared at it, wide-eyed, his breath hitching as a new thought consumed him: Will they punish me now? He refused to think about how the thought of punishment made him feel relieved, even pleased?
The sudden outburst startled the group, but Fukuzawa remained calm. Kunikida quietly stood, walked to a nearby cabinet, and grabbed a towel. As he returned and began soaking up the spilled water, his movements were deliberate and unhurried, exuding an air of quiet patience.
"Atsushi-kun," Fukuzawa said, his voice quiet but commanding enough to cut through the chaos in Atsushi's mind. "Look at me."
Atsushi froze at the tone, his hands slowly dropping from his ears. His wide, tear-filled eyes followed Kunikida's careful movements before locking onto Fukuzawa's steady gaze. Something in that voice—something in the man's unyielding calm—pierced through the fog of fear, anchoring him just enough to stop his spiraling.
As Fukuzawa's voice broke through the lingering echoes of the shadow's taunts, he offered words meant to soothe, "You are safe here, Atsushi. No one will hurt you."
Atsushi's eyes, wide with mingled fear and confusion, flickered with a trace of something else—doubt, perhaps, or the stirrings of hope. "But why?" he whispered, his voice hoarse from his earlier cries. "Why wouldn't you hurt me? The headmaster said—" He cut off, biting his lip as the ingrained teachings clashed with the gentle kindness radiating from the man before him.
Fukuzawa knelt to level with him, his expression earnest. "What the headmaster told you was meant to control you, to make you fear. Here, we do things differently. You are not here for us to punish you."
Atsushi's gaze dropped to his own trembling hands, a battle raging within as he processed Fukuzawa's words. A part of him wanted to dismiss them, to retreat into the familiar, harsh doctrines that had always governed his existence. Yet, another part, the part that had secretly cherished the stories of heroes and kind gestures from the books he read, sparked to life, whispering that perhaps, just perhaps, there could be a different truth.
"But I've done terrible things," Atsushi countered, his voice a mix of defiance and despair. "Aren't I a monster? Don't I deserve punishment?" His words were a challenge, a plea for Fukuzawa to confirm or deny the only reality he had ever known.
Fukuzawa's response was gentle, yet firm. "Everyone makes mistakes, Atsushi, and many can find a path back from them. But what's important right now is that you are not a monster. You have endured a lot of pain, but that pain does not define who you are."
One of the others, Atsushi wasn't sure who, added, "Let us help you see the truth about yourself, not as a monster, but as someone worthy of kindness and care."
Atsushi's breath hitched, the conflict visible on his face. The doctrines of the headmaster, so deeply ingrained in him, clashed violently with the offer of compassion and understanding. It felt too good, too kind to be true. Yet, as he looked into Fukuzawa's calm, steady eyes, and saw that same steadfast kindness reflected in the eyes of his companions, the fortress of beliefs built by the headmaster began to crack.
"Why?" It was all he could muster, a single word laden with the weight of his fears and the flickering hope of a new beginning.
Fukuzawa's eyes held a gentle firmness. "Because, Atsushi, you deserve kindness and a chance at a life free of fear."
Dazai spoke up, drawing Atsushi's attention with sharp eyes that seemed to pierce right through him. It was odd but not wholly unpleasant. "You've viewed yourself through a distorted mirror all this time, painted by others who feared what you might become. Let us offer you a clearer reflection, one not marred by shadows."
For a moment, Atsushi allowed himself to consider the possibility that he might not be the monster he had always believed he was. The warmth in Fukuzawa's tone, the absence of judgment from the people surrounding him—it was all so alien, yet inexplicably soothing.
But as the silence stretched, the old fears, the ingrained beliefs that had been hammered into him for so long, began to claw their way back. His body tensed, the fragile moment of connection shattering under the weight of his ingrained defenses and fractured memories of blood. "No," he said sharply, the word slicing through the tentative hope that had begun to form. Frustration added to the turbulent mix of emotions. Words kept escaping him, and he wasn't able to explain himself.
His voice rose, laced with desperation and anger. "Why are you being kind to me? I don't deserve it! I'm a monster! Just punish me already!" He growled, leaning forward aggressively. His eyes darted around the room, wild, searching for any sign of deceit he had come to expect from others.
Fukuzawa remained calm, though his heart ached for the tormented young man before him. "Atsushi," he said firmly, his voice a grounding force amidst the chaos, "this anger, this fear you feel—it's exactly what they wanted. You're reacting as they've conditioned you to, but it doesn't have to be this way."
Atsushi's breathing was heavy, his fists clenched at his sides. The conflict was visible in every line of his body, a war between the yearning to believe in the kindness offered and the terrifying pull of the familiar dark path he had always walked.
"Fools," the shadow snarled, its voice venomous. "They think words can save you, Atsushi. But they'll leave you. They always leave. Just like that one nurse who was kind to you, remember? She said nice things and then she left."
"You are not a monster," Fukuzawa asserted, each word deliberate, intent on breaking through the barrier Atsushi had built. "And no one here will punish you. Not now. Not ever. You deserve better."
The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Atsushi's head and heart both ached, throbbing in tandem, overwhelming him until he felt separate from himself yet chained down at the same time.
"Punishment stops the monster, don't forget, Atsushi. Without punishment, who knows what will happen?" the voice reminded him.
Atsushi's lips trembled, his breath hitching. A sudden weight of despair flooded over him, the clashing truths too much to bear. "But… if you don't… it'll be worse," he whispered, his voice breaking with desperation. "You don't understand… I need to be punished… or it'll never stop…"
Kunikida sat straighter in his seat, his expression tight with frustration but not unkind. "We're not going to punish you, Atsushi," he said, his voice firmer than the others', though not harsh. "You've done nothing wrong."
"Stop," Atsushi snapped, his voice shaking but louder now. "Stop saying that! Stop saying it's safe. Stop saying I'm not... Stop pretending!" He shot out of the bed, the blanket falling away. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his body shaking with suppressed rage and fear. "I know the truth... I know!"
His sunset eyes narrowed, the golden hue overtaking them as his pupils slit like a predator's. His features shifted subtly—barely perceptible changes that lent an almost feline sharpness to his expression. Though the transformation was slight, it did not go unnoticed by the others. Dazai sat forward in his seat, ready.
There could only be one truth, and he knew that truth, right? "I'm a monster, so why won't you just punish me?" he shouted, his voice starting nearly as a roar but cracking at the end, the raw emotion spilling out as tears streamed down his face.
The room stilled, the weight of his anguish settling over them like a storm cloud. Dazai said nothing, his dark eyes watching Atsushi intently, more hairline cracks forming in his mask. Yosano had tears in her eyes, her hand hovering near her medical bag, debating whether to intervene. Even Ranpo, typically so self-assured, was unusually silent, his arms crossed as he watched the scene unfold, his stomach churning so much that the thought of a snack made him feel sick. Kunikida was restraining himself, wanting to either grab the boy and shake sense into him or hug him, or both at the same time.
Fukuzawa stepped closer, his voice calm but unwavering, betraying none of his own inner turmoil. "Atsushi-kun," he said gently. "No one here will hurt you. Not because we don't care, but because we do. Punishment isn't what you need."
Atsushi's shoulders slumped, his trembling worsening. "Then… what am I supposed to do?" he whispered, his voice thick with anguish. "I don't know how to… how to be…" He faltered, unable to finish the thought. His legs felt weak, and his arms wrapped tightly around himself.
The shadow's whisper cut through his thoughts one final time. "You'll never be anything but the monster. No matter what they say."
Atsushi shook his head, wishing the man behind the curtain would stop, wishing Fukuzawa would tell him to stop. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Fukuzawa's hand unexpectedly rested lightly on his shoulder. The contact sent a jolt through him, and he flinched instinctively, but he didn't pull away. He couldn't.
For the moment, Atsushi could accept that they weren't going to hurt him—but that didn't mean he could truly believe it. His unease churned within him, knotting tighter with every passing second. The absence of punishment unsettled him, digging into his thoughts like a splinter he couldn't remove. The kindness felt too foreign, heavy, and tiring. Why hadn't they rebuked him? For arguing, for yelling—for daring to demand anything. The headmaster would never have tolerated such behavior. He'd been beaten for far less.
Fukuzawa's heart ached at the boy's visible turmoil. He wasn't a psychological expert, but he had seen the lingering effects of cruelty before—first with Yosano's haunted eyes and later with Dazai's carefully concealed struggles. Atsushi didn't believe them. Fukuzawa could see it in the tense line of his jaw, the way his wide, wary eyes darted between them. But he also saw the exhaustion in the boy's slumped shoulders, the way his body trembled, as if he were barely holding himself together. Atsushi wasn't fighting because he didn't want to—he was simply too tired, too afraid to push back. For now, that would have to be enough.
Fukuzawa's hand remained steady on Atsushi's shoulder, grounding him. His shoulders tensed further, a residual response from his earlier flinch, as he struggled with the unfamiliar gentleness of the touch. It made Atsushi's chest ache, stirring something fragile and long buried.
"You don't need to have the answers now, Atsushi," Fukuzawa said, his tone steady and reassuring. He guided the boy back to the bed, his movements deliberate and unthreatening, and began tucking the blanket around him with care. "We can talk about that later. For now, just rest. I know you don't trust us yet, and that's okay. But no one here is angry with you. We only hope we can earn your trust."
Atsushi's wide eyes traveled from Fukuzawa's face to his hands, watching the careful folds of the blanket with a mixture of confusion and wonder. There was no impatience, no irritation in the man's actions—only a kindness that felt so foreign it almost hurt to witness. When Fukuzawa briefly rested his hand on Atsushi's head, a sudden, inexplicable desire bloomed within him. Atsushi wanted to lean into the touch, to believe in the comfort it offered, even as fear gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.
He resisted, the weight of his truths pressing down on him like chains. Comfort wasn't meant for monsters, and even if it was, punishment always followed. Yet, for the first time, the longing refused to fade entirely, lingering as sleep began to claim him.
His body felt heavy, exhaustion pulling at him like a weight. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice faint. "I know… my behavior was bad. Please… please forgive me."
Fukuzawa's heart ached at the plea. He exchanged a glance with the others before meeting Atsushi's lidded, worried eyes. "You have nothing to apologize for," he said firmly.
For a moment, silence filled the room, and Fukuzawa thought Atsushi had fallen asleep. But then, in a voice tinged with desperation and the grip of a frightened child, Atsushi whispered, "Please don't make me… don't make me go back. I don't want to go back."
Fukuzawa's hand remained steady on the boy's shoulder. "You won't. You won't ever go back," he said, his voice soft but resolute. He was incredibly glad it was a promise he could keep.
A faint flicker of peace crossed Atsushi's face, so brief it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. His grip on Fukuzawa's hand tightened momentarily before his body went slack, sleep finally claiming him. As the tension melted from his frame, the subtle feline sharpness in his features softened, fading into the boyish vulnerability of his human form. For a moment, the room was still, the air heavy with the unspoken weight of what they had just witnessed.
Fukuzawa sighed quietly, his gaze resting on Atsushi's sleeping form. "We have quite a bit of work to do," he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of quiet determination. His words were meant for everyone in the room, though his eyes remained on the boy for a moment longer. Finally, he looked up, meeting the gazes of his team. In their expressions—resolute, empathetic, unwavering—he found confirmation of what he already knew: they were in this together.
/\*
The room was dim, illuminated only by the soft glow of a laptop screen showing Atsushi asleep in his bed, unaware of the camera Kunikida had set up. The rest of the office was also dimly lit outside the conference room, as it was quite late after retrieving Atsushi and dealing with the police. The younger agency members, including Naomi, were visibly tired and concerned; they, along with Kyōka, had been sent home to rest—Kyōka back to Yosano's place.
The older agency members, heavy with the weight of a damaged boy, sat in silence, their eyes fixed on the screen, each lost in thought after their intense encounter first with Byakko and then with Atsushi. The air was thick with a mix of concern and determination. Although the words were never directly said, his suffering was an affliction to them all, for he was family.
Kunikida broke the silence, his voice lightly laced with frustration and concern.
"When we first saw Atsushi talking to himself on the camera, crying... it was admittedly disturbing. We knew he was in a bad place, but the depth of his trauma..."
He trailed off as the scene on the laptop screen seemed to blur and change, as they remembered back to earlier that night.
Kunikida was adjusting the laptop's angle as Yosano and Fukuzawa settled Atsushi in the background. Dazai leaned against the wall, his expression unreadable.
"I have the camera on him," Kunikida whispered to Fukuzawa as he stepped away from Atsushi, who still seemed slightly not there. Fukuzawa nodded, understanding his intent to allow them freedom to talk while keeping an eye on Atsushi.
In the conference room, as they prepared to engage with the weretiger, they were startled by bits of his fragmented conversations with an unseen presence. The horror of what they were hearing showing in the tight expressions on their faces.
Dazai finally spoke, his brow furrowed as he listened, "He thinks the blood on him is someone else's." There was so much more to be said about what he was hearing but he had no idea what to say about it.
The unease grew to deep concern from Atsushi's shouting as the four of them approached the door. Yosano glanced back, her brow furrowed with worry.
Ranpo, looking over from examining candy in his pocket—none of the sweets seemed appealing at the moment, commented softly, "He's more lost in his past than we anticipated."
Dazai felt that was an understatement.
Without any experience that felt directly appropriate to this situation, the group was intent on doing what they could. They agreed to let Fukuzawa lead since, so far, Atsushi seemed to break through his barriers best with him. Dazai, despite his deep desire to take the lead as Atsushi's mentor and start fulfilling his intention to be better, recognized that he was not the best suited for this delicate moment.
After a brief discussion, they decided to keep their introductions and information about the older Atsushi minimal for now. It wasn't likely that he'd accept much, if anything, they told him if they tried to explain the circumstances that had brought them to this point. He needed time—time to adjust to being anywhere other than the orphanage. The rest could wait. Their strategy was cautious, filled with an intense sense of the unknown challenges they faced.
Now, after doing their best to convince him he was safe and wasn't going to be punished, the air in the conference room was heavy. The group sat in a reflective silence, each member processing the unexpected resistance and aggression they had encountered from Atsushi. Their gazes frequently rested on the screen, the subject of their thoughts.
Kunikida placed his notebook on the table and broke the silence, pondering aloud, "Could part of his aggression have been... influenced by Byakko? Given everything that's happened this week, especially his full transformation earlier tonight and that slight change he did just in there." He indicated with his thumb in the direction of the infirmary before taking off his glasses and running a hand through his hair, "I can't help but wonder." He finished with a deep sigh.
The room fell quiet again as they all considered this possibility, no one could argue what was very much a fair assumption. After a moment, Dazai sighed and placed Atsushi's damaged phone he'd been fussing with on the table, the action caught several other pairs of eyes. They all watched as the smiling image of Atsushi and Kyōka—Dazai photobombing behind them, flickered on the screen. Dazai finally spoke voicing his regrets, "I should have tried harder to understand Atsushi's past... We might have prevented this." His tone was heavy with the weight of perceived failure, a sentiment Kunikida shared.
Yosano, after a moment, quietly turned over Atsushi's phone, breaking the trance they'd been under staring at it. As a voice of reason, she added, "What's important now is helping him through this, there is no way to know whether knowing anything of the past would have helped or not. But right now we are here and he has us. This time he isn't alone." She made sure to catch Dazai's gaze so he'd see the steel in her eyes. "We each will have a part to play, including the others in his treatment. It will require a lot of patience. Damage like that takes time to heal." She paused, her expression somber, "And we have to be prepared for the possibility that Atsushi may not be fit to work with us again anytime soon, or even at all."
Dazai closed his eyes, the words 'at all' echoing in his head. It was a possibility he had already entertained, but hearing it spoken aloud felt like being drenched in icy water. If only he had taught Atsushi how to harness his pain and use it—how to transform all his experiences into strength. Instead, he had slapped him and told him not to pity himself. Really? How was that better than the indifferent abuse you gave Akutagawa as training?
No.
He wasn't going to go down the loop of guilt and mental flogging. He made a new promise to start over, be better. Keep his old promise. It's impossible to start over while living in the mistakes of the past. And shouldn't he take his own advice? Pity had no place here.
With his knowing gaze on Dazai, Fukuzawa reassured the team, "We'll get through to him. And even if he's not the same, we will find a place for him. He is one of us, and we don't abandon our own. We all could have perhaps done things to prevent this, but second guessing ourselves has never done this agency any good. Instead we do as we do best, we find a way fix this. Atsushi is one of us," he repeated, his tone taking on the authority and confidence they all needed, "We are a detective agency and there is a mystery here, so lets find the clues, the missing pieces. We solve this the best we can."
Silence settled over the room once more, the sense of defeat that had previously pressed on the group had been lifted, still the intensity of concern and dismay clung to the air. The sound of Atsushi breathing and shifting restlessly in his sleep reigned until Kunikida resumed, "His behavior today... "his brows furrowed in thought, "It was like he's more haunted by his past than we ever realized. If he was this traumatized at 14, I'd expect him to be more unsettled... no, neurotic now at 18. But we've watched him, despite moments he's been fairly levelheaded, he adapts. We've watched him improve in so many ways. "
Dazai mused "You're right... something doesn't add up."
Ranpo, chiming in while playing with his candy, noted, "There are additional factors at play now that weren't there in his original timeline. That's what makes this harder. And we have yet to have all the pieces."
Dazai nearly growled, "F"
"Yeah."
"Tomorrow I should know a bit more about the headmaster." Dazai commented, he needed to reconnect with his informant, they had been interrupted earlier when Dazai took the call but he had managed to learn that some of the holes in Atsushi's past had been filled.
Yosano then raised a curious and concerning question, "Was it the headmaster he was talking to, do you think?"
Dazai frowned, unsure something in his instincts sensed something off with Atsushi's one-sided conversation, "It's the most logical guess, but something tells me it's not just that. Atsushi might have reacted differently if it were."
Fukuzawa nodded in agreement, "There were moments when I felt something odd in his connection when talking with us. It's tied to whoever—or whatever—those delusions were."
"Is there something we should do if he has them again" Dazai asked, swiping a candy off of Ranpo who tried to kick at him underneath the briefing table and failed. Dazai grinned and Fukuzawa gave the death glare.
Ignoring their antics Yosano replied, "I honestly am not sure. I'd say for now its best not to challenge or play along. Ignore unless it becomes distressing, then I'd suggest distracting him. I plan to research the best way to handle someone in Atsushi's condition."
Kunikida wrote some notes then asked. "What is the plan now?" His hand resting on his now closed notebook, wishing it had the guidelines for this.
Ranpo glanced at Fukuzawa and answered, "We fill in the missing pieces. 'F', the items like the anchor. Not just to understand what's going on with the Obsidian Sun, the anchor might be a part of what's going on with Atsushi as well."
Fukuzawa's hummed in agreement, his response was resolute as he added, "We continue to show Atsushi care and work on building trust. It's clear that believing and trusting us are paramount if we are to get anywhere" He glanced at Yosano, who nodded in agreement as Atsushi's doctor. "But we must be patient and persistent. And Dazai, stay close to him. We can't afford another incident like tonight. We'll discuss how best to introduce Byakko and his true age as we progress."
"How long do you think he should stay here at the infirmary?" Kunikida asked thoughtfully. "I don't think it will help to convince he won't be punished if he is there for too long. Not sure why but I'm certain he doesn't associate the infirmary with anything good."
Yosano shook her head, "No, he doesn't. He has never elaborated although he has hinted at it being a location for punishment. "
"Of course and that's where we brought him to tonight."
"We didn't have much choice Dazai. However, I am willing to work out another arrangement as I agree with Kunikida" Yosano responded with a half-hearted glare. She wasn't really annoyed at him, knowing that he didn't blame her. It was the situation that frustrated them all.
Dazai glanced to Fukuzawa "I'll stay on watch tonight. I won't be able to sleep as it is."
With a nod of approval and the next few shifts figured, they prepared to leave, Kunikida grumbling about not looking forward to dealing with the authorities and press again. To his dismay no one offered to help. It was just as the lights were flicked off and Kunikida stepped out of the conference room, that Dazai announced over his shoulder with a smile in his voice, "Kunikida's buying me a calendar with moon phases tomorrow."
"Dazai!"
/\*
The ambiance of Franz's kitchen was warm and inviting, filled with the aromatic scents of cooking. He stood over the stove, meticulously preparing a dish from his homeland, a recipe he'd perfected over the years—a meticulous blend of ingredients, each element contributing to the dish's refined flavor. The soft hum of classical music played in the background, providing a soothing soundtrack to his culinary efforts.
As he adjusted the heat under the pan, his phone rang, piercing the calm with its insistent tone. Franz wiped his hands on a cloth, a slight frown creasing his brow as he wasn't expecting any interruptions this evening. He picked up the phone, pressing it to his ear.
"F, it's G," came the urgent voice on the other end. "Turn on the Yokohama news. Now."
Without a word, Franz set the phone down and reached for the remote, turning on the television. The screen flicked to life, displaying a news anchor in mid-report. The headline screamed across the bottom of the screen: "White Tiger Rampage in Entertainment District."
The report cut to shaky cellphone footage of a massive white tiger, its fur and blue aura stark against the nighttime chaos, tearing through the concrete as if it were made of paper. The power and ferocity of the creature were palpable, even through the grainy video.
"The Armed Detective Agency was on the scene," the anchor continued, "preventing any casualties and managing only minor injuries. One individual was taken away by the Agency for treatment."
Franz muted the television as the report began to loop, showing various angles of the attack—none clearer than the first. But one particular clip caught his eye; it was a distant shot, likely taken from a high vantage point, capturing the silhouette of the agency members huddled over a distinctly white-haired figure lying on the ground.
Leaning back against the counter, Franz stared at the frozen image on the screen, his dinner momentarily forgotten. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards in a grim smile as he mused to himself, "Armed Detective Agency and a tiger... interesting."
*/\*
End Note:
Okay, going to admit something. So I have not finished the last season of BSD. I started getting spoilers and being as I read fanfic i ended up with peoples reactions and got cowardly, cause its easier to pretend something didn't happen if you never watched it. So I only vaguely hint at things I know that happened in that season, so if it seems like I should have hinted at something but didn't... that's why.