Chapter 48: The Double Black
When Dazai Osamu met Verlaine, it was at dusk when the sky was particularly intensely colored by the setting sun.
Dusk is always a mysterious time, the horizon dyed a magnificent orange-red, like some kind of ominous omens. It was at this moment of interplay of light and shadow that Dazai Osamu received his expected guest in a lonely shipping container near the abandoned port.
The interior of the shipping container was sparsely furnished, containing only an old wooden chair, a wooden crate serving as a table, and a few books scattered on the floor. The mottled rust on the corrugated iron walls resembled dried blood, and the air was thick with the salty smell of the sea and the metallic rust of metal. The door was ajar, as if it had foreseen the visitor's arrival, leaving a crack for a peek inside. Dazai Osamu sat quietly in the wooden chair, his figure appearing particularly thin in the dimming light. His iris-colored eyes were lowered, as if deep in thought, or perhaps simply blanking out his mind.
A sudden, steady footstep approached. The newcomer's boots clicked clearly on the gravel and sand. The door creaked open, the hinges groaning. A figure walked in against the dim light, tall and imposing, wearing a well-tailored light-colored suit, his golden hair gleaming like flames in the sunset.
“It’s truly astonishing,” Verlaine began, his voice deep and pleasant, with a pure French accent, continuing sarcastically, “The infamous Port Mafia boss, Osamu Dazai, lives in such a cramped place… even stray dogs would turn their backs on it. Should we praise your frugality, or pity your destitution?”
Dazai Osamu slowly raised his eyes. His gaze was calm and unwavering; the figure reflected in his iris-colored pupils stirred not a ripple of emotion within him. He didn't even respond to Verlaine's sarcasm, simply looking at the other man silently, as if examining an exhibit unrelated to himself. Even though he clearly sensed the undisguised killing intent emanating from the other man, permeating the small space like a tangible presence, his expression remained completely unchanged. It was an ultimate calm that transcended the fear of death.
This reaction caused a flicker of surprise in Verlaine's eyes, who had initially arrived with a mocking and destructive intent. He prided himself on having killed countless people and witnessed far too many lives before death—hysterical fear, pitiful pleas, bluffing threats, and feigned composure. But never had anyone possessed such an empty gaze as the boy before him, seemingly indifferent to his impending destruction, yet burning with a deep-seated mockery of the world. It was an aura of…kindness. Not referring to power or status, but a deeper resonance—a sense of emptiness about one's own existence, and a complete detachment from the world.
It was this fleeting sense of familiarity that made Verlaine change his mind. A metal buckle he had been holding between his fingers, imbued with his gravity-based powers, veered off course by an almost imperceptible angle just before it was about to be released. The buckle transformed into a rapid beam, whistling through the air, grazing past Dazai Osamu's ear. With a soft "thud," it embedded itself deeply into the metal of the shipping container behind him, leaving a smooth, round hole. The gust of wind ruffled Dazai Osamu's black hair, but he didn't even blink; his expression remained unchanged.
“You’re quite interesting, young man.” Verlaine tilted his head slightly, scrutinizing Dazai. “Tell me your name yourself.”
“Dazai Osamu.” Dazai’s voice was steady, devoid of emotion.
“Dazai Osamu…” Verlaine repeated the name with amusement, a cryptic smile playing on his lips. “I’ve bought you three days. In three days, give me all the information about [Arahabaki] and the Port Mafia. I believe that with your abilities, this shouldn’t be difficult.” His tone was more of a declaration than a request.
Dazai Osamu didn't haggle; he simply nodded. "Okay."
Verlaine gave him one last, deep look, a gaze that seemed to pierce through his skin and into the depths of his soul. Then, he turned and left the container with the same elegance he had shown when he arrived. His footsteps faded into the stillness of the twilight outside.
Only when the footsteps completely disappeared did Dazai Osamu let out a barely audible sigh, his nerves, which had been stretched to the limit, finally relaxing slightly. He knew that the moment for a direct confrontation with this king of assassins from Europe was far from over. Everything that had just happened was merely a psychological game, its purpose simply to buy precious time, to lull his opponent into a false sense of control, and thus to create more room for his own secretly laid plans. Verlaine's killing intent was real; that momentary deviation was less a matter of luck and more a narrow victory achieved through his precise calculation and exploitation of that subtle psychological shift in his opponent's mind.
His long, slender fingers tapped rhythmically on the rough wooden table, producing a "tap, tap" sound that echoed in the silent container like the pendulum of a countdown clock. A moment later, he took out his phone, smoothly edited a short, encrypted message, sent the part of the plan he was involved in to a specific number, and then unhesitatingly removed the phone battery, casually tossing the parts onto the wooden table as if they were some insignificant piece of trash.
He stood up, walked to the hole pierced by the metal buckle, and looked out through the small round opening. The sun had almost completely sunk below the horizon, its last rays painting the sky a reddish-black, like a bruised wound. He thought, "These recent events have finally come to an end."
...
A few days later.
Chuuya Nakahara was currently leaning back in the back seat of a black sedan used by the Port Mafia, reviewing mission reports while mentally calculating something. If he remembered correctly, today was probably the day he first met Adam, and also... the day Verlaine killed the other members of the Flag Society.
He closed his eyes wearily, rubbed his temples, then turned his head to look out the window, trying to distract himself from the heaviness in his heart by gazing at the scenery. The car drove smoothly through the bustling commercial district and into a relatively quiet residential area. Most of the buildings here were quite old, carrying the charm of the Showa era. The streets were narrow and clean, lined with tall trees whose branches swayed gently in the breeze.
The car finally came to a slow stop in front of an old-fashioned billiards bar. The bar's facade looked quite old; the wooden signboard, weathered by time, was faded in color, and several large, slightly mottled characters were painted on it in a dark blue-gray paint: "Old World".
The moment he saw the name—no, perhaps even earlier, when he realized where the car had finally stopped—Chūya Nakahara felt as if an invisible hand had gripped his heart tightly, causing it to stop beating abruptly. He instinctively held his breath, his blood seemingly freezing. Even though he had anticipated this moment, a flicker of anticipation still compelled him to get out of the car, walk step by step towards the familiar shop door, take a deep breath, and reach out to push open the heavy door—
"Don't move!"
"The store is still preparing."
"If it's a corpse, then we can go in."
...
Almost simultaneously, five figures appeared from different corners of the bar, and the muzzles of five guns were almost simultaneously aimed at Nakahara Chuuya, who had just stepped into the door, as a special invitation ceremony.
The figures he saw and the sounds he heard overlapped with his memories, like a dream—if he could dream, this would probably be how it felt. Even with dangerous weapons pointed at him from all sides, he felt no resistance whatsoever, because he knew perfectly well that he would not be harmed. He simply stood there, his expression somewhat stiff, but no one noticed.
This familiar, heart-wrenching scene stirred up memories deep within Chuuya's mind, causing his eyes to well up with tears and his vision to blur rapidly. A torrent of emotions overwhelmed his senses. He hurriedly used the dark shadows cast on his face in the bar to turn his head slightly, trying to blink back the tears that were about to spill, concealing his quietly reddening eyes.
Behind him, the black sedan that had brought him there had silently driven away and disappeared at the end of the street.
Chuuya didn't speak, afraid that if he uttered a sound, he would choke up and feel embarrassed. The air seemed to freeze. Everyone except Chuuya pulled the trigger hard. With a snap, what came out of the gun was not a bullet, but colorful ribbons. They drew brilliant arcs in the air and then fluttered down, covering Chuuya's hair and shoulders.
At the same time, colorful confetti, which had been prepared beforehand, began to fall from the ceiling.
"Chuuya, congratulations on your first anniversary of joining the Port Mafia!"
Five voices, filled with undisguised joy and sincerity, rang out in unison, echoing in the small bar space. To Chuuya's ears, it felt like a dream, as if he were in another world, still lacking any sense of reality.
He opened his mouth, looking at his friends with genuine smiles on their faces, and felt a feeling slowly swelling inside him.
...It's the Flag Association. All of you who are still alive.
He opened his mouth, but his throat felt blocked, and he couldn't make a sound. Although he'd met Ah-Dai-Niao and the doctor a few times recently, he hadn't seen the others. They were all busy with various missions, so they hadn't met since Chuuya arrived in this world. Today, however, everyone was gathered here for a common reason, a place that overlapped with his memories, yet was slightly different.
Despite being many years older than he actually was, returning to the past and seeing friends he thought he'd never see again stirred emotions beyond his wildest imagination, almost making him lose control of his expression. However, it would be incredibly pathetic to be moved to tears at the very beginning! So he managed to control his expression, but his effort made it slightly contorted. At least it didn't reveal that he was actually on the verge of tears; instead, it made people wonder if he was dissatisfied with the surprise or angry because he'd been startled by the initial welcoming ceremony.
"...Are you all idiots?"
Chuuya spoke slowly, suppressing his emotions as he took steps forward, his voice slightly hoarse. He tried his best to suppress the surging emotions in his chest as he strode forward, head down, and walked straight through the five people into the bar, leaving everyone with a back view that seemed to refuse to communicate due to dissatisfaction with the surprise.
The members of the flag association exchanged glances, and the previously cheerful atmosphere froze slightly. Unsure of his mood, they assumed Chuuya was somewhat unhappy. After a few more glances, the pianist coughed lightly and asked tentatively, "What's wrong, Chuuya? Are you unhappy?"
Looking at Chuuya's tense back, he carefully chose his words and said, "Everyone made time to get together today just to celebrate for you!"
Chuuya Nakahara still didn't turn around, but lowered his head slightly, trying to calm his breathing, and said softly in a voice that only he could hear, "I know." This faint response was only vaguely heard by the public relations officer who was closest to him.
The PR officer's face showed a knowing expression. He raised his hand to signal his colleagues who still wanted to say something to be patient, and then slowly walked to Chuuya's side. He didn't get too close, but asked in his exceptionally gentle and pleasant voice, "Chuuya, is it because you are too moved and feel embarrassed that you are embarrassed to face everyone?"
As soon as he said that, Chuuya retorted. He suddenly raised his head, his ears turning red, and like a real 16-year-old boy embarrassed by his friend exposing his secret thoughts, he shouted loudly, "No way! How could I possibly be moved to tears by something like that! Stop flattering yourselves!"
Upon hearing this, the others immediately understood. They exchanged glances, their faces breaking into friendly and tolerant smiles. They stopped pressuring Chuuya, who was clearly extremely embarrassed, and instead followed him further into the bar. They chatted about other topics, discussing interesting things that had happened during recent missions or sharing some trivial gossip within the organization. However, they would occasionally glance at Chuuya, giving the youngest member among them some time to process his emotions.
With his back to everyone, Chuuya Nakahara took a few deep breaths, feeling his violently pounding heart slowly calm down. He tried to adjust his facial expression. After a while, he finally turned around, his face regaining its usual slightly arrogant expression, but deep in his eyes, a trace of softness remained that he couldn't completely hide.
Seeing that he had finally composed himself and was willing to turn around and face them, everyone tacitly steered the conversation towards him, allowing him to say a few words in the chat.
When the police officer talked about his ostensible job—he's an active film actor—he mentioned the significance of this one-year anniversary, saying that if Chuuya couldn't maintain his mafia lifestyle within the year and was expelled from the organization, he might persuade Chuuya to do the same, saying things like, "With Chuuya's face, if you put in the effort, he might become a world-class actor."
Normally, upon hearing such teasing, Chuuya Nakahara would immediately explode in anger, resolutely refuting it with something like "Are you kidding me?" But this time, under the slightly surprised gazes of everyone, he remained silent for a moment, then softly hummed in agreement, and said in a tone as if he had seriously considered it, "Actually, being a screen star doesn't seem so bad."
He looked at the people of the Flag Association, and the deep longing in his heart was about to crush him, but on the surface, he remained calm and did not show any sign of anything wrong.
The police officer was the first to exclaim in surprise: "Hey—! Chuuya, didn't you say just a few days ago that you'd rather die than become a star? How come you suddenly changed your mind? Could it be that you've really been charmed by me and decided to debut with me?!"
"In terms of looks, Chuuya is indeed outstanding," the pianist pushed up his glasses and analyzed seriously. "Although he's a bit short, he could pursue a singing career and might unexpectedly become popular."
"That's right, that's right!" Adobird excitedly chimed in, "If Chuuya, you really make your debut, I'll definitely mobilize all the members of □□ to form a fan club for you! I guarantee you'll sell out your concert tickets and movie tickets! I'll make you even more famous than that PR guy!"
Although Leng Xue and the doctor didn't speak, they both wore gentle smiles, clearly pleased with the outcome.
The five members of the Flag Association chatted amongst themselves, and in just a few words, they painted a glittering future for Chuuya Nakahara, creating an atmosphere as enthusiastic as if they were actually planning a debut press conference.
"Hey, you guys! I haven't even agreed to debut yet, so why have you arranged everything on my own?!"
Looking at his enthusiastic friends, Chuuya Nakahara felt a strange mix of embarrassment and anger. In the previous world, he had readily accepted his celebrity status, and it was hard to deny that he hadn't felt nostalgic for his friends, or perhaps even approached it as a job with the intention of understanding their shared experiences. But now, being so passionately discussed by these still-living friends about a possibility that should exist in another timeline, he felt inexplicably embarrassed, and also a sense of…being cherished.
Just then, the pianist, as he remembered, took out the prepared gift box and handed it to Chuuya. "Alright, enough joking around. Chuuya, this is a one-year anniversary gift that everyone prepared for you."
Chuuya Nakahara took the box, his movements somewhat hesitant. He untied the ribbon, opened the lid, and inside lay a photograph. It was a picture of him, hand in hand with N, standing in a place where the background was obscured. This photograph, which carried his hazy past and which he had deliberately avoided in later years, now appeared before his eyes again.
He gazed at the photograph for a long time, his fingertips gently tracing the slightly yellowed paper, as if he could touch that distant and hazy past through the image. His friends, no longer noisy, gathered around him, explaining the photograph's origins with gentle smiles, or offering sincere congratulations.
"Chuuya, congratulations on your first anniversary of joining the Mafia!"
The blessings rang out again, this time with less jest and more solemnity and sincerity.
Chuuya Nakahara looked up, his gaze shifting from the photograph to the figures of his friends surrounding him. Their faces were no longer frozen in time on the tombstone, but displayed vivid and different expressions. Everyone was congratulating him on his birth, telling him he no longer needed to care about others asking about his birth; this photograph was the best proof. He blinked, trying to suppress the tears welling up in his eyes again, just like when he was truly 16 years old, his face showing a mixture of helplessness and emotion, a childlike indifference. He looked at the photograph in his hand, then at his friends around him, and finally at the gift that represented their heartfelt wishes and approval.
Finally, in an almost sighing voice, he uttered a sentence that transcended countless years—
Thank you all…
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