Bungo Stray Dogs - Volume 2 - Chapter 1

CHAPTER I 

The Port Mafia has three rules: Follow the boss’s orders no matter what, don’t betray the organization, and always hit back twice as hard. The rules are ordered from most to least important, just like that. Which was why that morning, I nearly dropped the piece of bread I had in my mouth when I got a call telling me the boss wanted to see me. I was just putting on a pot of coffee. 

The agent on the phone spoke in a monotone. 

“Sakunosuke Oda, the boss wants to see you.” 

Three phrases instantly popped into my head: Served his purpose. To be disposed of. Personnel cut. My fingertips turned cold and numb. After hanging up, I quickly stuffed the rest of the bread down my throat, then cut my Canadian bacon and scrambled eggs into thirds before inhaling them. I poured some freshly brewed coffee into my mug, tossed in a sugar cube with some cream, and drank it up all while slipping on my shirt arms-first. I started to wonder if I should just skip town, but the searing-hot coffee kicked my mind into gear, and the absurd notion vanished from my thoughts. I shaved, then put on some pants and hoisted my leather harness over my shoulders. It had holsters below my armpits, which I slipped my trusty 9mm handguns into. Finally, I tossed on my coat and left the house. 

After getting into the car, I recklessly hightailed it to the office. I don’t really remember much about what happened along the way; I might’ve driven down the three-lane highway in the wrong direction two or three times. At any rate, once I made it to the office safely, I headed straight for the lobby. I briefly greeted my colleagues on guard duty before getting into the elevator to go to the top floor. Everything about the place was spotless, without even so much as a single fingerprint or speck of dust—from the lobby, which felt like something out of a luxury European hotel, to the time machine–like elevator itself. 

This office was located in prime real estate in the middle of Yokohama. There were four other offices of the same scale in the neighborhood. As I gazed out of the elevator’s glass walls at the city, the number of buildings higher than my line of sight gradually dwindled until it reached zero. And still the elevator kept on going. 

Looking down at the cluster of buildings drenched in the morning light, I mused over why the boss had summoned me. 

When I actually thought it through, it wouldn’t have made sense for him to call such a low-ranking member all the way here just to dispose of them. If he’d wanted to do that, he’d just have me meet at some waste-treatment site and get a hit man to cut me up and toss me out—low cost, low effort. The Port Mafia’s boss was much more logical than his predecessor, and above all, he preferred to keep that kind of stuff eco-friendly. 

So why in the world did he summon me? 

The elevator door opened, breaking my train of thought. The hallway was laid with a carpet thick enough to muffle even the most hurried footsteps, and the walls were so strong that not even a rocket-propelled grenade could take them down. The concealed light fixtures illuminated the interior with a milky-white glow. 

I told the black-suited guard my name, and he pointed to the office door without saying a word. Standing in front of the French door, I gave my outfit another quick once-over, then traced my chin with my finger to make sure I hadn’t missed a spot shaving. After clearing my throat, I called out like a believer addressing God in a church. 

“Boss, it’s me, Oda. I’m coming in.” 

“Come on, Elise. Put on the dress, just for a little bit! Just for a quick second!” 

…What I heard coming from inside the room was disturbing. I waited three seconds, pretending I didn’t hear anything. Then I took a few deep breaths. 

“Boss, it’s me, Oda. I’m coming in.” 

“Awww, please don’t take off your clothes and just toss them on the floor like that! That skirt was expensive, you know!” 

…Yet another troubling comment. After giving it some thought, I decided to play the role of an unsuspecting subordinate who just happened to open the door at the exact wrong moment. 

“Pardon my intrusion.” 

With those words, I opened the door and immediately saw two people running around the spacious office: a middle-aged man in a white coat and a little girl who appeared to be around ten years old. The girl was half-naked; the man was the Mafia’s boss. 

“No way! Never!” 

“Please, Elise, I’m begging you. Just try it on, okay? I put a lot of thought into picking this out for you. Look at these crimson frills! They’re like flower petals! I’m sure it’ll look great on you!” 

“I don’t hate the pretty clothes. I just hate how desperate you are, Rintarou.” 

“You’re acting like this is new. Heh, I’ve got you now!” 

“Boss.” 

They simultaneously glanced in my direction at the sound of my voice—smiling. They were smiling and completely motionless. 

“I came just like you told me to. What was it you needed?” 

The boss continued to stare at me, that same smile still plastered to his face. His eyes were pleading, begging for help. Hopefully, he wasn’t actually expecting it from me. 

“Boss, you wished to see me?” 

“Uh…” 

After his gaze wandered around the room—from his desk to the ceiling lights, the window, an oil painting, and a silver candlestick—the boss looked at the young girl by his side and said, “Why’d I tell him to come here again?” 

“Don’t ask me.” 

The girl called Elise scowled at him as if he were so much vomit on the side of the road, then left through the door to the connecting room. I waited on the boss for the next word. After peering around the office, he slipped behind his desk in the center and pressed a switch that tinted the glass windows a dull gray. As the room instantly dimmed, the boss took a seat in his black leather chair, and out of nowhere, two guardsmen suddenly and noiselessly appeared behind him. The lamp on the mahogany desk illuminated the boss’s profile—eyes squinted, brows furrowed, elbows on the desk and both hands clasped in front of his face. He spoke in a low, reverberating voice. 

“Now…” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Oda, I called you here for one reason and one reason alone.” 

The boss shot me a piercing look through the darkened room. 

“Yes.” 

“Oda…” After pausing for a moment, he continued. “Has anyone ever told you to speak up more?” 

How did he know? 

“Yes, many times.” 

I looked to one of the guards behind the boss for an explanation. However, the motionless, poker-faced guard averted his gaze ever so slightly. 

“At any rate, you just got here. You did not see a thing. Understand?” 

“Yes, sir.” I nodded in agreement. Besides, it was technically true, anyway. “I only just arrived. Thank you for taking a break from undressing a young girl and chasing her around the room to meet with me. So what was it you needed me for?” 

The boss pinched his brows together for a few moments to think before nodding as if he had made up his mind. 

“Dazai once said to me, ‘Odasaku has no ulterior motives; what you see is what you get. It takes some getting used to, but once you do, it’s like a balm for the soul.’ I kind of see what he means now.” 

That was the first I’d ever heard of such a thing. This was Dazai, though; he was probably just talking out of his ass. A man in his twenties isn’t going to be much of a balm for anyone’s soul. 

After giving a cough to clear the air a little, the boss continued, “Now, you must be wondering why I called you here.” 

He picked up the silver cigar case on his desk and stared at it for a while before taking out a cigar. However, he didn’t smoke it; he merely played with it in his hand, then whispered, “I want you to find someone for me.” 

“Find someone…?” 

I ruminated on what he’d just said. It was fortunate that he didn’t tell me to just die, but it was still too early to relax. 

“Please allow me to confirm a few points. Seeing as you’re giving me direct orders face-to-face, I’m guessing the person you wish to find is no ordinary individual. Are you sure a lowly grunt such as myself can handle it?” 

“A valid question.” The boss gave a faint smirk. “Normally, a man of your rank would either be on the front line acting as a meat shield or rushing into a military police station with a bomb. But I’ve heard about the work you do, and I would like to entrust this task to you specifically.” The boss put the cigar back in the case, then swept his long bangs back. “Our intelligence officer Ango Sakaguchi has gone missing.” 

If someone were to peer inside my mind at that moment, they would’ve witnessed something akin to a massive volcanic eruption. Countless question marks would have been blasting out of the crater, blanketing the sky in its entirety. And yet, the only visible reaction I had was a twitch of a finger. 

“You’re able to keep calm, I see. I was going to say you wouldn’t be right for the job if you got upset, but…you passed. Allow me to continue. Ango disappeared last night. Apparently, he never made it back home. It is still unclear if he went into hiding of his own free will, or if he was kidnapped.” 

So that would mean Ango went missing after we met up at the bar the night before. At the very least, there was nothing particularly different about him then. He even said he was going home before he left. Either Dazai or I would’ve noticed if he had been lying. I’m sure of it. 

“As you well know, Ango is the Mafia’s informant.” 

The boss heaved a dreary sigh. From his expression, he actually appeared genuinely worried about his subordinate’s safety. 

“His head is chock-full of top-secret info on the Mafia: management of our secret accounts, lists of companies and government officials who pay us, contact information of clients who trade in smuggled goods. This information would make someone a fortune if sold to another syndicate, and they could cut us down and set us on fire before we knew it. Even if that isn’t the case, Ango is a talented and important subordinate to me. If something happened to him, then I want to help him. You understand how I feel, yes?” 

I couldn’t say that I did. A lowly grunt would never be able to understand the thoughts of a man who manages an entire underground organization. 

“Of course.” 

Still, I offered a couple of words like a garnish on a dinner plate. 

The boss took the quill on his desk and began spinning it around his fingers. 

“I hear you specialize in troublesome matters such as this. The Mafia is full of people who are only good at shooting, punching, and making threats. Someone like you is a highly valuable asset to the organization. I’m expecting great things from you.” 

The boss’s misunderstanding became clear to me: I was not a missing-persons recovery specialist, but an apprentice, an errand boy. While it was true that those were the kinds of jobs that usually came my way, for the most part it was only because I couldn’t “shoot, punch, or threaten” people. 

Seemingly in a good mood, the boss opened his desk drawer and took out some silver leaf–inlaid Echizen paper. His quill pen glided across the paper’s surface as he wrote. 

Sakunosuke Oda 

Nihil admirari—help the man mentioned above without hesitation in the face of any and all trials. 

Ougai 

“This should be of some help if you need assistance from one of our own. Take it with you.” 

I accepted the slip of paper from him. It’s a delegation of authority, so to speak. Within the Mafia, this document is known as a “Silver Oracle,” and whoever possesses it is granted authority equal to that of the boss himself. Show it to anyone who ranks below the five executives and give them orders, and they cannot decline. Declining is tantamount to betraying the Mafia, which is punishable by death. Holding such a legendary document in my hands almost didn’t even feel real. 

“You can even order the executives around with that.” The boss grinned. “Come to think of it, you’re close friends with the executive Dazai, yes? A friendship that surpasses the bounds of hierarchy… He’s a man of quality. Feel free to count on him if you need anything.” 

“That won’t be necessary,” I answered truthfully. 

“Are you sure? He isn’t the youngest executive in history for nothing. His peers may treat him like he’s a heretic, but I believe Dazai’s capabilities are astounding. I’m sure in four or five years, he’ll have killed me and taken my place.” 

The boss’s lips curled devilishly. 

Although I didn’t even so much as blink, I was seriously rattled. I searched the boss’s face, but that almost childlike smirk made him impossible to read. Was this his way of joking? 

“I hope to hear some good news from you.” 

The boss returned the quill to its stand, and I gave him one last bow before heading for the door. The whole exchange left me oddly parched. 

Hidden beneath the rapid onslaught of sudden developments was a sensation, albeit faint, in the back of my head telling me something was off. But my image of whatever was causing it was strangely hazy and blurred—like an old birthmark on my back that I couldn’t see. 

“Oda.” The boss called out to me from behind right as I placed a hand on the door to leave. “That pistol hanging under your shoulder—that’s a nice model.” 

I looked down at my gun. Inside the holster under my jacket was an old black pistol. 

“It’s just an antique I keep around because I’m used to using it. But I’m honored.” 

“I only ask you this out of slight curiosity, but rumor has it you’ve never killed anyone with it.” 

I nodded. Lying wasn’t going to do me any good. “That’s right.” 

“And why is that?” 

I needed a few seconds to catch my breath before replying. 

“Are you ordering me as the leader of this organization?” I asked. 

“No, I merely ask out of personal interest.” 

“Then I prefer not to answer.” 

For a brief second, the boss’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. Then he crossed his arms and smiled like a teacher fed up with a poor student. 

“I see. Then you may go. I anticipate good news from you.” 

Meanwhile, Dazai was over at the port. After walking along the seaside for some time, he found himself in the warehouse district surrounded by a planted forest. There were lines of small ships with their registration numbers scraped off, various stolen cars of international makes, and large chromatographs for manufacturing explosives. Not only did the nearby residents stay away, but even the city police avoided going there without a good reason. The area was run by underground organizations such as the Port Mafia—a death trap, to put it another way. Three bodies had washed up on the coast that morning. 

“Make sure the police don’t hear about this. Also, call the cleaner. We need to get these bodies out of here.” 

Men in black suits—Port Mafia grunts—silently worked at the site where the bodies were found. These city lowlifes simply gritted their teeth and did as they were ordered. There were two reasons for this: One, these were the bodies of their colleagues—fellow mafiosi. The other reason was that one of the execs was expected to arrive on-site any minute due to the gravity of the situation. 

“Look into whether any of these men had families. If they do…” The mafia member in command stopped midsentence and paused for a moment. “…I’ll explain things.” 

The man in charge was a senior Port Mafia member with white hair and a cigar. He had a gentlemanly air, sporting a well-starched black overcoat and a suit. This was Ryuurou Hirotsu—one of the oldest members of the Mafia. 

Hirotsu took out a gold pocket watch and checked the time. 

“One of our executives will be here any minute now. Finish learning everything you can about the victims before he arrives.” 

“Morning, everyone!” 

Hirotsu’s orders were almost immediately followed by a voice coming from the man-made forest. Everyone turned around, looking tense. From appearances alone, the young man who arrived before them could have easily been mistaken for a child. He tottered over to the group, his hair unkempt and his head, neck, and arms covered in bandages. The young man was one of the Port Mafia’s five executives—Osamu Dazai. 

Hirotsu promptly put out his cigar before tucking it away in his pocket ashtray. All the men in black suits placed a hand on their chests and respectfully bowed. 

“Gimme a second, okay? I’m about to clear this really hard level— Oh, crap! He passed me! Eat this! …Ack, he dodged it!” 

Dazai walked closer, struggling with a handheld video game. He was so focused on the screen that he would have face-planted if he had stepped onto even slightly more uneven ground. 

“Ugh. I can’t beat this level no matter how many times I try! This curve here is the tricky part. Every time I go around it, I—Gah! He passed me again!” 

“Dazai, sir.” Hirotsu timidly spoke up on behalf of the others, since they were unable to say anything. “Thank you for coming all this way. The armory guards were shot, and as of now—” 

“It’s been a while since anyone’s been crazy enough to target a Port Mafia armory! How’d they do it?” Dazai asked, still focused on the video game. 

“Our men were killed instantly after being hit with around ten to twenty 9mm rounds each. Then the intruders stole various firearms from the armory: forty submachine guns, eight shotguns, fifty-five pistols, two sniper rifles, and eighty grenades. They also took a total of eighteen kilograms of detonator-type high explosives. The electronic lock was opened with the passcode. How that code was leaked is still—” 

“Let me have a look, then. Here, take care of this for me.” 

“Huh?” 

Hirotsu’s expression turned stern as Dazai handed him the game system. “The trick is in the timing. You use a booster item once you reach the straight path in the middle of the course. So where are the bodies?” 

“Oh, uh, they’re lined up by the tetrapods— Wh-what buttons am I supposed to press?” 

Dazai skipped off to the concrete blocks and ignored Hirotsu, who was holding the console upside down in a fluster. There lay three bodies, each wearing sunglasses and black suits. They were very tough men—up until yesterday. Soaking in the ocean for a few hours had caused their skin to swell, but they would have been in far worse condition if they had drowned; all three of them had bled out almost completely before being tossed into the ocean to sink to the bottom. 

“Hmm.” 

Dazai gazed disinterestedly at the corpses. 

“Their weapons are still in their holsters. Well, that’s just sloppy. Also…most of the gunshots have exit wounds…which means they were fired at close range, from a submachine gun. You’d have to be pretty skilled to get this close without being noticed. I’m getting my hopes up. What about the warehouse’s surveillance footage?” 

Dazai turned to Hirotsu, who simply gazed forlornly down at the game system in his hands and revealed a totaled car on the screen. 

“I am deeply ashamed of myself…,” Hirotsu mumbled. 

Dazai stared at him curiously, as if he had already completely forgotten that he’d passed the game to Hirotsu. 

“Mr. Hirotsu.” Dazai’s eyes narrowed. 

“I… I’m sure if you just give me one more chance, I could—,” Hirotsu pleaded as he gripped the game system once more. 

“Anyone in the lower ranks who causes problems over narcotics should immediately be cut loose,” Dazai suddenly said. 

“Narcotics?” Hirotsu turned pale. “No, nobody is involved in anything like that…including my subordinates. My men are top caliber—” 

“The gun at your waist.” 

Dazai pointed at him. Hirotsu swiftly covered the gun tucked away in his suit belt with his hand, although not on purpose; it was merely a natural reflex. 

“Mr. Hirotsu, you don’t usually carry a gun with you, right? Plus, you’re the kind of person who takes very good care of their weapons. And yet, the sloppy way you’ve tucked it into your belt leads me to believe that it is neither yours nor merchandise. Judging by the condition it’s in, it belongs to one of your men. Am I right?” 

Hirotsu stood in silence as Dazai continued. 

“You have around twenty subordinates under your wing. Did you borrow that gun from one of them? No, you didn’t. There was no reason for you to use a gun at this time of the morning. You took it. Why? Because the grip was lightly stained with blood and some white powder. But there is neither powder nor blood on you, Mr. Hirotsu. One of your subordinates must have caused some trouble over drugs. Judging by the bags under your eyes, I’m going to say it happened last night. So you tied your subordinate up and took his gun because who knows what he’d do if you didn’t.” 

“That’s—,” Hirotsu uttered in a muffled voice, but Dazai kept on speaking and cut him off. 

“That subordinate is ignoring the syndicate’s policy, Mr. Hirotsu. Selling drugs makes a lot of money, but it also brings a lot of problems along with it. The Special Division for Unusual Powers, narcotics agents, the MP’s criminal-organization watchdogs… Government organizations are champing at the bit just waiting for us to make any sort of mistake that would give them a chance to strike. Simply taking your subordinate’s gun isn’t going to do anything.” 

“But…” 

“Mr. Hirotsu, I don’t know why, but I was given the lofty position of executive, and when you’re an executive, you get subordinates whether you want any or not. But I can’t produce results with a bunch of sloppy flunkies. That’s why I cut the bad ones loose early. You should do the same.” 

“…I am deeply sorry,” Hirotsu mumbled, his voice strained. 

In the Mafia, “cutting the bad ones loose” means killing them. Refusing executive orders is treated as betrayal and dealt with in the same fashion. 

Hirotsu apologized but said no more after that. Dazai fixed him with a piercing gaze; the silence was so deafening that time nearly froze in place. 

“…Ha-ha! Just kidding!” Dazai abruptly added in a cheery tone. Hirotsu stared back at him, confused. “The reason you have so many people following you is that you don’t turn your back on them. I’ll leave things in your hands. I won’t tell the boss.” 

He patted Hirotsu on the shoulder and smiled. Hirotsu unconsciously rubbed his throat while he nodded. He must have been tense. 

Dazai, the youngest executive in the Mafia’s history, was a living legend within the syndicate. Nothing got past him, be it from an enemy on the outside or a scandal from within the group. More importantly, nobody had even an inkling of Dazai’s desires or dislikes, or what he supported or was opposed to. Not even Hirotsu, who’d been in the Mafia for longer than most, could figure him out. No one would have been surprised if Dazai had “disposed” of Hirotsu just then. 

“All right, let’s get back on topic. Is there any footage of the attackers?” Dazai asked with a snap of his fingers. 

At Hirotsu’s signal, a man in a black suit brought over a total of five pictures from the security camera. Dazai took them from him and began to study them. The stills showed several men sneaking into the warehouse and stealing the Port Mafia’s firearms. The thieves were wearing worn-out sacks over their heads and dingy cloaks instead of overcoats. On the surface, they didn’t look any different than your average back-alley thug. However… 

“Those are soldiers.” Dazai’s lips slightly curled the moment he laid eyes on the photos. “Seasoned ones, at that.” 

He looked over the dim figures of the raggedy men several times, tilting the photos this way and that. 

“They look like your run-of-the-mill ruffians at first glance, but they’re moving in a diamond formation to cover their blind spots. Mr. Hirotsu, you know what kind of gun this is?” Dazai pointed at the pistol on the waist of one of the attackers. 

“It is an old model, very old. It appears to be even older than me. From the gray body and narrow muzzle, I would say it’s an old-fashioned European pistol known as a grau geist.” 

“I saw this gun yesterday.” Dazai’s eyes narrowed. “That means the men who robbed the armory attacked us immediately beforehand…which means that was just a diversion. Heh. Now things are getting interesting. These guys are even more fun than I imagined.” 

With the pictures still in hand, Dazai spun around, turning his back to the others before starting to walk off. He placed a thumb on his lip, muttering to himself as he paced back and forth. 

“So they purposely leaked intel that they were going to attack us in the middle of our next business transaction. That way, we’d focus our manpower in one location, leaving only a few guards at the armory. Then they stole the weapons—a lot of them. But why? To resell? No, it wouldn’t need to be weapons if that were the case. I see. This is…” Dazai rambled, lost deep in thought. All the others could do was wait for him in silence. 

“……” 

Hirotsu’s subordinates stood stock-still as they waited for the much-younger executive to gather his thoughts. 

“Y’know,” Dazai commented after a good few moments of silence, “I’m thirsty.” 

“I will have someone buy you a drink.” Hirotsu gave a flick of his finger, signaling the subordinate by his side to go. The black-suited mafioso then rushed off in a fluster. 

“Get me a coffee with lots of milk. Make sure to cool it off!” Dazai cheerfully yelled out as the man dashed away. “Oh, but no ice, okay? If you can get me a decaf, that’d be even better. And double the sugar, please!” 

Watching the Mafia grunt depart in a cold sweat, Dazai dropped his voice to a murmur. “Mr. Hirotsu, the enemy didn’t attack just any armory. They went after one of the three major armories containing the Port Mafia’s emergency weapons supply. It’s heavily guarded, and an alarm sounds if anyone enters the area without permission. But these guys easily got past all that, and they sneaked in using the actual passcode—something only subexecutives and higher would know. So how did the enemy get their hands on such top-secret information?” 

Hirotsu’s face tensed. There were only three possibilities: A Port Mafia member was tortured into talking, someone had a skill that enabled them to extract information, or there was a traitor within the organization. All three options spelled a worst-case scenario. 

“This entire area is going to turn into a war zone.” Dazai gazed at the city skyscrapers and gave a small smile. “That over there is gonna end up a pillar of flames. I can already see the sky burning crimson.” 

“Do you know anything about the enemy organization?” Hirotsu asked, suppressing his emotions. 

“One of my men tortured the prisoner we captured yesterday, but he couldn’t get him to talk. The guy just waited for the right moment and killed himself with the poison he was hiding in between his molars. The only thing we got out of him was the enemy organization’s name.” 

As if to portend the next word that would leave his mouth, Dazai shot Hirotsu a grim, piercing stare. His eyes portended an incoming storm of bloodshed and violence that would haunt the average person’s dreams for days on end. 

“…Mimic.” 

After receiving orders from the boss, I started tracing Ango’s steps. But there wasn’t even a single clue before me. Searching for a Mafia informant is on a completely different level from locating a missing pet cat (which I’ve actually done before, so I say this with confidence). If a cat runs away, then you can stake out a local feeding ground, but there was no way for me to even guess where Ango’s “feeding ground” might be. 

With nowhere to turn, I came up with a few hypotheses. There were two possibilities for Ango’s disappearance: Either he went into hiding of his own volition, or he was abducted. If it was the former, then I was out of luck. Ango wasn’t some rebellious teenager running away from his parents. If he really wanted to, he could get himself a few million in untraceable banknotes and travel the world, bouncing from one campsite to another like a nomadic tribesman. Hence why I’d tossed out this hypothesis. The other possibility was that Ango could’ve been taken somewhere against his will. As the boss predicted, the most likely scenario was that an enemy syndicate was trying to get information out of Ango. If that was the case, then I’d want to believe he secretly left behind some sort of trail, like the bread crumbs in that one Brothers Grimm fairy tale. 

I decided to start off by visiting Ango’s residence. Now that I thought about it, I knew next to nothing about his personal life. Our relationship was always like that, though. Ango and Dazai never talked about themselves. The three of us were like a band of thieves who just happened to be hiding under the eaves of the same abandoned temple to avoid the rain. We’d always just get lost in conversation, never knowing exactly who the other was. 

But Ango often had to go out of town for business, and I remembered hearing him casually mention drifting from hotel to hotel during one of our chats. He must’ve stayed somewhere that had ties to the Mafia, given how many people were after his life. There were a few hotels like that within the prefecture, where privacy was of utmost importance. They each had around two dozen armed guards permanently stationed; only a select few could stay at these locations. 

I began to call up some of these hotels. Once the manager realized who I worked for, his strained voice instantly softened, and he began to answer my questions courteously. If we were ever to meet face-to-face, I wouldn’t be surprised if he snuggled right into my lap. 

I finally found out where Ango lived once I called the third hotel. It was an eighteen-story building with sand-colored walls, located just a little off the main drag. The surrounding neighborhood was lined with similar buildings and a park, and the entire area was steeped in a heavy stillness—or a silence, you could call it—despite the daytime hour. The silence was all too familiar for Mafia territory. It looked like just the kind of place Ango would’ve enjoyed. 

After receiving the room key from the manager, I headed to Ango’s suite. According to the manager, he’d started living there around half a year ago and paid in advance. However, due to the nature of his work, he rarely returned to his room. Apparently, he would show up once every few days, then disappear once again by morning. The manager claimed that Ango never invited anyone else inside. 

His room was a tidy one-bedroom suite. It’d been thoroughly cleaned—not even a speck of dust. There was hardly any furniture in the parlor, save for a small bookshelf that held a few old novels and various regional documents. In the ceiling was an air vent so cleverly hidden that it was virtually undetectable, its ventilation fan spinning almost noiselessly. A single black wooden stool sat quietly in the corner. 

In the bedroom stood a short desk and a bed covered in crisp sheets. A reading light hung over the pillow upon which lay an open biography of a genius mathematician from around a century ago who had left an elegant mathematical expression. 

The place practically screamed Ango—an immaculate, smart, sterile space that didn’t give a single glimpse into his life. I stood in the middle of the room and silently looked around. There was something bothering me, albeit minuscule—something I wouldn’t usually give so much as a second thought. 

“Ango Sakaguchi, Mafia intelligence officer,” I said aloud. “You’re a mysterious, intellectual man. Nobody knows who you really are.” 

Of course, no one was there to respond. I headed to the double-door window with its four sheets of expertly inlaid glass. Outside was a view of Yokohama. Directly below was a park that led to a line of high-rise buildings. The stars must cast a pretty reflection off the lake at night. 

I turned my back to the window and made one more sweep of the room. Immediately, I realized what had been bothering me: I was a Mafia member unable to kill. That was why I mostly got stuck with the petty, troublesome jobs. But as I held my tongue while pressing on through these tasks, I started to develop a certain sense of intuition. It was like a hair-thin thread of discomfort that could snap at any moment. However, following the thread sometimes led me to unexpected truths. 

The black wooden stool in the corner of the room—it looked out of place. It didn’t seem as though it belonged in this hotel, and there wasn’t even a desk around to make use of it. 

I approached the stool to examine it. It was your average mass-produced article. I flipped it over in hopes that there might be an important clue underneath, but there was nothing really out of the ordinary. 

I returned once more to where I had been standing, then crouched down and stared fixedly at the stool. That was when I saw it—the seat was scuffed ever so slightly, even though the stool itself didn’t appear to be particularly old or worn out. Upon further inspection, I noticed that not only was it a little scuffed, but it also had what appeared to be a white footprint left by a leather shoe. I scanned the room once more. 

—The ceiling air vent. 

I took the stool and pushed it under the vent. Standing atop the stool, I could just barely touch the ceiling. There was some white plastic netting covering the air vent, making it difficult to see inside. It took some maneuvering, but I managed to remove the net. Inside the air duct, the ventilation fan was still spinning quietly. I felt around the fan with my fingers for a while until they just barely caught on to something, which I then pulled toward me. It scraped noisily across the metal duct and turned out to be a small safe. After getting off the stool, I held the safe in my hands and brushed the dust off. It was white and small enough that I could easily hold it in both hands. The safe was locked, but if I could find the key or something to pick it with, I could get it open. I took the box in both hands and violently shook it in front of my chest. Something metal, but not particularly heavy, rattled inside. 

That was when a vision played out in my head. 

The white safe in my hands was dyed crimson in the blink of an eye, along with the wall and floor. Something gushed out, clinging to the surfaces before me. 

It was blood. My blood. 

Right as I looked down at my chest, another spurt of blood gushed out of it. Something entered my back and pierced through my chest. I turned around just as the window shattered and the shards fell to the floor. Something—a sniper rifle’s scope, perhaps—glittered in the sunlight from a far-off building. 

I reached for the gun at my side, but my arm was hit back by a high-speed bullet, spinning me around and producing a spray of blood. Feeling the warm liquid crawl up my throat, I twisted and fell to the ground. Everything before me faded to black. 

The vision ended there. 

I found myself standing with the safe, still wearing the exact same clothes I was a second ago. 

The safe was white. 

The window wasn’t broken. 

I threw myself to the carpeted floor with the safe still in my hands, and almost instantly, I heard glass shatter. One, then two dark holes appeared in the wall in front of me. Crawling on the floor, I moved away from the window until I couldn’t see the high-rise building outside. Then I took the gun out of my side holster and got into position with my back against the wall. There was a mirror on the table, so I reached out with my fingers and managed to grab it. My hands were so sweaty that I almost dropped it, but I somehow got a grip around the mirror to angle it so I could see outside. 

When I looked at the room in the building I’d seen in my vision, I noticed a shadowy figure moving in the reflection. I couldn’t tell what they were wearing, though; the figure promptly gathered their belongings before completely disappearing. The moment I put my gun down was the moment I noticed I hadn’t been breathing. 

A sniper. 

What in the world was in this room? What happened to Ango? I was sniped and killed. I couldn’t see the muzzle flash, and I didn’t even hear the bullet being fired. Plus, once the perpetrator saw that they had missed the target, they immediately escaped. This was clearly the work of a professional. 

I’d died only a few moments ago—sniped in the chest and shot dead. 

Or at least I would have been, if I hadn’t had my skill. 

I practically slid down the staircase banister to get out of there. The sniper couldn’t have gotten far, and I needed to find out who they were. Shoving past innocent customers in the hotel, I made my way outside. I ran toward the building the sniper was in while pulling my cell phone out of my pocket. 

A seasoned sniper can pierce their target’s heart from even a mile away, but from the looks of it, the sniping point wasn’t all that far off. I knew the building they were in. In fact, I knew everything about this city, even the uncharted back alleys, so I was naturally able to narrow down the sniper’s path of escape to a few possibilities. 

As I sprinted, I punched in Dazai’s phone number. 

“Dazai?” 

“Wow, it’s not often I get a call from you, Odasaku. I’ve got a feeling this is big! Hmm. Allow me to use my genius brain to guess the situation! You suddenly thought of a hilarious joke, and it was so funny that you had to call me to—” 

“Someone tried to snipe me.” 

Dazai immediately stopped midsentence as if the air had been sucked out of his lungs. 

“I was in Ango’s room. I’m going after the sniper right now. He fired from a high-rise building across from the secondhand book row. From there, he could’ve fled through Kokuyou-ji Temple or the service entrance to the wharf, or taken one of the Mifune shopping district’s back streets.” 

“You want me to help block his path of escape, right?” 

I hesitated for a moment. The reason I called Dazai was because he was the only one I could turn to with confidence on such short notice. However, he was one of the five executives, making him only second to the boss in terms of the Mafia hierarchy. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve had to send someone to ask permission to even meet with Dazai, then wait at least a month before getting an answer. Calling someone like him and giving orders is like asking the president to walk your dog. 

“Dazai, I have a Silver Oracle with me. If you don’t mind—” 

“Quit it. You don’t need that to ask me for help. You’re in a fix, right?” Dazai said brightly. “I’ll have my men blockade the roads immediately. I’m gonna head over, too. Just don’t follow the guy too far, Odasaku.” 

I thanked him and hung up, then focused everything I had on getting my legs to move as quickly as possible. 

Who was the shooter? Snipers are exceedingly cautious and patient. Strategy is their religion. Once they decide on the optimal position for taking out the target, they wait for days without moving a muscle until the target appears within range of their scope. A sniper will satisfy their hunger with ready-made meals, and when they run out of food, they just don’t eat. 

The fact that there was a sniper in the building meant he knew someone was coming. 

The most obvious, logical reason would be that Ango himself was the target. The sniper was probably planning on shooting Ango once he cluelessly returned home. However, that then begged the question: Why did the sniper change his plan and try to shoot me? I’d only decided to go to Ango’s room a few hours prior, and that was just a desperate attempt to find some clues. Moreover, the sniper only pulled the trigger after I found the white safe. If he’d wanted to just kill me, he would’ve shot me the moment I walked into the room. Maybe the sniper didn’t have a firm target; maybe he would’ve shot anyone who walked in there. Or maybe he would’ve shot anyone who found the white safe. 

Only one thing was clear: Ango was apparently stuck in the middle of something big. I thought about his bespectacled visage, his cool, aloof demeanor, as I ran. 

No matter how deeply I inhaled, I couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen into my body. Right as my field of vision started turning spotty, I arrived at one of the routes I predicted the sniper would use to escape. It was a dark, narrow back alley littered with scraps of food left by the city crows. 

I’d cut through two residential yards and leaped over three private garages to get there. It wouldn’t have been out of the question to catch sight of the enemy right then and there if they weren’t familiar with the area. The moment the thought crossed my mind, a man with a knife tried to grab me from a gap between the buildings. A blade practically the size of a meat cleaver sliced through the air, and I swerved my head to dodge the strike. The tip of the blade grazed the corner of my ear, leaving a cold, sharp pain. I found myself in a deadlock as he rammed into me, and I thrust my foot into his torso as hard as I could. I ended up getting thrown onto the trash-covered ground, but I was at least able to get him off. 

I looked at the assailant. 

He was a man of unknown ethnicity dressed in tattered gray clothes. At first glance, his filthy appearance made him look like a vagrant, but my finger happened to leave a mark in the dirt on his face. It was as if he’d put it there on purpose. The assailant swayed back and forth as he flipped the knife over from his right hand to his left. Next, he raised both elbows so that his right hand was guarding his face. It was a stance that allowed a person to quickly counter any close-range blows with minimal movement while protecting one’s vitals. The bloodlust radiating from this guy was like that of a seasoned fighting dog. 

I could assume several things from watching him: one, that he knew I was with the Mafia, and he was not going to cower or create an opening to be attacked; two, that he was probably the sniper I saw in the mirror’s reflection; and three, that he probably planned on killing me there without even giving me the chance to wonder. 

The man came at me with his left hand aloft, gripping the knife. If he were to hit me, he would split my face right open, but if I were to try to run away or fight him, that knife would tear me to shreds. I leaned my weight against the wall behind me and used the rebound to leap in the opposite direction and create some distance between us. Then, spinning around, I drew the gun from my holster and almost immediately pulled the trigger. The bullet landed just inches before his toes—right where he was about to step. The man stopped. Only a fraction of a second had gone by from the moment I drew my gun to the moment I fired. If he knew anything about how to fight, then he’d understand that I didn’t shoot randomly, but rather precisely where I wanted to. 

Raising my gun, I pointed the muzzle right between his eyes, letting him know I could pull the trigger whenever I wanted. He should’ve had more than enough time to figure that much out, and yet, he took another step forward. His knife sliced through the air, and I leaped backward, dodging the slash. Then I fired another warning shot, and the sound of the blast echoed throughout the narrow alleyway. But it seemed to have affected him no differently than a cool breeze; the man had locked away all his fear into a tiny box in the corner of his mind and thrown away the key. 

He reached out, but it wasn’t me he was aiming for. I swiftly pulled the white safe under my left arm away, leaving him only air to grab, but he promptly regained his footing before pulling back with his knife. 

The man was after the safe. 

He’d pretended to flee in order to lure me here, in which case I might have been better off taking the safe and running away as quickly as my legs could take me. I couldn’t even imagine who this guy was or the kind of value this safe had. To make matters worse, he was an expert with the knife. Gunshots didn’t even faze him. On top of that, I— 

The enemy thrust forward with the knife. I shot at the wall in hope that he’d flinch, but he knew where I was aiming. He didn’t back off—he got even closer. I sensed there was someone else behind me, so I threw myself forward and dropped to the ground. Gunfire lit up the alleyway. The metallic clatter of the shots echoed as bullets—ones I didn’t fire—glided past my ear. 

My body froze. Although I couldn’t look back, I immediately knew what was going on—there was another enemy behind me. 

Snipers typically have people called spotters to back them up. Spotters and snipers always work in pairs, and a spotter will help the sniper readjust his aim or time the shot. Sometimes they’ll also scout the area and dispose of any nearby enemies. I should’ve seen this coming the moment the sniper went on the counterattack. There were two enemies. 

The second enemy fired his gun; he didn’t use a sniper rifle, but an old-fashioned pistol. I created an off-the-cuff smoke screen by hurling the nearby garbage bags into the line of fire, then wildly shot at the wall in an attempt to use the ricochet in place of a barrage. The man with the knife closed in, giving me no time to check if my stratagem had worked. Our weapons collided, creating sparks. The base of the metal trigger guard screeched as the knife sawed into it. 

I swept my opponent’s ankle, knocking him off-balance, but he managed to put his hand out to catch his fall. Almost reflexively, I tossed aside the safe and drew my other gun. I walked with my two pistols aimed in both directions and almost unconsciously placed the muzzles right before the enemies’ eyes with one quick motion. I wouldn’t miss this close up. If I pulled the trigger, they’d instantly perish before even getting the chance to think of something meaningful. They wouldn’t even have a second to feel pain. Their brains and consciousnesses would smear the alley walls, and their lives would then disappear into thin air like a magic trick. 

I didn’t shoot. I simply rolled out of the way to create a bit of distance, keeping both opponents in my sight with both weapons drawn. 

“Odasaku, get down!” 

That was when I heard Dazai’s voice. 

I already knew it was coming, which was why I threw myself to the ground face-first. Barely a moment later, an explosion followed by a flash of light illuminated the narrow alleyway. My skill was to thank for alerting me to what was going to happen; I lay on the ground, plugging my ears and shutting my eyes until the light faded. The enemies, on the other hand, were caught off guard by the flash grenade and subsequently blinded, preventing them from dodging the next attack. 

A thunderous roar seemingly from the heavens itself burst through the back alley. First came a flash of light, followed by an explosive bang—then a metal-splitting screech and the sound of the ground and walls being smashed to pieces. A shower of 9mm ammo zoomed over my head. Four men in black suits rushed down the alleyway right past me, each with a submachine gun at their waist. It was the Port Mafia. 

With nothing to hide behind in the narrow alley, not even the most seasoned warriors could escape the submachine guns’ hellish onslaught. I heard the two men in tattered cloaks briefly scream as the gunfire buffeted them like a violent gust of wind. When I turned around, I saw blood spewing out of their bodies, enveloping them like a deep crimson mist. Then I heard a splat as they were thrown against the walls. 

“You’re a real piece of work, Odasaku. You could have easily killed them in an instant, if you wanted to.” 

Dazai lightly trotted over, looking as if he were about to whistle or something. The roar of submachine guns filling an alleyway was no different from the hubbub of a shopping mall on a holiday for him. 

I accepted his extended hand and stood up before surveying the alley. 

“You killed them?” I asked, looking down at the two fallen assassins. 

“Yep. Capturing them and trying to get them to talk would’ve just been a waste of time. I mean, these guys love the taste of their interdental poison.” 

I didn’t reply. It felt as if there were a lump about the size of a boulder in my stomach. Dazai faintly smiled, then said, “I know. That’s not what you were asking, right? But, Odasaku, these men were professional assassins. It doesn’t matter how good you are. Killing them was the only option.” 

“I know.” 

I nodded. Dazai was always right, and I was always doing the wrong thing. 

“I can see you’re not happy… I’m sorry for compromising your principles.” 

His smile weakened as he spoke. Dazai usually never apologized to anyone, which was why what he said really rang true. 

“Thanks. I mean it. I would’ve died if you hadn’t come to save me.” 

“Sakunosuke Oda, a peculiar mafioso who believes killing is never the answer.” Dazai shook his head in exasperation. “The Mafia treats you like an errand boy thanks to that perplexing belief of yours, Odasaku, your considerable capabilities notwithstanding—” 

I shook my head in silence. 

“I’ve heard that complaint so many times that I’m starting to despise myself. More importantly, about the attackers…,” I continued while indicating the fallen assailants with my gaze. 

“You said they shot at you while you were in Ango’s room?” 

Dazai listened attentively as I briefly explained what had happened at the hotel. 

“I see. That sniper rifle was probably stolen from our armory,” he claimed once I’d finished. “Look at his waist. He’s carrying an old-fashioned pistol, right?” 

When I looked down at the attackers, I noticed they both had early-model pistols hidden under their ragged clothes—gray handguns with narrow muzzles. 

“These are rather old European pistols. Given their low accuracy and firing rate, they’re not ideal for narrow alleys like this.” 

He took the gun off one of the bodies and stared at it with great interest. 

“This pistol is probably more like an emblem to these men—something that indicates who they are.” 

Dazai seemed to be much more knowledgeable about the attackers than I was. 

“Just who are they?” I asked. 

“Mimic.” 

“‘Mimic’…?” 

I’d never heard of an organization by that name before. 

“I don’t know much about them yet, but they’re apparently a European criminal organization. All I can say right now is that they came to Japan for some reason and that they’re in conflict with the Port Mafia.” 

Rivalries between the Port Mafia and other criminal organizations weren’t uncommon. Even in and around Yokohama, there were groups that competed with the Mafia over turf. Outside the reaches of the government’s watchful eyes, the Yokohama Settlement was inhabited by countless outlaws who fought over territory. Dirty money came to this tax haven from all over the world to be cleaned, helping corporate crime and mercenary businesses thrive. It wouldn’t be strange for a criminal organization from abroad to come over to make easy profits. But how many crime syndicates in the world had a professional sniper with a spotter? 

Dazai seemed to have figured out what I was thinking from the quizzical look on my face. 

“In any case, I’m in the middle of investigating the specifics,” he stated with a shrug. “But maybe we’ll find something out from the fact that they had a sniper aimed at Ango’s room.” 

“They wanted to get this safe back,” I said while holding up the item in question. “I found it in Ango’s room, but I can’t open it without the key. We might be able to learn something if we could just open—” 

“That’s it?” Dazai gave a disappointed smile. “Piece of cake. Here, let me see it.” 

I handed him the safe, which he immediately shook, listening to the sound it made. Then he shuffled through the trash on the ground until he found a safety pin. After slightly bending the tip with his finger, he stuck it in the keyhole and wiggled it around. Not even a second went by before I heard the gear inside the safe click. 

“Okay, it’s open.” 

This man had a gift. 

“Now, let’s see what’s inside.” 

Dazai opened the lid and took a peek. I could also see it from where I was standing. 

. 

What did this mean? 

I found this safe in Ango’s room. The wooden stool, the fact that this was hidden in the air vent—I think it’s fair to say Ango knew about it. If I was being honest with myself, I’d have said the contents probably belonged to Ango. 

Deep down, I’d imagined that whatever was in the safe was something valuable. I thought it was something Ango had gotten his hands on, and the attackers in gray had tried to kill me in order to steal it. 

But I was wrong. 

Inside the safe was an old-fashioned gray gun. 

“Why…?” The word just fell off my lips. “Dazai, you said this gun was like an emblem to them, right? Something that identifies them. So what’s the meaning of this?” 

Dazai didn’t immediately answer. He simply narrowed his eyes and stared quietly off into space. 

“It’s still too early to come to any conclusion.” Dazai chose his words carefully. “Ango might have stolen this gun from them. Or they might have even planted it in his room to frame him. This might not even be a gun but a sign. It—” 

“I get it. You’re absolutely right,” I said, cutting him off. “There’s still not enough information to go by. I’ll look into the gun. Thanks again for coming all the way out here.” 

“Odasaku—” 

Dazai started to say something, but I cut him off again. 

“I really appreciate your help, but I should look into things a bit more. I’ll contact you if I find out anything.” 

Dazai stared at me in silence, his gaze tinged with discontent. I looked away. A grim feeling came over me, as if I were submerged up to my head in a jet-black, heavy liquid that would drown me if I got too involved in this case. 

“Then let me tell you something I noticed,” Dazai said, stone-faced. “Yesterday, when we were drinking at the bar, Ango said he was on his way back from a business trip, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

I believe he said he was coming back from business in Tokyo where he bought a smuggled antique watch. 

“That was probably a lie.” 

—What? 

“You saw his bag, right? Starting from the top, he had cigarettes, a mini umbrella, and that antique watch he’d brought back. The umbrella was wet because he’d used it, which was why it was wrapped in cloth. And his business trip had been to Tokyo, where it had been raining.” 

“So what’s the problem?” I asked. “It rained, so the umbrella was wet. Seems logical to me.” 

“If Ango were telling the truth, then he wouldn’t have used that umbrella.” Dazai squinted as he spoke. 

I couldn’t sense any sort of emotion from his expression. 

“Ango supposedly drove to the site of the deal, so when did he use that umbrella? It wasn’t before the negotiation, since the umbrella was on top of the wrapped-up watch. And it wasn’t after the fact, either.” 

“Why do you say that?” 

“Given how wet his umbrella was, he didn’t use it for just two or three minutes. It must’ve been in the rain for a good half an hour, and yet, his shoes and the hems of his pants were dry. The negotiation was at eight o’clock, and we met him at eleven. If he’d used his umbrella after finishing the deal, his clothes wouldn’t have dried in just those three hours.” 

“Maybe he brought something to change into.” 

“He didn’t have any spare clothes or shoes in his bag, and it didn’t even have enough space to fit anything like that.” 

Maybe he just went home, changed, and left his wet clothes there—but right as I was about to say as much, I held myself back. If Ango had done that, he would have left the expensive watch at home before coming to the bar. 

“He didn’t use the umbrella before the transaction or afterward. And he didn’t use it during the negotiation, either. The watch was wrapped in paper, and it wasn’t even the least bit wet. Plus, moisture is basically poison to antique watches. They had to have done business indoors.” 

I ruminated over what Dazai said. He was right. What Ango told us didn’t explain why the umbrella was that wet. 

“So what’s the truth, then?” 

“My guess is that he didn’t purchase the watch in Tokyo; it was his all along. The reason why it was stuffed deep inside his bag was because he put it in there before leaving for business. But instead of going to the negotiation site, he met with someone in the rain and talked for thirty minutes before killing some time and coming back.” 

“Why do you think he met with someone?” 

“Spies like Ango frequently choose rainy streets for their secret meetings. If you talk with your umbrella open, then no one can see your face, so you don’t have to worry about surveillance cameras or people noticing you. Even if someone was eavesdropping or wiretapping him, the sound of the rain would drown out any voices. It’s much better suited for confidential talks compared with inside a car or a room.” 

I already knew what Dazai was trying to say and what his intentions were, and yet, I had no choice but to scrutinize his every word to find some sort of silver lining. 

“Maybe Ango really was lying, but he’s an informant who deals with top-secret information on the Mafia. It’s only natural he’d have a secret meeting or two. You can’t blame him for that.” 

“Then he could’ve just told us he couldn’t talk about it. If he did that, neither of us would have even brought up his work, don’t you think?” 

“…” 

He was right. 

“But Ango lied about the deal. He even went out of his way to show us the antique watch so he could have an alibi. Why would he go that far to hide it from us that he’d met with someone in secret?” 

—Maybe because he predicted that things would turn out like this? 

That was what Dazai’s cold, distant gaze was saying. 

—What time did the deal end? 

I suddenly remembered Dazai’s seemingly random question when he saw the paper wrapping. Now that I thought about it, he was able to deduce all of this with one mere glance. He’d even asked Ango that question just to make sure. 

—Ango. Mimic. Surprise attack. 

Something mysterious was slowly coming to light. 

“Be careful, Odasaku. Your cup is close to overflowing,” Dazai said. “If just one more thing gets thrown in there, all the water will come spilling out the top, and you won’t be able to handle the situation alone. Anyway, we’ll take care of things here. You deal with Ango.” 

“Thanks.” 

After exchanging glances, I began to walk down the alley toward the back streets. That’s when I noticed… 

…one of the attackers was getting back up. 

“Dazai!” 

The attacker drew his gun practically the moment I cried out. “Don’t move,” he threatened in a muffled voice. 

The enemy was too close to Dazai for either me or one of Dazai’s subordinates to shoot. Furthermore, he had his weapon pointing at Dazai. His right hand gripped the gun while his left arm hung by his side as if he couldn’t move it. With apparently no strength left to stand on his own, the enemy leaned half of his weight against the wall. 

Even then, Dazai was still within his range of fire. We couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. 

“Oh my.” Dazai stared at the pistol as if it were something unique and interesting. “You can still stand after so many bullets? Your mental fortitude is extraordinary.” 

One of the attackers was completely unconscious, while the other was using his last bit of strength to stand so he could take Dazai with him to the grave. 

“Dazai, keep still. I’ve got this.” 

I stretched my fingers out to grab my gun. If the enemy got even a second to act, he was going to shoot. Since he was already aiming his old-fashioned pistol right at Dazai, even if I shot him right through the heart, the impact might cause him to pull the trigger. Timing was everything. I’m not a betting guy, but I didn’t have any other choice. 

“Your organization’s called Mimic, right?” Dazai asked the man, but he didn’t reply. He didn’t even blink. “I’m not expecting an answer. To tell the truth, I admire you guys. No other organization has tried to take the Mafia head-on like this before. And nobody has ever successfully managed to point their gun at me like this with the intent to kill, either.” 

Dazai faced the attacker, then began to walk toward him as if he were taking a stroll through his garden. 

“Dazai, stop,” I begged in a hushed tone. 

“I hope you can see the excitement in my eyes, too.” Dazai continued to address the enemy who was holding him at gunpoint. “If you just squeeze your finger ever so slightly, you can give me precisely what I crave most. The only thing I’m afraid of is that you’ll miss.” 

His lips curled as he approached the man. The muzzle was now fewer than ten feet away. 

“You need to aim for the heart or the head. I recommend the head. You only get one chance, though. My colleagues here won’t be kind enough to give you another.” Dazai tapped the middle of his forehead right over his eyebrows a few times. “But I know you can do it. You’re a sniper, aren’t you? I can still see the imprint from the sniper rifle on your cheek. You’re not the spotter.” 

There was a slanted line traced across the attacker’s left cheek, the kind you get from peering through a scope for hours on end. Spotters just used binoculars; they wouldn’t have a mark like that. 

The enemy’s fingers trembled as he pointed the gun. Just like Dazai said, he had only one shot. He couldn’t fire unless he was confident he could hit him. Dazai continued to approach the man, welcoming him to pull the trigger. 

“Now shoot. Right here. You can’t miss from this close up.” Dazai grinned from ear to ear. “You’ll be killed whether or not you shoot, so just bury the enemy executive before you go.” 

“Dazai!” I screamed. I felt as though we were thousands of miles apart. 

“Please take me with you. Awaken me from this oxidizing world of a dream. Come, now. Shoot.” 

Still pointing at his forehead, Dazai closed in on the enemy with a smile that could’ve even been described as peaceful. 

The attacker bit his lip and tightened his finger around the trigger. 

—He’s at his breaking point! 

The sniper and I fired almost simultaneously. 

Two flashes of light flooded the alley. 

Shot in the arm, the man spun around. 

Dazai violently bent backward after being shot point-blank. 

A split second like a blue flash of lightning. 

A never-ending instant. 

Then time began to move again. 

Immediately, Dazai’s men showered the enemy with bullets as he spun from the impact of my shot. Like a rag being pummeled by a waterfall, the man was thrown backward, scattering flesh and blood until he perished. 

Leaning away, Dazai took two, three steps back before stopping. 

“…………How unfortunate,” he lamented, still bent over. “Looks like I didn’t manage to die this time, either.” 

Dazai lifted his head up. The skin on the side of his head, slightly above his right ear, was slit open and bleeding. 

The bullet had just missed. 

I looked at Dazai. There was something there invisible to the human eye. You could’ve called it demons of the mind—something that could never be seen—just something compelled to destroy all. 

“Sorry to shock you like that.” Noticing my gaze, Dazai scratched the side of his head and grinned. “Pretty realistic acting, right? I knew from the start that he would miss. The imprint from the sniper rifle was on his left cheek, meaning that was the side he used to shoot. In other words, he’s left-handed, but he was holding the pistol in his right hand. So he was going to shoot with his nondominant hand, he could barely even stand on those wobbly legs, and to make matters worse, he was using that old-fashioned gun. The only way he would have hit me was if he pressed the muzzle against my body.” 

I didn’t say anything. I just stared at Dazai as he explained with a smile. 

“All I had to do was talk to him to buy some time until his arm got tired. If I slowly walked toward him, he wouldn’t be able to shoot straight away. The rest was in your hands, Odasaku. I knew you would do something. Pretty logical, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

That was all I said. I didn’t have anything else to add. Had our ranks or relations been any different, I probably would’ve punched him right then. However, I am me, and there was nothing I could do to him. 

After returning my gun to its holster, I turned my back to Dazai and began walking away. With every step I took, I felt as if the ground were going to collapse, creating a bottomless hole that I would fall through for an eternity. 

Dazai’s expression as he placed a finger on his forehead and approached the enemy—that of a child about to burst into tears—remained burned into my eyes.