Chapter Text
Time: DD.MM.YYYY
Location: Yokohama — Warehouse District
Perspective: [REDACTED]
You had already completed your job.
The man before you crumbled faster than expected; they usually did. Traitors and backstabbers always thought they could endure pain. They never prepared for the inevitability of falling apart.
Now the man was slumped in his chair, his wrists slack against the restraints. His breathing grew shallow, and his thoughts shifted. They were once frantic, layered with excuses and half-formed lies, but those thoughts soon dissolved into static. Something worthy of complete emptiness.
Between the Lines, your special ability made interrogations efficient and simple. Superficial thoughts of others leaked cleanly into your mind, whether you wanted them to or not. Torture would result in slivers of thoughts from the traitors, such fragments slipping through the cracks of composure. Unfinished sentences were finished in minds; rehearsed stories would collapse the moment they were heard.
You never needed to threaten; speaking out loud was messy. It was significantly cleaner to allow your mind to brush against theirs. Quietly intruding on their conscience without their acknowledgment. Just a gentle pressure in their mind, a single thought placed carefully in the precise place, then their own minds would dismantle themselves.
You treated those you interrogated like they were no longer human. It makes things uncomplicated.
Penumbra is an organization. An organization that found you in your early teens after an unfortunate incident that left you abandoned, when your survival equated to usefulness. Penumbra involves intelligence gathering and brokerage; they extracted information from places no one else thought to investigate.
The spies of Penumbra were embedded quietly and cautiously into systems, becoming completely undetectable. You fit perfectly into the shape of the organization. You were never cruel, just always consistent. Always focused on results, Penumbra’s people respected that more than theatrics.
The traitor before you was removed; you stood and left the room without comment. The hallway outside was dull in comparison. As you walked, your mind automatically cataloged everyone who walked by. Assessing the gaits, postures, and distances to exits.
The thoughts of those you passed entered your mind with ease.
I need a raise.
I’m going to be late again.
This coffee is awful.
The thoughts were always predictable. Even without your ability, most people were transparent to you. Your ability mostly just confirms your suspicions.
Your walk down the hallway was brief. Your handler’s office awaits you at the end of the corridor. A debrief of the traitor who was interrogated was necessary. Your body pauses before reaching the door, listening closely without hesitation.
Inside, his thoughts were moving frantically. This is a turning point. If she succeeds—
You knocked, briefly cutting his thoughts. You didn’t like lingering; speculation is inefficient and unnecessary.
The door opens, and he gestures for you to enter. You took the chair across from him, your posture straight, hands folded loosely and back angled close enough to the exit to matter. Even while sitting in your home of an organization, your gait never relaxes. You cannot afford to, always counting and always watching exits.
Debriefing quickly, you explain the results of the previous assignment, “He was paid.” You speak once more in a calm and steady voice, “Unauthorized transfer; particle documents were involved. He panicked early.” You did not embellish, only introducing facts.
Your handler nods, “I assumed as much.” He pauses for a moment; his eyes study you a moment longer than necessary. But then he speaks, “We’re assigning you a new operation.” He pauses yet again, utterly pointlessly.
With his brief pause, he exposed the new operation with the dashing thoughts in his mind. The outcomes forming and collapsing in seconds. You read him clearly.
The mission details involve the Port Mafia. A gruesome and cruel group, one that is a blind spot to Penumbra. It is a dangerous blind spot, one that grew more dangerous as rumors spread of a new boss that took the reins.
Penumbra has almost nothing reliable on them, no structure, no internal mapping, no psychological profiles worth trusting. If you do succeed, that intelligence gap will disappear, permanently. It would require a slow and cautious approach, no sudden movements. There would need to be proximity first, then trust later. You would do what you were required to do, listen with Between The Lines, and let the Port Mafia reveal itself from the inside out.
“You already know,” he said.
You nod once in response. This home or an organization will be left behind as you move into an organization that thirsts for blood.
Your handler clears his throat and continues, “Good. Then I won’t insult you by explaining.”
It was settled. Your mind was already planning. Housing would need to be secured, one with good positioning and exposure. Placement would need to be close enough to be noticed, but not close enough to matter. There’s an obvious solution, protected housing from the Port Mafia would be best. It’s expensive for ordinary civilians, but perfect for infiltration.
You would live where the Mafia exerts pressure. Let them come to you; let them decide you were harmless. Then take the information from under them.
Standing up already, you spoke clearly, “Understood.” Then your body bows, signing your exit. This would be a slow infiltration with minimal presence but a maximum yield. Training has secured your victory for you, and hardly any history to your name for the Port Mafia to dig up.
For the next day, you would be a normal civilian girl looking for housing.
— ⸝⸝ ⸝⸝ ⸝⸝ —
The building you found was ideal for the plan. It, however, smells like old cigarettes and damp concrete, with mold sprouting in corners. The building manager was repulsive; his handshake lingered far too long. His scent was of tobacco, alcohol, and sweat, with his hair damp and slick with grease.
Regrettably so, your ability brushed his thoughts effortlessly.
Damn. She’s a look 'er.
Predictable thoughts for a man like him. An unwanted shiver flowed through your body. Internally, your body cringes hard. Despite this, you smile anyway. Just a small and polite smile for a forgettable girl.
The envelope that you prepared has the exact amount of cash for the apartment, leaving no more room for conversation. Your hand holds the envelope out to the greasy man; his ugly, calloused hands brush against yours as he takes it. It’s purposefully done.
He weighs the cash in his palm; he grows satisfied. “Tha protection fee’s separate, darlin’,” he states with a smile. “They’ll come round in the mornin’. Once a month, starin’ tomorrow.”
Your head nods carefully as you speak softly, “I understand.”
His hand brushes against yours as he hands you the key. There’s a tag on the key labeled with 2B. So, you’re on the second floor; it’s ideal for visibility and close enough to hear everything important. The room will be just fine for your mission.
You bow slightly towards the manager before you leave and walk up the stairs towards the new apartment. The stairs creak softly as your shoes meet the wood. You climb as quietly as possible, your footsteps measured and placed deliberately.
Trash was abandoned where it fell, and mold has crept along the walls. Water stains have bloomed like bruises. If you stayed here long enough, you’ll likely get sick.
Thoughts of the apartment neighbors and the building manager bleed faintly through the thin walls as you pass the apartment doors.
Hope the new girl doesn’t complain.
If she’s quiet, she’ll last.
Don’t get involved, just keep to yourself.
Protection is due tomorrow. Do I have enough??
Only fragments of thoughts have introduced themselves tonight. There are no faces to connect them to, at least not yet. These details become logged deep into your mind.
Reaching the doorstep to apartment 2B, your footsteps pause. Your eyes glide around your surroundings, counting the doors, the windows, and blind spots. The key is inserted into the key slot; your hand rotates the key. A soft click of the lock yielding reaches your ears. The door cracks open.
Inside, the air is stale with the smell of old food and neglect baked into the thin walls. It’s entirely unpleasant, but usable and livable. Stepping into apartment 2B, your hand shuts the door behind you and locks it with a click.
It’s a good thing the door locks; it will be a soft barrier that will buy time for a worst-case scenario.
Your backpack hits the floor lightly, only filled with essentials. There are clothes, packaged food, pill bottles, and first aid with bandages and clean gauze. Things you will definitely need if this mission goes south.
You stand still for a moment and listen. The building’s noise settles, as a soft sound of water running occurs above. There’s a cough through the wall. Only ordinary noise is heard.
Then you walk to the window, testing the boundaries of the window; you open it. It opens fully, completely ideal. You would be able to jump out and run if anything happens. The fall, however, would likely leave you with an injury.
The bathroom is next. It’s small but workable. A bathtub and shower hybrid with a see-through curtain. There’s a sink with a built-in cabinet below and a mirror above. You empty the bandages, fresh gauze, and first aid equipment into the empty cabinet. The pill bottles in your backpack were placed onto the countertop. Sleeping aids for the nights when your telepathic mind won’t shut off from other people’s thoughts. Painkillers for the headaches that follow after heavy usage of your ability.
There’s one last bottle that you placed. It’s only for insurance, only if the mission failed. You’d rather be dead than a traitor. You expected to leave it untouched.
The next morning would come soon enough. And with it, a knock on your apartment door.
— ⸝⸝ ⸝⸝ ⸝⸝ —
The knock comes earlier than expected. Tap. Tap. Tap. It’s only three even taps that were spaced, being deliberately laced with professionalism. You’re already awake.
You cross the apartment, leaving the lights off. Your bare footsteps are silent against the floor. As you move, you change your stance. Instead of standing directly in front of the door, you angle yourself to the side, out of the immediate line of fire. It’s a habit of yours, once that was collected from copious amounts of work done through Penumbra.
Your hand turns the lock without hesitation and pulls the door open a bit. There are two men in the hallway; neither of them looks at you immediately. One of them flips through a small ledger. The other glances down the corridor behind them, his hand resting loosely inside his coat. They’re prepared.
Their thoughts brush against yours, only orderly, tidy, and absolutely trained.
Second floor. She’s the new tenant, just arrived yesterday.
Doesn’t look like trouble. Why’s she here?
If she’s trouble, we’ll know for sure.
They’re stuck in their own routine, examining you cautiously and determining your danger level.
You step back a little and open the door a little wider. It’s a welcoming gesture for a girl like you. “Good morning,” you speak tenderly. The man with the ledger glances up in response; his eyes linger half a second too long on you. He’s cataloging every detail in his mind, you can tell. There’s no fear in his mind, and no questions yet.
“Protection fee,” he says. You hum softly, “I was told.” You briefly retrieve the envelope from the table without fully turning your back on the two men. This action was done unintentionally by you, only developed and done by habit. The envelope has the exact amount of cash, pre-counted the night before.
You offer it with both hands, attempting to look small compared to the massive amount of money passed along. This exchange is respectful and uncomplicated, exactly how you like it. He counts the money quickly.
Silence stretches as they assess you, nearly comforting.
The silence is soon broken; the second man speaks in a certain voice. “You’re the new girl, you live alone?” His tone is nearly intimidating; it’s almost like an interrogation off the bat.
You reply, waiting until he’s done fully speaking, “Yes.” You then add mildly and noncommittally, “I keep to myself.” A subtle look passes between the two men. You’re the type of tenant that is ideal. It’s perfect.
The ledge snaps shut. “You don’t ask questions, got it?” The first man warns. The sentence seems like a threat, but it hardly lands as one for you. You smile faintly, “I usually don’t need to.”
Their thoughts shift subtly, no suspicion yet, only interest. However, the curiosity fades quickly when there’s nothing left to cling to. “Next month,” he says. “Same time.” You look the man in the eye and calmly speak, “I’ll be here.”
They turn to leave, but then soon pause. “If there’s trouble,” the second man says, his back still turned, “you come to us. Not the police.”
You respond immediately with the tone of being an airhead, “Of course.”
You close the door and stand still. Listening carefully to the footsteps descending, voices fading, and the pipe knocking from somewhere above. Only when the hallway empties of noise do you lock the door.
Mentally, you record everything. Who spoke first, who watched exits, who counted the money, how they tested you without pressing. It appears you’ve passed so far. There’s no suspicion on you yet.
— ⸝⸝ ⸝⸝ ⸝⸝ —
Weeks have passed now. You’ve developed some connections with the neighbors. There are only men who live here, only shady men. This apartment complex isn’t the type to attract the best of people. It’s a moth to a flame for illegal activities.
Regardless of how you felt, you became polite with the building manager. His eyes still linger on you more than they should. His thoughts remain just as disgusting and ugly.
You needed a simple job, one that could make the cash you have on you partly explainable for when questions arise. You picked up a cafe job, just something ordinary and carefree. Something that can keep up this facade of an innocent civilian lifestyle. A lifestyle that kept you away from the ugliness of the city.
Throughout the halls, as the days ticked by, there was a singular name feared.
Osamu Dazai
It’s as if the name itself was infecting the walls of the building, influencing everyone here. There was another term that lingered, one that was expected.
The boss.
A title, a title that was feared as much as the name of Osamu Dazai.
You quietly report information regarding your week to your handler. Reaching out with your ability, you search through countless minds and locate him, easing politely into his mind. I have secured an apartment residing on Port Mafia territory. A job was secured at a local cafe. Protection fees have been made, and contact has been made with collectors.
His thoughts brush back to you quickly and immediately. Excellent. Please update if any events arise or important information comes your way.
You reply immediately; there’s no point in idle conversation. Understood.
You sever the link between the two of you. Currently, you linger in the room; it’s still not quite a home. This place could never be considered a home; the door is essentially a thin sheet of paper to the mafia. It’ll be kicked down in a few moments if needed. Even so, several copies of your key exist; there’s no doubt.
This mission is far too peaceful for you. It’s too slow, but that’s needed; it’s intentional. You’re meant to disappear into the building, just another quiet tenant, another compliant payment. A person who causes no trouble, a fragile little girl who’s picked the wrong apartment complex. Forgettable things survive longer in this sort of territory.
Nevertheless, everything gets noticed eventually. You were a small bloodied stain, and soon a watchful eye will spot you.
— ⸝⸝ ⸝⸝ ⸝⸝ —
Another collection day. Once again, there’s a knock on the door at the usual time. There are three even taps. Tap tap tap. It feels different this time, like the spacing in between was quicker than the last time.
The envelope with the cash is already prepared. Already wanted by the men beyond the door. You cross the room in the dark, but as you approach the door, something feels wrong. It’s the thoughts of the two men outside. Their thoughts are sharper, faster, frantic, and disordered.
Don’t mess this up.
Why him? Why today?
Collect it and leave—
No sudden movements.
Fear lingers beyond the door. You pause for a moment. This is a deviation in their normal behavior. Something is scaring the two men out there. Maybe, just maybe, you were noticed, but so far your day-to-day life has consisted of work and grocery shopping. That’s all of the footprints you’ve left behind for the time you’ve been here.
There’s no use in hesitation; you unlock the door and pull the door open ajar. Instead of two men this time, there are three. Two of them are familiar, the other men from the previous month. Their posture is stiff, with their eyes forward, their bodies angled inwards like they're shielding the third man that stands between them.
The man in the middle has bandages wrapped around his neck and arms, disappearing beneath a dark coat worn carelessly loose. A red scarf contrasts with the rest of his dark clothes. His posture is relaxed, almost lazy, but nothing about him feels unguarded. His left eye is covered with bandages.
Stillness radiates from his presence, but at the same time nothing is calm about him. He reeks of control. He’s striking in a convenient and annoying way. He has the kind of face people trust long before they realize they shouldn’t have.
He has sharp features along with his half-lidded uncovered eye. There’s a faint, almost private smile on him. Like he already knows how this ends. You log the observation in your mind quietly and move on. Attractive people are often forgiven far too easily; that makes him dangerous.
Regarding the bandages on his delicate figure, it suggests his injured. Despite that, his posture and gait suggest otherwise; he appears to be perfectly physically healthy.
His gaze slides to you; it’s not a direct look, or at least not fully. Like he didn’t need to look fully, as he had already decided something about you before arriving.
The first two men’s thoughts spill out easily.
She the tenant.
Quiet. Pays on time.
Don’t say the wrong thing.
You wait for the bandaged man’s thoughts to arrive cleanly in your mind. But instead, there’s nothing. No surface thoughts, no noise, no static, only complete absence. It’s like pressing your hand into empty air. For half a second, your breathing stutters.
His presence, his thoughts are practically invisible, as if they are contained deep within his body. But you can feel it, this gaze that holds you still, as if he can read everything. The man’s smile deepens, almost imperceptibly. His amusement is obvious; it’s almost mocking.
“Good morning,” you say steadily. Your voice needs to be steady; you’re just a fragile girl who’s just found herself on the Mafia’s doorstep.
One of the familiar men clears his throat, “protection fee.” You nod and move to retrieve the envelope.
You’re now hyper aware of your surroundings. Aware of how long your back is turned, where everyone stands, the reflections in the glass of the window, and the unnatural quiet surrounding you all. You were always light on your feet. Your hands reach and snag the envelope with cash.
Once you approach the three men, you offer the envelope cautiously, keeping your fingers on the very edge of the envelope. No thoughts leak out from the bandage man. He takes the envelope, doesn’t open it, doesn’t count it; he doesn’t even glance inside. Which means money was never the point of this exchange. The money never mattered… so what did? What did he want?
The bandaged man tilts his head ever so softly with a gentle smile. His exposed eye studies you, as if you’re a puzzle that’s missing a piece. You know better than to trust that gentle smile. He’s a predator disguised as prey.
Finally, he speaks, “You live alone.” His voice is low, but it is spoken in almost a soft tone. It’s deceptively soft.
Speaking carefully, you reply, “Yes.”
His posture shifts just slightly. You still don’t understand, why is he wearing bandages? Just by the way he addresses himself and speaks, it’s certain he has no injuries.
His voice seeps in yet again, this time a question, “How long have you been here?”
You select something vague; there’s no reason for you to remember the exact date if you’re an ordinary citizen. You speak clearly, addressing his question, “Not long.”
For a moment, there’s an indescribable expression on his face. His gait changes, almost more relaxed, like he’s purposely letting his guard down, but his uncovered eye never leaves you.
“You don’t ask who I am,” he observes.
You meet his eyes; they’re a soft hazelnut brown, nearly matching his hair. There’s a spark of amusement in his eyes. For a moment, only you both existed in this world, and no one else.
You challenge him only slightly, “I assumed I didn’t need to.”
A soft huff leaves him; it’s almost laughter. The two men beside him stiffen automatically. Then, his soft voice caresses your ears, “You’re a smart girl,” he says lightly. “Or a stupidly brave one.”
You don’t respond immediately. He then steps closer, just a single step. He’s not directly in your space, but he’s close enough now. He smells of antiseptic, old fabric, and something clinical, like he walked out of a hospital. Your stomach tightens automatically from the scent. Your face doesn’t change.
“I’ll be collecting from you personally,” he says. “From now on.” There’s no threat in his tone, only a low, calm voice which makes it worse.
“I understand.” Silence stretches after your response.
The silence is deliberate; the man does not speak more. Instead, he turns away, done with you now. The two men follow behind him; their footsteps fade down the stairwell.
Only once the hallway empties of their presence do you close the door and lock it with a click. You stand there now, completely still. Staring at nothing for the moment.
At the space where thoughts should have been. For the first time in years, there’s someone you can’t read.
And there’s a disgustingly repulsive feeling that he knew.