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Twenty-two-year-old Chuuya Nakahara knew how to survive.
He worked his shifts, came home to a cramped but clean apartment, paid his bills on time, smoked too much, and drank more than he should. He had a routine. A rhythm. He didn’t ask for much—just quiet nights, people who tipped well, and his peace left undisturbed. No dreams. No ambitions. Life was simpler that way.
He didn’t want to feel like a failure for leaving university. Didn’t want to dwell on how lonely the nights could get, even when his bar was full of chatter and clinking glasses. He kept his head down, shoulders square, voice sharp, and heart carefully locked behind the thickest walls he could muster.
And then he walked in.
It was a Thursday. Cloudy skies. Rain on the pavement that turned the neon lights outside into a watercolour smear. The bar was half-empty, a few regulars hunched over whiskey glasses, when the door creaked open—and stepped a man too beautiful for reality.
Chuuya looked up briefly, uninterested. But then paused. Because no one like that ever walked in here.
Tall. Lean. Bone-pale skin and dark brown hair falling effortlessly over his eyes, eyes that were the colour of bruised whiskey and old secrets. He wore a black three-piece suit like it was skin, expensive and tailored down to the cufflinks. Everything about him—his walk, the slight curve of his lips, the easy way he surveyed the room like he already owned it—reeked of wealth and danger.
He sat at the bar.
Right in front of Chuuya.
And smiled.
“I’ll have whatever you recommend,” the stranger said, voice low, warm, amused.
Chuuya arched a brow. “You allergic to anything?”
“Only mediocrity.”
The bastard actually winked.
Chuuya rolled his eyes and started mixing. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood.”
“You look like someone who isn’t in a good mood very often.”
Chuuya slammed the shaker harder than necessary. “You’re observant.”
The drink—a smoked old fashioned—was placed in front of the stranger with casual indifference. The man took a sip and hummed. His expression lit up in genuine surprise.
“...That’s the best I’ve had in years.”
“Not my problem if you only drink at places with caviar menus and ten-dollar olives.”
“I suppose I’ll have to slum it more often, then,” the man replied, eyes gleaming with something darker, something curious. “Tell me your name.”
Chuuya hesitated. “Why?”
“Because I gave you mine.”
“You didn’t.”
“Didn’t I?”
“No.”
A pause. Then, a breathy laugh, like the man genuinely found him entertaining. “Dazai. Osamu Dazai.”
Chuuya blinked, nonplussed. “Cool. That supposed to mean something?”
The man actually choked on his drink.
“You… You really don’t know who I am?”
Chuuya stared, unimpressed. “Sorry, not subscribed to Rich Bastards Monthly.”
That caught Dazai off guard for a moment. Then—laughter. Full and real. Heads turned toward the bar, curious. But Chuuya just went back to wiping the counter.
He didn’t know. Didn’t recognise the name that had half the country watching stock indexes like gospel. Didn’t see the face that graced magazines, business expos, and whispered rumoirs about underground dealings in Tokyo Bay.
It intrigued Dazai. Deeply.
And Chuuya was about to find out just how much.
They kept seeing each other.
Once. Then twice. Then every other night.
Chuuya didn’t know why he kept letting Dazai stay until closing—just that the man was addictive in the most frustrating way. He was too smooth. Too smart. Too fucking rich. But also clever, sharp with his words, and never looked at Chuuya like he was less. Not a dropout. Not a failure. Just a man. A person.
That part scared Chuuya more than anything.
They talked about everything and nothing. Philosophy. Nihilism. Whether angels should fall. Dazai flirted like breathing, and Chuuya threw it back with biting sarcasm.
But beneath the banter… something simmered. Something heavy.
One night, after the bar closed and the rain poured hard against the windows, Dazai lingered.
He leaned forward, voice low. “You know, most people… would kill to sit where you are. Just to be near me.”
Chuuya snorted. “Sounds exhausting.”
“You’re not even curious?”
“About what?”
Dazai smiled slowly. “Who I really am.”
Chuuya met his gaze, unwavering. “Nope. You’re just the guy who keeps ordering drinks and won’t stop hitting on me.”
And for a brief second—just one—Dazai’s face shifted.
The smile faded.
His gaze darkened.
“...What if I told you I wasn’t a good person, Chuuya?”
“I’d say join the club.”
And Dazai—dangerous, dazzling Dazai—looked at him like he was the most fascinating thing in the world.
It happened fast, when it happened.
A kiss behind the bar. Chuuya’s hand in Dazai’s hair. Breathless, angry, desperate.
“You’re such a fucking mess,” Chuuya growled.
“I know,” Dazai murmured, lips brushing his neck. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
Then came the texts. Late-night drives. Dazai’s body in silk sheets and cold penthouses. Wine in rooftop gardens. Silence in luxury cars. Dazai would hold him like he wanted to possess him. Touch him like he was real. Important. Like he mattered.
But there were always cracks. Men in black outside Dazai’s car. Conversations he cut short. Mysterious phone calls in Russian. The way people bowed when he entered certain buildings. The strange bruises on his knuckles. The tattoo barely visible under his cuff.
And one night—
One of the bar regulars leaned in, whispering after Dazai had left.
“Hey, Chuuya… you really don’t know who that is?”
Chuuya raised a brow.
“That’s Dazai Osamu. Mori Corporation’s heir. They say he practically owns half of Japan. And more than that… he runs the Port Mafia from the shadows. People disappear around him, you know. You get too close and—poof.”
Chuuya laughed it off.
But when he got home, he searched the name.
And stared.
Photos. Articles. Board meetings. Arrest records. Assassination rumours. Blackmail. Organised crime.
He’d been sleeping with a ghost in a designer suit.
Chuuya didn’t show up to work the next day.
Or the day after.
Dazai didn’t call. He didn’t need to. Chuuya knew better than to think the man didn’t notice.
But on the third night, there he was.
In the alley behind the bar.
Leaning against the brick wall like sin incarnate.
“You ran,” Dazai said quietly.
“I didn’t know who you were,” Chuuya shot back, voice shaking.
Dazai stepped closer. “You do now.”
“And you let me stay in the dark.”
“I wanted you to like me first.”
“You lied to me!”
“No,” Dazai said, reaching out. “I didn’t lie. I just didn’t ruin it.”
Silence.
Then Chuuya laughed bitterly. “And what is this, Dazai? What am I to you?”
Dazai’s voice was barely above a whisper. “The first thing I didn’t want to destroy.”
That was the night Chuuya realised—
He was already in too deep.
Because when he fell for Dazai…
He fell hard.
And the thing about falling?
There’s never a way to land soft when the man catching you is made of razors.