Chapter Text
Act I
I’ll never forget the smell of rain on asphalt that night.
Not because it was pleasant—it wasn’t—but because it always takes me back to the sound of the ambulance sirens from when I was six. The night my parents stopped breathing, the night that cost me more than I will ever let on, the night I learned that I can’t stomach blood and that I had to learn.
They told me later it was a miracle I survived the car accident, they said it was “quick,” like that was supposed to make it easier. After that, there wasn’t any family waiting in the wings. Just me. Me and whatever scraps I could dig out of a dumpster before the next downpour.
I learned early that people notice you when you want them to look away, and they ignore you when you’re desperate for them to see you. So I stayed small, quiet. Kept to the alleyways where the light never quite reached. The city has corners no one bothers with—those were mine. I’d steal bread, a few oranges when I was lucky, and once even a box of half-crushed pocky.
Jinko showed up in winter, shivering in a cardboard box behind a ramen shop. Orange fur striped like a tiger, eyes sharp like he already knew the world wouldn’t be kind. I shared what I had with him, and he stayed. Or maybe I stayed for him. Either way, it made the nights less hollow.
Thirteen years of that. Thirteen years of pretending the city didn’t own me.
Then, today, the whispers started.
They carried down the streets in low voices—about some man in a long trench coat, hands wrapped in bandages, looking for a kid. Not just any kid. One who knew how to survive. People say his name like it might bite them: Dazai Osamu. The Armed Detective Agency’s own trouble magnet. They say he’s either the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet or the one most likely to buy you lunch and then push you into the river to see if you can swim.
I didn’t care. People like him didn’t look twice at kids like me. But fate’s got a nasty sense of humor.
It was late afternoon, the sky caught between gold and grey, and I was sitting cross-legged in my usual alley, Jinko purring against my side, when a shadow cut across us. I looked up, and there he was—coat flapping like he’d just stepped out of a crime scene, bandaged hands stuffed into his pockets, smile a little too easy to be trustworthy.
“Now, this is interesting,” he said, tilting his head at me like I was an oddity in a shop window. “A boy and his cat. Tell me, do you like the idea of… a job?”
That’s how it began. The moment that pulled me out of the cracks I’d learned to live in.
And, if I’m being honest, the moment I should’ve known my life was about to get very, very complicated.
The wind off the bay was sharper up here, carrying the smell of salt and rain as I sat on the edge of the balcony rail. My legs dangled over the drop, Jinko curled in my lap, his purr thrumming against my ribs. The man—Dazai, he’d introduced himself as—leaned against the railing across from me, trench coat swaying with the breeze, an almost lazy smile tugging at his lips.
He hadn’t asked much, at least not directly. Just… watched me. Like he was turning puzzle pieces over in his head, trying to see how I’d fit into whatever strange picture he was building.
“I don’t know what your ability is yet,” he said finally, voice mild but eyes sharp. “But you have one. I can tell. And that means you can’t stay out here forever.”
I looked down at my bare feet, tracing the dirt crusted along the skin, at Jinko’s ears flicking in irritation from the wind. “I’ve been fine so far.”
“Fine,” he repeated, almost amused. “You call scavenging through dumpsters and dodging gang turf wars fine? Noe, I’m offering you something better. A roof over your head. Three meals a day. A steady salary. And a job that might actually keep you alive longer than whatever you’ve been doing.”
The words dug under my ribs, warm and dangerous. No one had offered me anything since… since the accident. Since the screaming metal and glass and the world turning sideways. My fingers tightened in Jinko’s fur.
“What’s the catch?” I asked.
“Oh, there’s always a catch,” Dazai said with a mock-serious tilt of his head. “But in this case… it’s simply that you’ll be working for the Armed Detective Agency. We solve cases too dangerous for the police. You’ll risk your life more than you’d like, and you’ll meet people who’ll drive you insane. But you’ll also have a place to belong.”
Belong. That word was heavier than I expected. I met his gaze. He didn’t look away, didn’t try to fill the silence. Just waited.
I exhaled through my nose, slow, like I could let go of the years of cold nights and stolen bread with one breath. “Alright,” I said finally. “I’ll join.”
Dazai’s grin widened, like he’d already known my answer. “Perfect. You start tomorrow. And bring Jinko—Ranpo loves cats.”
I didn’t know exactly who Ranpo was, or what exactly I’d just signed up for but I knew enough from the ghost to know it was nothing like the Port Mafia. And for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t thinking about where I’d sleep tonight.
I slid off the ledge, my bare feet landing quietly on the cold concrete. Jinko leapt gracefully to the balcony floor, tail curling like a question mark before he padded after me. I grabbed my backpack from where it sat propped against the wall—a ripped, patched-up thing held together by safety pins, frayed straps, and sheer stubbornness. The fabric was stiff with salt and dirt, the kind of smell you stop noticing when it’s been years since you’ve had anything better.
Dazai glanced at it with an arched brow, but didn’t comment. He just pushed himself off the railing and started toward the sliding glass door. “Come on, ghost boy.”
I froze for a half-second, but his tone was light, like he didn’t mean anything by it. Still, my grip tightened on the strap. If he knew… if anyone knew…
The truth was, I’d been hearing them—seeing them—my whole life. Ghosts. Wandering spirits. Ones that clung to old streets and rotting doorframes, the ones too stubborn or too scared to move on. Most just talked. Some begged. A few… well, a few liked to take control if I let them, slipping into my skin like it was a jacket they could borrow.
It was why I knew about the Armed Detective Agency long before Dazai showed up in that alley. Ghosts see everything. Dead police officers still haunting precinct basements, unlucky gangsters floating around street corners, old victims watching the windows of the Agency building from across the street. I knew about the cases, the people, even the disasters no one dared print in the papers.
But if anyone asked? I could read minds. Simple. Easier than explaining the truth, and less likely to make people look at me like I was cursed.
I followed Dazai through the apartment and down a narrow set of stairs, Jinko trotting ahead like he’d already decided this strange man was safe. Dazai moved with that loose, unbothered gait, hands in his pockets, humming under his breath like we weren’t heading toward a complete change in my life.
I adjusted the strap of my bag, feeling the weight of all my worldly possessions dragging on my shoulder. Not much—half a blanket, a chipped mug I’d stolen from a café, a change of clothes, a couple of old paperbacks, and a tin of cat food I’d scavenged the day before.
At the bottom of the stairs, Dazai turned to me with a sly little smile. “You know,” he said, “most kids I’ve picked up off the streets aren’t quite so quick to say yes. You almost seem like you were expecting me.”
I forced a shrug, eyes flicking away. “Maybe I can read minds.”
He chuckled. “Oh? That so?”
I just smiled faintly, letting him think whatever he wanted. The truth could stay buried a little longer.
We stepped out into the street, the late afternoon light slanting between buildings in long, gold-tinged shadows. Jinko kept pace at my heels, tail swaying like a metronome. Dazai shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, humming some aimless tune as though we weren’t walking straight into whatever mess he’d decided I was fit for.
I let the silence drag for a bit, kicking a loose pebble down the sidewalk, before finally glancing over at him.
“So,” I said, voice flat, “what’s the case? Or is this one of those ‘figure it out while you’re bleeding out’ kind of jobs?”
Dazai’s grin tilted, almost pleased. “Oh, eager already? We haven’t even gotten you paperwork, a desk, or your very own life insurance policy.”
“Yeah, because that’ll be real useful when you drag me into some suicide pact with you.”
He didn’t flinch, didn’t miss a beat. “Ah, so you’ve heard of my hobbies. I feel honored.”
I smirked, sharp and quick, before letting my expression fall back into something unreadable. “Seriously, though. What’s the job?”
He blinked at the sudden shift in my tone. I’d done it on purpose—the drop from snark to serious so sudden you could feel the temperature drop a few degrees.
For a moment, the air between us felt heavier.
“A missing person,” he said finally, voice low, like he’d matched my seriousness without even realizing it. “A student from a local university. Vanished last week. Police say she ran away, but… we think otherwise.”
“Otherwise meaning ‘ability user,’ right?” I asked, eyes narrowing.
His smile didn’t reach his eyes this time. “Otherwise meaning she’s in danger. And if I’m right, we’re already running late.”
Jinko let out a low, rumbling meow, like even he could sense the tension curling between us.
I slung my backpack higher on my shoulder. “Then stop walking like you’re out for a Sunday stroll, old man. Lead the way.”
He laughed—genuine this time—and started forward again, the sound echoing off brick and glass.
The walk to the Agency wasn’t long, but Dazai didn’t take me there right away. Instead, after weaving through the quieter streets of Yokohama, he stopped in front of a modest apartment building.
“This is you,” he said casually, fishing a set of keys out of his coat pocket. “Company sanctioned. Don’t trash it too badly, or Kunikida will write me an essay on the dangers of letting strays indoors.”
I snorted. “Stray’s better than half-dead. You sure you’re qualified to be babysitting me, considering your… hobbies?”
He ignored that, unlocking the door and stepping aside so I could walk in first.
The place was small—just a narrow hallway leading into a single main room with a kitchenette tucked to the side. Clean, but basic. No furniture besides a bed, an old couch, a small table, and an empty shelf. The curtains were drawn, dust motes drifting in the weak afternoon light.
I didn’t say anything. Just stepped inside and dropped my backpack onto the floor. Jinko trotted in after me, sniffing every corner like he owned it.
Dazai lingered in the doorway, eyes scanning the room, then sliding over to me. I caught the flicker of something in his gaze—pity, maybe, or concern—but it was gone before I could call him out on it.
It wasn’t the room that had gotten to him. It was me.
I realized why when I pulled off my jacket. The sleeves of my hoodie were worn thin at the cuffs, the fabric fraying in places where I’d stitched it back together with mismatched thread. My ribs showed faintly through my shirt when I moved, and the faint, jagged scars climbing up my forearms—old, healed over, but there—caught the dim light.
His smile softened in a way I didn’t like.
“You’re worse off than I thought,” he said quietly.
I shrugged, pretending to fuss with Jinko’s food tin. “Guess you’ll have to feed me, then. Comes with the salary, right?”
Dazai chuckled, but it was muted. “Yeah. It does.”
I didn’t meet his eyes. I’d learned a long time ago that when people started looking at you like that—like you were fragile glass—things got complicated.
“Alright,” he said after a beat, clapping his hands once and shaking off whatever heaviness had tried to settle. “Get some rest. We start tomorrow, and I expect you to be bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready to dive into certain doom.”
“Perfect,” I deadpanned. “My favorite kind of work.”
The apartment was too quiet.
Not the comforting kind of quiet—more like the kind that leaves you aware of every creak in the walls, every hum of the refrigerator, every faint rush of traffic outside.
Jinko had already claimed the bed, curled into a stripey loaf with his tail tucked under his chin. I sat cross-legged on the floor beside my backpack, picking through the contents. Half the stuff wasn’t worth keeping—crumpled receipts, a rusted pen, a chipped coin I’d been using as a worry stone—but it felt wrong to throw anything away.
That was when I heard it.
Not a noise in the room—no floorboard creak, no neighbor’s TV.
A whisper, muffled at first, like someone speaking through glass.
I froze. My shoulders went tense, head tilting just enough to listen.
“…help…”
The word was so faint it could’ve been the wind through the vent. But I knew better.
I got up slowly, stepping over Jinko, and moved to the window. The curtains were thin, dusty, letting in a dull glow from the streetlamp outside. I pulled them back just enough to see.
Down in the alley across the street, standing where the light barely reached, was a woman. Or what was left of one. Her outline flickered in the air, her form stretched and broken like a half-finished sketch. Her eyes were wide, hollow, locked on me with desperate recognition.
I knew her.
Not personally—but from the way the Agency’s ghosts had whispered all week. The missing university student. The one Dazai had said “vanished.”
She mouthed something I couldn’t quite hear, the edges of her form blurring like smoke in the wind. I leaned closer, pressing my palm to the glass.
And then her voice slid into my head, cold and sharp.
They’ll find me. And you’ll be next.
Before I could respond, her head snapped to the side—like she’d heard someone coming—and she was gone. Vanished in a blink, leaving the alley empty except for the shadows.
I stood there for a moment, pulse quickening, the glass cold under my hand.
Jinko hopped onto the windowsill beside me, tail flicking. He gave me a look like he knew exactly what I’d seen.
I let the curtain fall back into place.
If this was what my first day with the Agency was going to be like… Dazai had seriously undersold it.
By the time I stepped away from the window, the adrenaline was already starting to burn out of my system, leaving me heavy-limbed and slow. My head felt like it was packed with damp cotton—too many voices, too many whispers, too much of that cold aftertaste ghosts always left behind.
I dropped onto the bed beside Jinko. He didn’t even protest, just shifted so I could curl around him. My spare jacket—one size too big and threadbare at the elbows—was still in my backpack, but I didn’t have the energy to change. The room felt faintly warmer now, but my fingers were still cold, and the heaviness behind my eyes made it hard to keep them open.
I told myself I’d think about what I saw in the morning. That I’d figure out how to bring it up without handing Dazai the truth about my ability on a silver platter.
Instead, I passed out before I could even pull the blanket over myself.
The next morning, pale light filtered in through the curtains, dust motes drifting lazily in the air. I woke up to Jinko kneading my ribs for attention, his claws a little too sharp for a gentle wake-up call.
“Alright, alright,” I muttered, sitting up and rubbing at my eyes. My clothes from yesterday were stiff with city grit, so I pulled on my only spare set: faded black jeans, a dark green T-shirt with a stretched neckline, and the patched jacket from my bag. Still smelled faintly of rain and alleyway, but it was clean enough by my standards.
I stuffed Jinko’s food dish with the last of the tin from last night and grabbed my backpack. Locking the apartment door behind me felt strange—like I was pretending to belong somewhere I hadn’t earned yet.
Dazai was waiting outside the Agency building, leaning against the wall like he’d been there forever, hands stuffed into his pockets and a grin that was probably meant to look welcoming but mostly looked like trouble.
“Morning, Kiichiro!” he said like we were old friends. “Ready for your thrilling debut?”
“Sure,” I said, stepping past him toward the doors. “Thrilling sounds great. Especially if it involves free coffee.”
He fell into step beside me. “Oh, we have coffee. And Kunikida’s lectures. You’re in for a treat.”
I snorted, pushing the door open. “Guess I should savor it before the inevitable near-death experience.”
“Exactly!” he said cheerfully, like that was the best possible outlook.
Inside, the Agency office buzzed with morning activity—papers shuffling, phones ringing, voices overlapping. The smell of coffee was strong enough to cut through my sleep haze. I adjusted my jacket, trying not to look like someone who’d slept with their cat in a half-empty apartment.
Dazai clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Come on, rookie. Time to meet the family.”
I had no idea if he meant that in the “friendly coworkers” way or the “welcome to the mob” way. Either way, I followed.
The introductions didn’t happen at some neat conference table like a normal job.
No—Dazai barely gave me ten minutes inside the building before he decided, “Hey, let’s throw the new kid into a life-or-death situation.”
He didn’t even warn me. Just slapped a mission file into my hands, grinned, and said, “We’ve got a bombing threat. Could be nothing… could be your first heroic act. Either way, good luck!”
I followed him and a handful of other Agents to a supposedly “compromised” office building downtown, where the place was already evacuated. Kunikida barked orders like an overcaffeinated drill sergeant, Atsushi kept pacing, and Dazai… well, Dazai was watching me more than the scene.
I stood there for a minute, scanning the building, and the truth clicked almost instantly. No ghosts lingering in panic, no psychic buzz of violence in the walls. Just emptiness. Manufactured.
I turned to Dazai, giving him the flattest, most unimpressed stare I could muster.
“Come on,” I said, my voice dry as dust. “Did you really think you could fool a mind reader with a fake bombing threat? Please.”
For a split second, he actually blinked—like he hadn’t expected me to call his bluff that fast. Then he laughed. Not fake amusement—actual, caught-off-guard laughter.
“Well, well,” he said, smirking. “You ruined my fun, but I’m impressed.”
“I’m touched,” I deadpanned. “Now can we go back before Kunikida bursts a blood vessel?”
Back at the Agency
The return to the Agency was almost worse than the fake bomb scare. Kunikida was muttering under his breath about “irresponsible behavior” and “utter wastes of taxpayer resources.” Atsushi kept glancing at me like I’d grown a second head. Dazai, of course, was humming a jaunty tune, utterly unbothered.
The office was buzzing when we walked back in, but the buzz died quick when I noticed him.
President Fukuzawa stood near one of the desks in the common office, his posture straight, his expression unreadable, like he’d been waiting for us. The air shifted—the way it always does when someone who actually commands respect walks into the room.
Dazai only tilted his head and grinned. “Oh? You were waiting for us, President?”
Fukuzawa’s gaze landed on me, sharp and steady. He didn’t look me up and down, didn’t scan me like a stray off the streets—he just looked. Like he could see straight through my half-hearted slouch and the sarcastic armor I wrapped myself in, and for the first time since Dazai dragged me into this mess, I had to fight the urge to shift under someone’s eyes.
“Dazai has spoken to me,” Fukuzawa said, voice quiet but carrying. “He was… persistent.”
I shot Dazai a sidelong glance. “Persistent? That’s one word for him.”
Dazai didn’t even blink at the jab, just leaned back against a desk, smug as ever.
Fukuzawa continued. “I’ve been considering his proposal. But ultimately…” His gaze lingered on Dazai for a moment, and then he stood, smooth and deliberate. “My decision is this: whatever Dazai says.”
And just like that, he turned and walked out of the communal office, robes brushing softly against the floor. The door closed behind him, leaving the room silent for half a heartbeat.
Then Dazai’s grin widened, and he clapped his hands together like this was the grand finale to a magic trick only he was in on.
“Well then!” he announced, eyes sliding over to me. “Welcome to the Armed Detective Agency, Kiichiro.”
I blinked at him, then let out a low snort, dragging a hand through my hair. “That’s it? No contracts, no test, just… ‘whatever Dazai says’? Wow. Real airtight vetting process you’ve got here.”
“Don’t worry,” Dazai said, eyes glinting with amusement. “You’ll be tested plenty soon. Consider this the calm before the storm.”
“Calm?” I muttered, glancing around at the other agents staring at me with varying degrees of confusion and suspicion. “You and I have very different definitions of calm.”
But even as I said it, I felt something in my chest shift. Like maybe—for the first time in years—I wasn’t just drifting.
The official introductions finally happened after we returned, though they weren’t much better.
Kunikida was first—neat, tall, rigid posture, notebook in hand like it was an extension of his spine. “I expect you to follow the rules,” he said.
I looked him dead in the eye. “Oh, I definitely will. Which rules, though? Yours, or Dazai’s?”
Atsushi, awkward as hell, offered a handshake. I took it but couldn’t resist saying, “Don’t worry, I’m not here to replace you. Dazai just likes collecting strays.”
Ranpo was sprawled in a chair, eating snacks, clearly not interested in the formalities. “Another kid?” he asked, not even looking up. “Can you do anything useful?”
“Read minds,” I said without missing a beat.
He finally glanced at me, squinting. “…I don’t like you.”
I grinned. “Perfect, we’re starting off honest.”
Yosano was next, standing with her hands in her coat pockets, expression cool. “Don’t get yourself killed,” she said.
“Planning on it,” I replied. “But not before lunch.”
By the end of it, I’d decided Yosano was the only one I respected outright—mostly because she didn’t waste my time with fake pleasantries. Ranpo was tolerable. Atsushi seemed nice enough but probably too soft. And Kunikida… well, Kunikida was going to hate me within the week.
Dazai, of course, was watching all of this with the satisfied look of someone who’d just found their new favorite chaos piece on the board.
It was barely noon when Dazai finally let me breathe—well, as much as you can breathe in an office where Kunikida is practically vibrating with irritation in the next room.
I sat at the edge of an empty desk, spinning a pen between my fingers, running over what I’d seen last night. The girl. The missing student. Her voice still lingered in my head like an aftertaste. They’ll find me. And you’ll be next.
I could keep my mouth shut, pretend I’d seen nothing, but… if she was right about the “they” part, sitting quiet wasn’t going to help.
“Hey, Dazai,” I said, my tone deliberately casual.
He popped his head around the corner like an overly curious cat. “Yes, rookie?”
“I want to check an alley,” I said. “Couple blocks from my apartment. Think it might be tied to that missing person case.”
“Oh?” His voice was light, but I caught the flicker in his expression—interest sharpening beneath the lazy grin. “And what makes you think that?”
“Call it a hunch,” I said smoothly. “Or maybe my mind reading picked something up. Someone in the neighborhood’s got… thoughts that don’t add up.”
He studied me for a second too long, like he was weighing how much I wasn’t telling him. Then, with a shrug, he straightened up. “Alright, lead the way.”
We walked through the midday crowd, the sky washed out and bright. I didn’t say much—just kept my eyes ahead, listening. Ghosts didn’t usually linger in daylight unless they were desperate. That girl had been desperate.
When we got to the alley, it looked ordinary enough: a cracked pavement, a couple of dented trash bins, graffiti curling over brick. Nothing to make the average person stop and stare.
But I stopped.
The air was wrong here—colder than it should be in the sun, a faint hum just under the noise of the city. My fingers twitched at my sides, wanting to call her out. But I didn’t. Not yet.
“Well,” Dazai said, scanning the place, “this is charming. And you think—”
“I think it’s worth looking at,” I cut in. “Missing girl’s trail might have gone cold for the cops, but they don’t have me. Or you.”
He tilted his head, still smiling but quieter now. “And you’re sure it’s not just another one of your hunches?”
I met his gaze without blinking. “Do you want me to be wrong?”
For once, Dazai didn’t answer right away.
He didn’t move for a moment, just let the silence stretch while I stared him down.
Then he stepped past me into the alley, boots crunching over grit.
“Alright, rookie,” he said, crouching near one of the trash bins, “let’s see what your mind reading dragged us into.”
I followed, keeping my hands shoved in my hoodie pocket so I wouldn’t fidget. The girl’s presence was faint now—whatever strength she’d had last night was slipping—but she’d been here. I could feel it, like the echo of a scream.
Dazai’s fingers brushed something behind the trash bin. He pulled it free and held it up: a slim, leather-strapped wristwatch, its face cracked, band stained with something dark.
“Nice find,” I said, keeping my voice flat.
He glanced at me over his shoulder. “Police missed it. Which means they didn’t look here.” He stood, dusting his hands off, then started scanning the walls. “What else am I supposed to find, oh great telepathic wonder?”
I rolled my eyes and moved toward the far end of the alley, where a battered dumpster sat crooked on its wheels. The ghost’s whisper stirred faintly, urging me closer. I kicked the side, and something metallic clinked against the inside.
Reaching in, I came out with a torn piece of fabric—dark blue, silky, with a silver thread embroidered in a floral pattern. Not trash. It looked like it had been ripped off something expensive.
Dazai wandered over, eyes flicking between the fabric and my face. “Interesting.” He didn’t say how I’d known to check there, but I could see the question simmering.
We kept looking, and near the base of the wall I found the third piece—scratches in the brick, fresh enough that the dust hadn’t settled into them yet. They weren’t random; they curved and crossed like someone had carved a symbol in a hurry.
I didn’t touch it. Dazai stepped up, tracing the lines with a finger, and frowned—just slightly, but for Dazai, that was practically alarm bells.
“Alright, Kiichiro,” he said lightly, slipping the watch and fabric into his coat pocket, “I’ll bite. How exactly did your mind reading pick all this up?”
I smirked, leaning against the wall. “Trade secret. You’d just use it for evil.”
He smiled, but his eyes didn’t lose that glint. “Oh, I’m already planning to.”
We left the alley with three solid leads—and one more layer of Dazai’s suspicion on my back. He wasn’t connecting the dots yet, but he’d started collecting them. And that was almost worse.
Back at the Agency, Dazai dropped the watch and the torn fabric onto the conference table like a magician revealing his latest trick.
Kunikida leaned over them immediately, jotting something in that ever-present notebook. “These weren’t in the police report.”
“That’s because,” Dazai said with a pointed glance at me, “my new protégé has an eye for detail.”
I didn’t bother correcting him. “You’re welcome,” I said, dropping into a chair.
Yosano was the next to take interest. She picked up the fabric, rubbing it between her fingers. “Quality material. Silk, maybe custom embroidery. Whoever owned this had money.”
Across the table, Ranpo was lazily munching on a bag of candy, eyes half-lidded like he wasn’t paying attention. But when Dazai slid a photo of the wall scratches across the table, something shifted in his expression.
He leaned forward, pushing his glasses up. “Huh.”
That one sound had everyone looking at him.
Ranpo tapped the symbol in the photo. “This isn’t new. I’ve seen this before.”
Kunikida straightened. “Where?”
“Case files from about eight years ago,” Ranpo said, too casual for the weight of his words. “A serial killer. Targeted young women—mostly students. Left this mark near every scene. Case went cold when the murders stopped.”
I felt a cold pull in my gut. The girl from the alley…
“Either he’s back,” Ranpo went on, “or someone’s trying really hard to make it look that way.” He popped another piece of candy into his mouth, then turned his attention to me, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Funny you knew exactly where to find it, rookie.”
My heart skipped, but I kept my expression bored. “Mind reading, remember?”
“Mhm.” Ranpo’s gaze lingered a moment too long, like he was peeling back layers I didn’t want touched. “Sure.”
He looked away, but I knew he wasn’t done.
Dazai’s smile was sharp, but not directed at me—at the case. “Well, then. Looks like our little missing persons job just got a lot more interesting.”
The room buzzed with low conversation, everyone speculating whether they were dealing with a return or a copycat. Me? I stayed quiet.
Because I already knew the answer. The girl had told me. And if she was right, we weren’t just dealing with a killer. We were dealing with something much, much worse.
The meeting broke with the usual shuffle of papers and the scraping of chairs, everyone drifting off into their respective corners of the office. I was halfway to making a quiet exit when Dazai’s voice hooked me like a fish on a line.
“Kiichiro,” he said smoothly, “you’re with Ranpo today.”
I stopped dead. “I’m sorry—what?”
Ranpo, who’d been stuffing the last of his candy into his mouth, grinned around the crinkle of the wrapper. “Don’t look so scared, rookie. I don’t bite.” He swallowed. “Much.”
“I’m not scared,” I said, shifting Jinko to my other arm. “I just figured if you wanted someone to babysit me, you’d pick someone less… nosy.”
“That’s exactly why I picked him,” Dazai said, his grin all teeth. “Two geniuses, one case. Think of it as… enrichment.”
“Like I’m a zoo animal,” I muttered.
“Exactly.” Dazai’s tone was far too pleased with himself.
Ranpo was already heading toward the door. “Come on, rookie. We’re going to the archives to dig up the original case files. Unless you want me to solve the whole thing before you even get there.”
I followed, because what choice did I have? The archives were in the police station’s basement—long rows of metal shelves stacked with case folders, the air thick with that dry-paper smell that clings to your clothes.
Ranpo didn’t waste time. He moved down the aisles like he already knew where the right boxes were, his fingers trailing along labels until he stopped and tugged out a thick, dust-coated binder.
“Here.” He set it on the table with a heavy thud and flipped it open to a series of black-and-white crime scene photos. The symbol from the alley appeared in at least five of them, always scratched onto a wall, door, or even once into the bark of a tree.
“Charming,” I said, leaning over to look. “And the guy just… stopped eight years ago?”
Ranpo glanced at me, his gaze a little too sharp. “That’s what the reports say. But killers like this? They don’t stop. Something made them. Prison. Death. Or maybe they changed targets.”
I drummed my fingers on the table, keeping my tone casual. “Or someone’s copying them now.”
“Maybe.” He turned another page without looking away from me. “Still… you finding that mark was interesting.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What, you think I planted it?”
“No,” Ranpo said, almost too quickly. “I think you saw something you’re not telling us. And I don’t need your ‘mind reading’ excuse to know it.”
The silence stretched between us, heavy and thick as the dust in the air.
I broke eye contact first, leaning over the photos again. “Believe what you want. I just want to find the girl before she ends up in one of these pages.”
For a moment, Ranpo’s smirk faded. He nodded once, like he’d filed something away in his head for later, then went back to flipping through the binder.
“Good,” he said finally. “Because I think I know where to start looking.”