Chapter 35 Twelve Days of Part-Time Work
As one of Yokohama's three major supernatural ability organizations, the Special Ability Department is undoubtedly familiar to many people, but I don't know if you have ever heard of a place related to the Special Ability Department.
It belongs to the dark side of the Special Abilities Department, collectively known as Organization No. 7.
I am currently in the underground prison of Agency Seven.
I woke up in this very place, and quickly went through the relevant information in my mind.
I don't know if it's just my imagination or if the underground is really filled with yin energy, but I feel a chill emanating from every corner.
The only window was set high in the wall, roughly three to four meters high at first glance. The vertical iron bars allowed sunlight to stream in, creating neat, even lines.
My wrists and ankles were shackled heavily, and they rattled loudly whenever I moved even slightly.
However, the Special Abilities Division did not treat the prisoners held underground with extreme cruelty. The facilities were relatively complete, and lunch was delivered to them at fixed times every day.
That surprised me quite a bit.
Before I came, I imagined what an underground prison would be like, but none of the strange and wonderful things I imagined that happened in movies actually occurred.
It's just a bit boring.
However, I have a neighbor who lives next door to me.
His name is very long, like some kind of spell. If he weren't one of the few important people I could talk to, I wouldn't even want to remember his name.
It took me many repetitions to memorize it. During that time, I would frequently find myself in a state where flipping through the book revealed Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky, and closing the book revealed Feyya.
The neighbor's full name was Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky.
Unlike Japanese names, he said he came from Western Siberia, located in Russia, north of Japan.
I remember that this Western-style name is different from the local ones; the surname comes last and the given name comes first.
Regardless of our relationship, I should choose to call him Dostoevsky.
But... it's too long.
It reminds me of the days when I was memorizing English words.
Perhaps sensing my predicament, my neighbor, a fellow inmate, kindly said, "You can call me Fyodor."
I was flattered: "Really?"
Fyodor nodded and said, "Yes. Because 'or' is also your name, isn't it?"
Fyodor's eyes were long and narrow at the corners, with long eyelashes, and his eyes were a deep, serene red.
He smiled slightly, but I suddenly felt a chill run down my spine.
I felt the gaze of a hunter eyeing its prey, but it wasn't intense.
I'm not sure if I've developed PTSD from Dazai Osamu.
Fyodor was in poor health. He was dressed in thick clothes, but he still coughed from time to time, as if he couldn't stand the cold.
But I'm not a prison guard. I'm trapped here as a criminal, and there's nothing I can do about it.
All I could do was listen to him talk and chat with him.
However, even the content of our conversations may be being listened to.
Fedor has a favorite white woolen hat that looks quite old. I saw him wearing it the first time I met him, and he's hardly ever taken it off.
I think his attributes would make him a good match for exchanging ideas with Chuuya Nakahara.
It's a pity they'll probably never see each other again in this lifetime.
The chances of prisoners being released from the underground prison of Agency Seven are very low.
...Unless Chuuya Nakahara comes in.
But he won't come in, neither will the Port Mafia, nor will the Special Abilities Division.
When Chuuya Nakahara appears in the No. 7 underground prison, Yokohama will probably be truly doomed—because that would mean the most stable triangular system is beginning to collapse.
Speaking of this, I have to say something again.
I find it hard to imagine what heinous crime Fyodor could have committed. This question has stayed with me ever since I first appeared here.
He looked like a sickly beauty.
However, it's a bit mystical.
Fyodor's occasional remarks have a strong charlatan-like quality, but he is probably an atheist.
I slowly came to understand.
The reason he's here is probably because Fyodor needs someone to listen to his charlatan talk.
I couldn't help but wonder how bored one must be to have such expectations.
“Or,” Fyodor called to me.
"Um?"
"You're daydreaming."
"……Feel sorry."
Fyodor didn't blame me; he simply asked, "What are you thinking about?"
"I'm wondering how long you've been here, Fyodor."
He remained silent, perhaps deep in thought: "A year, I suppose."
Fyodor countered with, "Or what?"
I replied, "I don't remember."
I can't exactly say I just arrived.
Fyodor opened his mouth, and I thought he was going to continue what he had just said, but instead he asked, "Do you want to leave?"
"???" I was stunned, confirming I hadn't misheard. "Mr. Fyodor!"
I lowered my voice and didn't shout, but my tone still conveyed my feelings at that moment.
Who would dare discuss running away in someone else's ear?
He knew what I was worried about, but he didn't seem nervous.
“The surveillance has been lifted,” Fyodor said calmly. “Or.”
"?"
"Maybe they don't like listening to philosophy."
"..."
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