Bungo Stray Dogs - Volume 2 - Chapter 2

CHAPTER II 

The rain came and went after that. Dazai had been running around trying to get information on Mimic, while I wandered around the city in search of clues. I felt as though something important was slipping through my fingers with each passing moment, but I couldn’t see what that something was. The more important it was, the less visible it became to me—especially when I lost it. 

I’d spent even more time wondering. Why did Ango go missing? There was no longer any doubt that he was somehow connected to Mimic, but what that connection was remained a mystery. I still hadn’t been able to figure out why he lied about buying that watch. Like a pale zombie wandering alone through a bright, immaculate graveyard, I continued to roam Yokohama in pursuit of a nonexistent hope. 

I had reached just one conclusion but hadn’t told a soul. It didn’t feel right. I was sure Dazai had come to the same conclusion himself, but he probably wasn’t telling anyone, either. 

Disappearing at almost the same time Mimic appeared, lying about a business trip to create an alibi, the gun in the safe and the Mimic sniper who tried desperately to get it back—Ango Sakaguchi was a Mimic spy. 

It would all make sense, then. 

Mimic bought Ango to get inside knowledge on the Mafia. 

I shook my head. There was no way that was right. If that were the case, then that meant Ango was a capable enough spy to have deceived even the likes of Dazai and the boss. He would put a government agent to shame. What would Mimic gain from sending such a skilled spy to infiltrate the Mafia? 

“You look glum, Odasaku. What’s wrong? Constipated?” the restaurant owner called out to me. 

“I’m just thinking. I’d avoid eating spicy food like curry if I were actually constipated.” 

I was indeed eating curry over rice at a diner. 

“Oh… Yeah, I guess you’re right. Hey, Odasaku, you don’t get mad when people ask that kinda stuff when you’re eating curry?” 

“I don’t know,” I answered. “Should I?” 

“Uh… I dunno.” 

“Seriously?” I responded with a straight face. 

“Just don’t push yourself too hard, Odasaku.” 

I knew the restaurant owner pretty well. He was in his fifties with a stomach protruding so far that he probably couldn’t see his own toes when he stood upright. Some of his hair had checked out, and he had crow’s-feet from smiling so much. He always wore a yellow apron that fit him so well that I sometimes wondered if he was born in it. 

I ate curry here around three times a week out of pure habit. Habits are peculiar. If I didn’t eat this curry for a few days, my mouth would dry up strangely, and I couldn’t focus. I’d seen more than my share of drug addicts in the underworld, so I couldn’t help but think this was how they felt every time they went through withdrawals. 

“How’s the curry?” 

“Same as always.” 

The curry here was simple: vegetables boiled down to a buttery consistency, beef tendon sautéed with garlic, a light dashi stock. The ingredients were then cooked with a complex blend of spices and dumped on top of a large helping of white rice before being all mixed together. Toss in an egg and some sauce, and it was ready to be eaten. 

My hunger fully sated, I helped myself to a cup of coffee as I basked in my own personal bliss. That’s when I asked, “How are the kids?” 

“Haven’t changed,” the owner replied while wiping a dinner plate with a cloth. “They’re practically a small gang. There’s only five of them, so they’re scraping by. But if there were five more, they’d probably be able to hold up the Japan Bank for International Cooperation. They’re on the second floor. Go say hello.” 

I decided to go with his suggestion. The floor above the restaurant used to be an old conference space until it was remodeled for residential use. I climbed up the stairs. The concrete walls were pasted with stained wallpaper and had reinforcing rods sticking out here and there. When I reached the top, I saw two doors: one to the kids’ room and one to the stockroom. I chose the former. 

“Yo. How’ve ya been?” 

I greeted the kids, each one focused intently on passing time in various ways: reading picture books, drawing, throwing a soft, fist-sized ball against the wall, playing cat’s cradle. The youngest of the bunch was a four-year-old girl, and the oldest was a nine-year-old boy. Nobody looked up. 

“You guys aren’t causing too much trouble for Pops, right? He’s ex-military, really tough. So if you guys complain too much, he’s gonna—” 

I was teasing the kids when I noticed something: There were supposed to be five of them, but I saw only four. I sensed something move in the bunk bed on the right. I instantly dropped my hips, lowering my posture. A nimble figure leaped out from the shadows on the bed—the fifth kid. I ducked my head and dodged him. 

However, he was just a decoy. The little girl, who had been drawing, latched on to my right leg as I was caught off-balance. This was their plan from the start. I lifted my one free leg to step forward in preparation for the real attack that was about to come, but I couldn’t move; the string that was being used for cat’s cradle up until a second ago was now drawn right across my path of movement. It was a trap. My ankle got caught on the thick, taut string, and I lost my footing, causing me to flounder uselessly in midair. 

I grabbed on to the bunk bed with my right hand and avoided falling to the floor, but the kids had predicted that outcome, too. They had colored in the bed’s handrails with crayons until they were slick, and my right hand slid off. Both of my hands hit the floor. I instinctively tried to get back up, but unfortunately for me, I’d left my back momentarily wide-open to the kiddie gang. There was no way they would let this opportunity go by. I could feel the seven- and eight-year-old boys lunging at me from behind. If I let them get me now, I’d soon be no different from a prisoner marching to the guillotine—I could see it. I needed to teach them just how frightening the real Mafia was. 

I swiftly knocked the ball rolling by my side with the back of my hand, bouncing it off the wall and hitting the seven-year-old right in the face. Unable to see his target anymore, he landed on the floor and took cover. Next, I pulled my ankle free, tearing the string trap apart before putting my weight on my left leg. When I lifted my right leg high into the air, the kid latched on to it squealed with joy and dropped to the floor. All that was left was the eight-year-old lunging at me from behind, but he alone wouldn’t be able to hold me down. I stood up with him hanging on to my back. 

The agile kid, the one who’d been hiding in the bed, was the gang’s leader. Even after witnessing the unsightly defeat of his men, he still boldly went for the attack. Since this was his plan all along, he couldn’t back down no matter how obviously hopeless it was. 

I caught the leader as he tried to charge me head-on. He made an admirable attempt to grab my legs and knock me off-balance, but there was just too much of a weight difference. Seizing him under the arms, I lifted him up, turned him upside down, and shook him. He bleated like a goat with a hangover. 

“Give up?” I asked. 

“Never!” he screamed. 

With no will to fight, the others simply watched to see how much longer their leader could maintain his dignity as commander in chief. 

“Then it looks like some Mafia-style torture is in order.” 

With both hands under his armpits, I tickled the kid as if there were no tomorrow. 

“Hya-ha-ha! W-wai— Ha-ha-hee-hee-hee!” 

It took two minutes and forty-two seconds before he agreed to my terms of surrender. 

I talked to the children for some time after that. Apparently, life at the restaurant was passable for the most part, but they were rather displeased with the food menu rotating every three days. They demanded swift improvement, or at least permission to be in the kitchen. 

“Pops is nice, but…,” the oldest boy said. “Like, he treats us all like kids, but we’re all adults here, ya know? Is us growin’ up so quickly a problem for the adults or something?” 

I told him that it probably was. 

“We’re gonna get you next time!” the kids proclaimed, to which I responded that I was looking forward to it—and I honestly was. After that, I retired from the second floor. When I returned to the restaurant, I heard a new customer’s voice—a familiar one at that. 

“Whoa! This is spicy, mister! Really spicy! What’s your secret ingredient? Lava?!” 

“Ha-ha-ha, ya think so? That’s what Odasaku always has. Hey, Odasaku, welcome back. How were the kids?” 

“It was close, but I remain undefeated,” I replied. “However, they predicted where I would grab on to, so they colored it in with crayons to make me slip. I was really worried for a second there. You said they’d be able to hold up a bank if there were ten of them, but I bet they’d be able to pull that off in two more years with their current numbers.” 

“Maybe I should recruit them…” Dazai smirked while wiping his sweat. “I heard all about it, Odasaku. You’re raising five kids, huh? And not only that, they’re orphans from the Dragon’s Head Conflict.” 

Even if I’d tried to hide it, Dazai would’ve been able to figure it out with just half a day’s worth of research. 

“Yeah.” I nodded. 

The children were orphans. They would have all died if I hadn’t saved them. Two years ago, various syndicates, including the Port Mafia, were involved in a large-scale underground dispute known as the Dragon’s Head Conflict. A certain skill user died, leaving behind five hundred billion yen’s worth of dirty money, which led to a bloody, murderous frenzy that spread throughout the entire Kanto region. Most illegal armed organizations came close to extinction as a result. 

I also participated in the struggle. It was such a bloodbath that you’d get attacked once every ten minutes just walking the streets. The result was countless scores of bodies. 

The children on the second floor were kids who had nowhere to go after the incident was over. 

“A Mafia member who refuses to kill, talented yet has no interest in advancing through the ranks, a man who’s raising five orphans—Sakunosuke Oda.” Dazai smirked. “You’re a strange guy. You might be the strangest guy in the entire Mafia.” 

Not as long as they had Dazai. 

I faced the restaurant owner once more and pulled out an envelope of bills from my coat pocket. 

“Pops, this should be enough money for the kids for now.” 

“You sure this is okay, Odasaku?” There was a worried tone in the owner’s voice as he wiped his fingers on his apron and accepted the envelope. “I mean, I know most of your earnings end up here… If it’s all right, I can throw in some of my money, too.” 

“I really appreciate you letting us use your place, Pops. That, plus the curry here, is more than enough.” 

“Odasaku, do you seriously eat this spicy curry all the time?” Dazai asked as he took a sip of water. “It’s so hot that my jaw’s about to fall off.” 

“Dazai, what are you doing here anyway?” I asked. 

“I have something I need to tell you about the case. A lot of things came to light after we last talked, especially about the enemy.” 

There was only one case I knew of. 

“Pops, sorry to ask this, but could you give us some privacy?” 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be in the back getting things ready, so just holler if we get a customer.” 

The owner seemed to have sussed out the situation from my expression alone, and he took off his apron before gleefully heading out the back door. Dazai ended up eating most of his curry while tirelessly downing his cup of water. During that time, I let myself into the kitchen, made some coffee, and poured myself a cup. 

“Man, that was hot. Why does curry have to be that hot? Does it have something against mankind? More people would eat it if it were less spicy. This is negligence in food culture.” 

I thought about it for a moment before answering. “If more people ate it, then nobody would eat anything else, thus completely destroying food culture as we know it.” 

“Makes sense.” Dazai nodded, seemingly convinced. 

“So what was it you wanted to tell me?” 

“I’ll get straight to the point. It’s a foreign crime syndicate,” he started to explain while pouring another glass of water. “They’ve only been in Japan for a short while. They used to be a well-known European skilled crime syndicate, but an organization of skill users in Great Britain known as the Order of the Clock Tower drove them out of the continent, and they scurried away to Japan.” 

“They’re a European criminal organization?” 

Europe was home to top-class skill users employed by both the government and various criminal organizations, and as a result, those skill users built an extremely elaborate and complex power structure throughout the continent. That was why such a strict surveillance system had been put in place to prevent such individuals from escaping to other countries. 

When I asked Dazai how they could have gotten here, he tilted his head and replied, “Yeah, a crime syndicate of skill users shouldn’t be able to illegally enter another country that easily. There has to be more to this than meets the eye. They might have a collaborator within Japan.” 

“But what did they come all the way to Japan for anyway?” 

“Beats me. The only way we’ll know is if we ask them. We can guess, though. They escaped to a foreign land without a soul to rely on. This might sound snide, but they’re dead broke. So maybe they’re trying to make it big by stealing the Port Mafia’s turf and smuggling route.” 

It was possible. There’s only one thing that poor crime syndicates want: money, money, and more money. But there was just one thing bothering me. I started to open my mouth to express my concerns. 

“Hold on. Hear me out until the end.” Dazai stopped me as if he could read my mind. “I know what you want to say, Odasaku. They’re way too skilled to just be a group of low-level criminals who joined forces, right? I thought the same thing. You almost never see a sniper and spotter operating in tandem around here, let alone so proficiently. Those were ex-military. According to the intel I received, the leader of their organization is a powerful skill user and soldier commanding a seasoned group of men. I should be getting more detailed information soon. Anyway, you can’t underestimate these guys. If they systematically attack with such precise tactics, then even the Port Mafia might come tumbling down.” 

“Does the boss know about this?” 

“I told him,” Dazai reluctantly replied. “He appointed me as commander of the front line and tasked me with devising a strategy for Mimic, so I immediately set up a few traps—simple mousetraps. I’ve got a feeling the enemy might make a move soon.” 

Mimic wasn’t just going to steal some weapons and try to snipe us—only to then hang their hats up and go home. Dazai was right. They were going to strike again…and it was going to be big. 

“This is a really basic question, but…,” I said, then continued, “…shouldn’t the government be cracking down on crime syndicates with skill users?” 

There were more than a few people in the world with unusual powers, including Dazai and me. The type of skill differs per person, but some are highly dangerous. That was why the government established a special agency to constantly surveil these dangerous individuals in secret. Those government agents, too, are skill users, and highly capable ones at that. 

“You mean the Home Affairs Ministry’s Special Division for Unusual Powers, right?” Dazai cocked his head. “But see, they’re a secret organization, so they don’t really show their faces much. Besides, the Port Mafia is a powerful crime syndicate with skill users as well. I bet nothing would make that division happier than if the Mafia and Mimic took each other out.” 

Dazai had a point. If the Special Division for Unusual Powers was so obsessed with eradicating crime involving skill users, then they’d have to take out the Port Mafia first. I’d heard from Ango once before that although the Division was a government agency with experienced skill users, they had only a few elites within their ranks; that would make it difficult for them to take a massive organization such as the Port Mafia head-on and win unscathed. They would most certainly have casualties. Apparently, the Special Division for Unusual Powers was trying to avoid that at all costs, so they stuck to simply keeping an eye on the Port Mafia from a safe distance. Of course, they’d have to bestir themselves if there were a lot of civilian casualties as well. 

Only one question remained, although difficult to ask. 

“What about Ango?” 

Dazai didn’t immediately reply, sipping on his freshly brewed cup of coffee in silence. Even he needed time to prepare an answer. 

“We’re almost completely certain that Ango is the one who leaked the code to the armory,” he muttered with eyes downcast on his cup. Then he glanced over at me as if he was trying to see my reaction. I didn’t say a word. 

“Everyone in the organization is issued a different passcode to avoid trouble. And—” 

“The code Mimic used to open the armory matched the one given to Ango, right?” 

I crossed my arms. The missing pieces of the puzzle were slowly coming together. The pattern I saw, though, was one I wish I hadn’t. 

“Hey, Dazai.” I took a seat by his side. For a split second, I felt as if I were in a dream. It was as though nothing had changed—just like the other day when I was sitting with Ango and Dazai at the bar. “Is there any possibility that someone framed Ango and is pulling the strings from behind the scenes?” 

“It’s not out of the question. That’s always a possibility,” Dazai answered, but he didn’t seem to believe the words coming out of his own mouth. “If someone in the Mafia was colluding with Mimic, then sure, it’s possible. But I can’t think of a single person who’d benefit from that.” 

Dazai shook his head. I felt the same way. All we could do at that point was find Ango as soon as possible and ask him. Whether that would bring us the results we hoped for was anyone’s guess, though. 

The Mafia’s intelligence officer—Ango Sakaguchi. Why did he betray the syndicate? 

During the battle of intelligence in the previous war of the syndicates, there were various barriers preventing members of enemy organizations from turning to the opposing side: money, the opposite sex, family, pride, a sense of belonging. From what I’d heard, if all of these barriers were cleared, then the enemy would most definitely defect. So what would’ve been Ango’s reason to join Mimic? 

I looked to Dazai in search of an answer. He was hanging his head, contemplating in silence. His expression was… 

Dazai was… 

“…Ha-ha-ha.” 

…laughing. 

“At first, I just thought they were your average crime syndicate, but if they’re good enough for Ango to join, then that means a little arm-twisting isn’t gonna make them cry and say they’re sorry. Plus, Ango’s no pushover as an enemy. He’s no walk in the park. This is getting exciting. I bet they’re gonna back me into a corner, then—” 

“Dazai.” 

He paused when I called his name. I didn’t have anything else to say, though; I simply said his name. 

Nobody knew what Dazai was really thinking. 

It’s an unwritten rule in the Mafia to not stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. One must never open the door to another’s heart and try to judge them for the darkness tucked within. That was one nice thing about the Mafia. 

But maybe, just maybe, that was the wrong approach—or at the very least, when it came to the man sitting next to me. Somebody probably should’ve tied him up, pried his chest open, and stuffed a vacuum cleaner inside. Then, as he screamed and cried until they needed to punch him to shut him up, they’d suck every last bit out of his chest and stamp it into the ground. 

But in reality, such a vacuum didn’t exist. Chests don’t open up like that, and no one is capable of such feats. What we see is everything, and everything we see, we ignore. All we can do is stand before the deep ditch between us and others and keep silent. 

“Well, I should get going,” Dazai said before standing. 

“Dazai.” He turned around when I called out to him. Rubbing my hands together, I looked down at the empty plate and coffee cup, then back up. “Are you thinking that way because—?” 

Out of nowhere, Dazai’s cell phone began to ring. He lightly bowed to me before placing the phone against his ear and answering. A few moments went by as he listened to whoever was on the other side, but soon enough, his lips suddenly twisted into a grin. 

“All right.” 

He hung up, then faced me once more before saying: 

“We caught a mouse in our trap.” 

There was no distinction between day and night in the Yokohama Settlement. 

What was once the living quarters for a former occupying army was now a joint settlement with strong influences left over from the foreign consul. On paper, the Japanese military police and the consul police worked together to maintain public order within the Settlement. However, the law’s particulars were incredibly ambiguous, leading to countless gray areas. Numerous military parties, financial conglomerates, and criminals gathered here from all over the world like moths to a flame in order to benefit from these loopholes. 

Even the MP cannot carelessly dabble in the Settlement’s affairs. It’s virtually an extraterritorial “Demon City,” which is one reason why Yokohama gained public notoriety for acting as the largest base for criminals with skills. 

In one corner of this Demon City was an underground casino run by the Port Mafia. It was neither glamorous nor luxurious, but instead rather plain and ambiguous; it basically blended into the scenery. At least, that was how it appeared. But there was a reason for that. All the gambling done inside was illegal. 

The casino was located beneath a shipyard and had a horde of Mafia guards on patrol. Patrons who visited were top-class financiers, politicians, military officers, and the like. The doorman wearing a double-breasted coat escorted the customers. Inside the underground casino was a chandelier, illuminating the damask wallpaper, wooden mosaic flooring, and shag carpeting. Various equipment stood like reticent sentinels: a jukebox playing jazz music from the Prohibition era, a roulette board, and a blackjack table. With their drinks in one hand, people casually squandered their money while enjoying secret conversations. A middle-aged bartender silently made cocktails behind the bar set in the corner. 

That was when the unexpected suddenly happened. Soldiers draped in gray rags soundlessly appeared from the back door and began firing their submachine guns. Fragments of the chandelier and walls scattered into the air, raining over the customers’ heads. Like a flock of sheep struck by a bolt of lightning, the customers stampeded into each and every direction, wildly stomping over and on one another to escape. That was the first thing the soldiers were going for. 

In the heat of the confusion, the croupiers swiftly grabbed the machine pistols they’d hidden away, but before they could even aim, the soldiers’ suppressive fire pierced their chests and brought them to their knees. The five soldiers immediately cut across the casino floor and rushed into the manager’s room in the back. They promptly disposed of the manager, then ripped the carpet off the floor. 

Embedded in the floor was a large electric safe. One of the soldiers took out a notepad and punched in the numbers written in it on the electronic keypad. A gear deep inside the safe made a heavy clicking sound, and the door opened. The soldiers took a peek inside. 

The safe was empty. 

Their astonishment was as clear as day. Almost instantaneously, an electronic alert howled throughout the building, and fireproof shutters slammed to the ground with a heavy clang. The soldiers, aware of what was going on, shot the shutters, but the thick screens were designed to withstand bullets. After a few seconds, the ceiling sprinklers went off, sending a liquid over the soldiers, the croupiers, and even the patrons who couldn’t get away. 

The liquid wasn’t water, however; it was a white substance that almost immediately evaporated when it came into contact with clothes or the floor. The patrons and employees, who had breathed in the air, began to cough violently. The soldiers promptly held their breath, but it was already too late. 

One after another, everyone in the room began to collapse onto the floor. Almost no one was able to do anything of use. They simply clasped their throats, bent forward, and passed out. The white substance was just a type of knockout gas that affected the respiratory system; it wasn’t fatal. 

However, the one soldier who had the most accurate grasp of the situation shot himself in the head. His blood and brain matter sprayed the wall, leaving a pattern that symbolized the last moment of his life. The remaining soldiers, on the other hand, lacked the clarity of mind to act on the spur of the moment. And just like the casino patrons, they fell to the ground. 

There was only one difference between the patrons and the soldiers: The latter would never be allowed the luxury of a peaceful death. 

I visited a small accounting firm by the coast. Ango used to work here in his early days before he became a top-secret intelligence agent. Everyone starts at the bottom of the pecking order sometime in their life. 

Once I arrived at the office, I told them why I came. The guard and administrator both beamed as they escorted me to the back. The Mafia’s not all steel, guns, and explosives. These kinds of people are necessary, too. 

This place was used as an accounting facility that washed the dirty money the Mafia brought in illegally. Three years ago, Ango was headhunted by the Mafia and worked here as an assistant. 

The guard and the admin ended up bringing me to a windowless room hidden behind a wall. It was a dim space with secret Mafia assets, money-laundering ledger sheets, and other records stuffed in bookshelves lined up against the wall, plus a desk in the middle. There was nothing else except for a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling, faintly wobbling. 

“There ya go. Now if ya don’t mind, I’ll be gettin’ back to work,” came the administrator’s husky voice once he’d taken me to the bookshelves. 

He claimed he had work to do, but I’d glanced into the room next door earlier and saw that his desk was covered in bonsai plants and a book on shogi—nothing else. 

“Thank you very much.” I expressed my gratitude. “By the way, there’s a bit of burgeoning conflict unfolding at headquarters right now. Please be careful.” 

“The only things here are old documents and stacks of securities that can’t be cashed. Attacking this place would just be a hassle.” 

The administrator smirked. He had been the treasurer in charge of the Mafia’s finances for years. Perhaps he could instinctively sense where the sparks of war would land. 

“This is a nice workplace.” After surveying the room, I called out to the administrator as he was leaving, “Maybe I should ask to be transferred here.” 

The skin on his face crinkled as his lips curled into a grin. 

“Most young’uns who say that don’t even last three days before they head for the hills. It’s boring here.” 

After thanking the administrator for his time, I faced the open bookshelves once more. Ango’s records were here. Accountants have always been the epitome of meticulousness itself, but the people who manage the Mafia’s under-the-table accounts must be capable of writing out in detail everything that happens during the course of business. That way, even if they’re killed, the successor can take over for them without delay. I flipped through the business logs of the prior accountant. He was apparently well organized, even more than your average accountant, but just one single month of records alone was like reading a full-length novel—basically one long lyric poem about the underbelly of society. 

I sat behind the desk in the middle of the hidden room and leafed through the documents. According to the records, Ango used to be a kind of hacker who bought and sold information. In the past, he drew out a scheme where he would work together with a gang to steal money from a corporation. They pretended they worked for the bank, opened the safe-deposit box, then swiped all the securities to exchange for cash. The plan was a complete success, so Ango and his team made quite a bit of money. But it was money stained in blood. The safe-deposit box and securities belonged to one of the Mafia’s front companies; Ango and his men basically swiped money right out of the Mafia’s pockets. Unsurprisingly, Ango was chased by hounds after that—armed mad dogs in black that tailed their prey through the night without so much as a howl or even a single sound. 

Mentally exhausted and being fed misinformation, the gang grew suspicious of one another, leading to a shoot-out and their quick demise. Ango, on the other hand, continued to run. He was able to figure out in advance where the Mafia’s tracking unit would be next, allowing him to simply escape their reach throughout Yokohama. No less than six months went by. 

For those six months, Ango managed to outsmart the Mafia’s tracking unit who knew Yokohama like the back of their hand, something that would’ve even put a government spy to shame. He was most likely somehow using the Mafia’s intelligence network in secret and leaking misinformation to confuse his enemies. 

But there’s an end of the road for everybody. Nobody can evade the darkness of the night forever. Ango must have been prepared to die when he was captured in the slum’s underground aqueduct. Instead, he was brought before the boss, who wasn’t willing to dispose of someone with such outstanding information-manipulation skills. 

That was the start of Ango’s second life. 

—That was the first dramatic step of the man’s rise in the underworld. From what I can see in these files, there’s not even a shadow of Mimic in his background. 

…Which meant Mimic and Ango didn’t have any contact until after this. 

I flipped through the files some more until I found an account that caught my eye. Two years ago, Ango went to Europe for business after he had been in the Mafia for a year and gained their trust. His objective was to close a deal with a local stolen car broker. However, Ango ceased communication for those two months for unknown reasons. He didn’t seem any different once he returned, and he explained that some sort of misunderstanding with a local organization had led to his getting pursued as a criminal. And his story checked out, too. After looking into it, I discovered there actually was a mass arrest in Europe of organizations that smuggled stolen vehicles. The Port Mafia came to the conclusion that Ango must have gotten caught up in that, so no more questions were asked of him. 

But in retrospect, it was hard to believe that Ango was on the run for two months because he couldn’t clear up such a simple misunderstanding. Nobody could confirm what Ango did during that period in Europe. With what I learned, I could only assume he used this time to meet with Mimic and come to some sort of deal—in other words, as a double agent. That would’ve meant Mimic had already been laying the groundwork to attack the Port Mafia from that moment on. 

I closed the files, then sank deep into my thoughts to meditate. The room was dead silent. The only noises I heard were the sounds of passing cars, like a film far away. Something was off. Something about this scenario bothered me. Ango joined the Mafia, then secretly communicated with Mimic. From there, he waited for just the right time for both syndicates to clash. It was too perfect, like two computers playing chess. There were no signs of any unexpected actions, no curveballs…and that conversely made me uneasy. 

I surveyed the room, thinking back to how Ango used to work here. That day, he had been in the same spot I was in at that very moment. Ango had been sitting in the chair with his elbows on the desk, his expression glum as he’d stared at me in silence. 

This was where we first met. Ango was arrogant back then. He practically oozed displeasure, the bored expression on his face plainly illustrating that he didn’t feel he belonged in a place like this. I thought back to the way he’d looked at me. What did he say to me when we first met again? I believe it was… 

“Could you please not get any closer? You smell,” he said with disgust and his elbows still on the desk. Dazai and I couldn’t even say a word as we stood stock-still by the door. An awkward silence descended over the hidden room. 

I had heard around that this young man was the new guy, Ango Sakaguchi, but this was the first time I was actually meeting him. Dazai and I exchanged glances. We did indeed smell terrible. After all, we were on our way back from a mission. We must’ve reeked of oil, rust, and blood. My nose had given up sending signals to my brain a long time ago. 

It was the middle of the Dragon’s Head Conflict. There was nary a night when you didn’t hear gunfire, and practically every drop of sewage water had been tainted with blood. The bodies of underground syndicate members piled up in every corner of the city. Even the MP couldn’t put a stop to it all, never mind come up with the manpower to inspect the crime scenes. 

Dazai and I were given orders to clean up the fallen Port Mafia members’ bodies. We would photograph the corpses, then take their possessions back with us. We couldn’t afford to have the police take anything as evidence in their attempt to curb organized crime. 

Nevertheless, it wasn’t a job you could afford to obsess over too much in the throes of war. What’s more, all the gunfights took place at the Yokohama Settlement’s waste-disposal site. That was where sludge and industrial waste oil were typically dumped illegally, and the police never went anywhere near it, let alone the neighboring residents. 

And that was why Dazai and I were covered in oil and mud. The lingering stench was enough to send a stray cat on the other side of town running in the opposite direction. 

At one point during our mission, Dazai had told me with an uncomfortable grimace, “It smells so bad that I want to cut my nose off.” 

Glancing at us, Ango spoke bluntly. “Put their belongings on my desk, then stand back. Don’t open your mouth unless I ask you something.” 

We did as we were told. 

“You’re the new guy, right?” Dazai piped up. “Sorry, but can I use your shower? As you so politely pointed out, we smell awful—” 

“I told you to keep quiet.” 

Ango cut Dazai off, causing him to fall silent with his mouth agape. The other half of the sentence Ango had wrested from him idly hung in the air. 

Regardless of how young he may have looked, Dazai was the leading candidate for the next executive. While Ango may have been a new hire at the accounting firm, that didn’t excuse his behavior. 

He pulled the items out of the bags we gave him and began to inspect them one by one. IDs, keys, phones, knives, guns, pictures—he checked each item while recording them in his account book. 

I had no idea what Ango was doing. I fully believed the evidence would be incinerated after checking them off with the names of the deceased. However, the new guy was inspecting each and every item, writing them down. Just what was he doing? 

“What are you doing?” My curiosity got the best of me. 

“How many times do I have to ask you to be quiet?” Ango replied as his pencil glided over the notepad. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m creating logs, of course.” 

“I see,” I replied. 

“Tell us your name!” Dazai suddenly yelled, causing me to jump in surprise. Ango’s eyes flicked over toward Dazai. Then, after a few moments of silence, he replied, “Ango…Sakaguchi.” 

“Heh-heh-heh-heh…” Dazai began to chuckle, smiling from ear to ear for some reason. 

“…What’s with the nauseating laugh?” 

“You’re quite the interesting fellow, Ango. Doing that isn’t going to make the boss happy. In fact, it’s just going to cost more money and create extra work, never mind help you move up in the ranks.” 

“Are you saying you know what I’m doing?” Ango asked with more than a hint of surprise on his face. 

“You’re making records of the lives of the deceased. Am I right?” 

Ango was caught off guard, his eyes wide in shock as if he’d just realized Dazai was there. 

“When did you peek inside my logbooks?” 

“I didn’t have to. It’s pretty obvious what you’re doing.” 

I had no idea what made it so obvious, but stuff like this always happened when I was with Dazai, so I just quietly watched the scene play out. Dazai walked straight over to Ango with no regard for his reaction. 

“The more violent this war becomes, the more the deceased start to just look like numbers. How many died yesterday? How many died today? The line between human losses and those of money and equipment begin to blur. There is no individual, no soul, and no dignity to death. But you’re fighting back against that. Anyway, could you read us one?” 

Ango glared at Dazai in irritation for a few moments, but he eventually lowered his gaze to the files and began reading. 

“Four of ours perished yesterday during the attack near the waste site: Kurehito Umeki, Shoukichi Saegusa, Miroku Ishige, and Kazuma Utagawa… Umeki was a former MP officer who was stigmatized and kicked out of the force for allegedly killing his colleague. He joined the Mafia soon after and proved to be a skilled leader in battle. He even led this small group. Umeki had already lost his parents prior to these events. He has a brother many years younger, but they haven’t been in contact. Whether he really killed his colleague is now forever a mystery never to be solved… Next is Saegusa. He succeeded his father in the Mafia and had been involved with the organization ever since he was a child. He had a way of calming situations down and was apparently loved by the shop owners on our turf. His dream was to become an executive… Now we have Ishige. She was a former sex worker who had been caring for her sick parents. She had poor eyesight but an excellent sense of hearing, which allowed her to hear the enemies coming before they attacked. Ishige likely played a huge role in the survival of many of our members… The final victim, Utagawa, was originally an assassin for an enemy syndicate that became a Mafia subsidiary when they were nearly wiped out. Utagawa is survived by his wife and kids, who do not know of his life of an assassin nor his association with the Mafia. Perhaps they will never know.” 

I imagined the lives of the four departed as I listened to Ango. While I couldn’t vividly see them, I felt closer to them and their existence, which was no more. 

Ango closed his book, then said, “They all found peace. Nobody can take that away from them. The information in this book is evidence of their lives and the legacy of people who will never be recorded as simply ‘four deaths’ in a report. I started collecting this data in between jobs, and I have created the same records for all eighty-four people in the Port Mafia who died since the conflict began.” 

I found myself in mute amazement. It was difficult to even imagine how much work that must have been. 

“Does the boss know about this—about the fact that you’re collecting and recording data that has no strategic value?” I asked. 

“Yes, I gather the files together every week and shove them in the boss’s hands myself. He was annoyed at first, but now he feels that this is ‘a valuable source of information for truly understanding the state of the entire organization.’ He has come to enjoy reading them.” 

What he’d started as a side project between jobs turned into his main responsibility, one directly handed to him from the boss. I guess that explained why the boss gave orders to Dazai, a candidate for the next executive, to rummage through dead bodies. 

“Fascinating, isn’t it, Odasaku?” Dazai brazenly patted Ango on the back. “There’s really nobody in the Mafia like this—a true waste of talent.” 

“I told you to stay back. You’re going to make me start smelling.” Ango grimaced. 

“Don’t you agree, Odasaku? Don’t you just wanna read these records?” 

I nodded, then replied, “Name your price. I’ll buy them off you.” 

“They’re not for sale! Why are you even bothering me anyway?! I’m busy, you know! And you smell like rotten tsukudani!” 

“C’mon, what’s a little rotten simmered fish between us? Besides, it goes great with sake.” 

“Really? I had no idea.” 

“No, they don’t! How can you lie about that so brazenly?!” 

“B-but…it really does…taste good, y’know?” 

“I didn’t mean you should be more timid about it!” 

“I could really go for a drink now.” 

“Good thinking! Let’s go to the usual place. We can even take this apprentice accountant with us while we’re at it. How does that sound?” 

“Perfect.” 

“I said I’m busy, so—” 

“Odasaku, there’s only one way to save this man from his busyness. All we have to do is hug him tight from each side, covering him with mud, oil, and our putrid smell. That way, he physically won’t be able to work anymore today!” 

“Good point.” 

“Wh-what?! Are you threatening me?!” 

“New guy, the Mafia doesn’t threaten. We murder. Oh, Odasaku, take the right side, will ya?” 

“Sure thing.” 

“W-wait! These are my best clothes! S-stop! You’re going to make me angr— Aaah!” 

………… 

We all gathered at the bar after that and got to know one another. There were no bosses or subordinates present; the three of us basically acted as equals. We drank, and we talked. That’s it. We talked about the city, about liquor, about the people we’ve met. It wasn’t as if we were passionately discussing some special topic we wanted to share, but even then, we didn’t run out of things to chat about. We were like soldiers who had by chance run into one another on the desert battlefield, crowded around a campfire together, quietly exchanging something or other and drinking, just sharing a moment of one another’s time. 

In the world we live in, finding these types of relationships are rare, like coming upon a golden palace in the middle of a dense forest. If this relationship were to ever be broken, there would be no second chance to build something like this with anyone else ever again. 

But then… 

The old-fashioned pistol. The code to the safe. 

Our relationship was beginning to visibly crumble at an alarming rate. 

Dazai walked down a set of stairs leading to a dim basement. A white mist silently seeped in through the cracks in the stone wall, making the chamber hazy as if it were underwater. The walls were moist and black, dimly glittering after absorbing countless screams and despair. 

This was the Mafia’s underground prison. Many entered alive, but very few left that way. Scores of people were taken down here for various reasons, among them the large number of instruments of torture available, the extreme difficulty involved in rescuing prisoners, and the simple fact that it was just a bit easier to clean up any mess and blood in the basement. 

Dazai walked through the prison in silence as he headed toward the special prisoners’ cell. It was nothing more than a single room of around thirty-six square yards. The only entrance and exit was a short iron door; there wasn’t even a window to let the light in. Shackles and chains like those of a medieval jail hung from the wall. 

There were three dead bodies in the middle of the cell—all relatively fresh. Their blood slowly spread across the floor, as if fruitlessly struggling to escape from the gloomy chamber. The ones who died here were Mimic soldiers. They had lost consciousness after breathing in knockout gas at the casino, and the Mafia had taken them here to be tortured. 

“Tell me what happened,” Dazai said. 

Four Mafia members were also in the cell, three of whom were Dazai’s subordinates who had helped fight against the sniper in the back alley. The fourth was a short, lean boy robed in a black overcoat. 

“We used sleeping gas to knock out the Mimic’s vanguard when they attacked our casino, and then we brought them here,” one suited subordinate replied, pushing up his sunglasses. “We planned on torturing them for info on their allegiances, and we even removed the poison tucked away in their molars so they couldn’t kill themselves.” 

“Yes, I’ve got that much. This was my plan, after all. What I want to know is what happened next.” 

“One of the soldiers woke up quicker than we expected…” The one in sunglasses started stumbling over his words. “Before we could shackle him…he grabbed one of our guns and killed his men…just to make sure they wouldn’t talk. Then he attacked us, and—” 

“I executed him.” The young boy in the black overcoat finished the mafioso’s sentence. Dazai looked at the boy, whose wide eyes glared back. “Is there a problem?” 

“I see… No, there’s no problem.” Staring right into the boy’s eyes, Dazai continued, “You defeated an unyielding, formidable enemy and protected your allies, Akutagawa. Good work.” 

Dazai began walking toward the boy in the black overcoat, the one he’d called Akutagawa. “Only your skill can defeat such a powerful enemy in one hit. Impressive. I wouldn’t expect any less from a subordinate of mine. Thanks to you, all three of the enemies we captured are dead—enemies I set a trap for and worked really hard to capture alive. Now we’re back to square one without a clue. If at least one of them were still living, we could’ve gotten some valuable information: where their base is, what they want, what’s their next target, who their leader is, where this leader came from, what this leader’s skill is… You really did us a favor.” 

“Information? I’ll just slice every one of them into pieces until—” 

Dazai suddenly punched Akutagawa in the face, preventing him from finishing his sentence. Akutagawa flew back onto the ground, his head bouncing off the stone flooring with a thud. 

“Perhaps I made it look like I wanted to hear excuses. Sorry for the misunderstanding,” Dazai said while rubbing his knuckles. 

“Urgh…” 

Akutagawa moaned. He’d hit his head so hard that he couldn’t even stagger to his feet. 

“Give me your gun,” Dazai ordered one of his men. The subordinate was hesitant but nonetheless handed over his weapon. Next, Dazai removed the magazine from the automatic pistol, took out all but three bullets, and then put the magazine back in. He immediately pointed the gun at Akutagawa, who was still on the ground. 

“I have this friend who’s supporting several orphans all on his own, you see,” he continued, his weapon still drawn and aimed at the boy. “Akutagawa, I’m sure Odasaku would’ve been patient enough to give you the guidance you needed had he been the one who’d found you on the brink of starvation in the slums. That would have been the ‘right’ thing to do. But ‘righteousness’ doesn’t take very kindly to me. And there’s only one thing people like me do to useless subordinates.” 

Dazai mercilessly pulled the trigger the moment he finished his sentence. 

Three gunshots. Three flashes of light. Three empty shells tinkled across the floor. 

“……” 

Sweat dripped down Akutagawa’s forehead. 

“See? You really can do it if you put your mind to it.” 

The bullets were floating motionlessly right in front of Akutagawa. He had used his skill to stop them. Yet, despite that, his expression indicated he was struggling. 

“I’ve told you this over and over again,” Dazai said, amused. “Your skill isn’t just for slicing up poor prisoners. You can use it to defend yourself, too.” 

Akutagawa’s skill, Rashomon, allowed him to control his black overcoat like another life-form, transforming it into fangs or blades to cut through his opponents. Dazai had also theorized that his skill could even rupture space itself, thus blocking incoming bullets. 

“Until now…I’ve never successfully used it to block.” 

Akutagawa’s voice was lifeless, hoarse. He’d used most of his mental strength to create an interruption in space. 

“But look at you now. You did it. I’m so happy for you.” 

Akutagawa scowled. A look of severe tension shot across his face, almost exploding with emotion. 

“Next time you mess up, I’m punching you twice and shooting five times. Got it?” 

Dazai’s voice was colder than ice. Akutagawa tried to say something back, but Dazai’s stern gaze pressured him into silence. 

“Now that I’m done educating my incompetent underling, it’s time to get to work. Let’s check the bodies. We might be able to find something.” 

After giving orders to the three subordinates at his side, one timidly spoke up. 

“So…what exactly do you want us to check?” 

“Everything! Isn’t it obvious?” Dazai cried in exasperation. “We need to find something that might lead us to their hideout. Anything could be a clue: the soles of their shoes, the trash in their pocket, food crumbs from whatever they ate, adhesives stuck to their clothes—everything. Tsk… My lackeys seem to think beating the enemy to death is all the Mafia does. Odasaku’s gonna solve everything all by himself at this rate.” 

“Sakunosuke Oda… I know that guy,” the subordinate with sunglasses added hesitantly. “Dazai, sir, I don’t mean to be rude, but…I saw him sweeping behind the office the other day. A man of his status isn’t qualified to be your friend, let alone contend with an enemy like this.” 

Dazai stared, flabbergasted, at his underling. 

“Are you joking? Odasaku’s not qualified?” Dazai asked, thoroughly surprised. 

“Yes…” 

The other men nodded as well. 

“You fools!” 

Dazai’s lips curled into a sneer in genuine disgust. “Listen, I’m telling you guys this for your own good. Do not make Odasaku angry—no matter what you do. If you were to anger him—truly, deeply upset him—then all five people in this room would be dead before anyone could even draw their guns.” 

The subordinates were at a loss for words. Even Akutagawa stared at Dazai with a tense expression on his face. 

“When he’s serious, Odasaku’s scarier than anyone in the entire Mafia. Akutagawa, you could train for a hundred years, and you still wouldn’t be able to beat him.” 

“…That is absurd…,” Akutagawa muttered, his voice stifled. “…That’s impossible. Are you saying that I—?” 

But Dazai just ignored him. 

“Now, let’s get to work! Our enemy might be a pain, but if we don’t sort this out soon, the Special Division for Unusual Powers is gonna show up to put the fire out, and we don’t want that.” 

His hands still on the stone floor, Akutagawa merely glared at Dazai. 

“…” 

His spiteful gaze was aimed at not only Dazai, but even Akutagawa himself. 

I left the accounting firm thinking about Ango, the man slowly slipping into evil somewhere in town. Or perhaps we, the Mafia, were the bad guys while Ango and Mimic were on the side of justice trying to bring us down. I started to believe that this hypothesis actually made even more sense than the others. Dazai, the boss, me, everyone in the Mafia—maybe we all deserved to die burdened with sin, solitude, and remorse. For all I knew, that could’ve been proof of the righteousness of this world. Those thoughts plagued my mind from the moment I departed the firm until I got a call from Dazai not long after. 

“Hey, Odasaku. I know this is sudden, but we got a clue. I need you to go somewhere for me right now.” 

According to him, the Mimic soldiers’ shoes had multiple dead leaves stuck on them from a certain perennial broadleaf that didn’t lose its leaves during that period. The entire plant would have to be withering for the leaves to fall, but perennials would not die so easily. Therefore, one conceivable possibility was that an herbicide was used to kill it. 

From there, Dazai’s men searched for specialists who had used herbicides to get rid of trees those past few months. As a result, they found one shop around Yokohama that did in fact remove the same kind of broadleaves. Workers had cleared a bunch of them from the side of the road for a land readjustment project, part of which included expanding a traffic tunnel. 

The area was in the mountains and void of any real landmarks. The only facility nearby was a weather observation station that had been abandoned over a decade ago. Nobody dared go near. It slowly fell apart, fading with time. The building was large, isolated, and capable of storing goods and resources. It was the perfect hideout for a group like Mimic, all alone in a foreign country with no one to turn to. 

Night was not far off. I drove down the highway toward my destination as violet and cerise quarreled in the sky over the horizon. Somewhere off in the distance, I heard the sound of seabirds squawking. 

I stopped my car along a dirt trail that cut into the mountains and got out. From there, I trotted through the thick weedy path until I eventually saw a reinforced concrete building in the darkness, bathing in the crimson glow of twilight. 

It was a three-story abandoned building. Ivy crawled up what were once white walls, which had been battered with rain, the sea breeze, and the passage of time. Most of the paint was now gone. In the center of the building was an observation tower for monitoring the sky, topped with a spherical observation room that seemed to have been added more for aesthetics than for anything else. 

Since the dirt and trees absorbed most sounds, the area was completely silent as if it were floating in outer space. I didn’t get the feeling there were many people hiding inside. After a moment’s thought, I decided to investigate the run-down building myself before Dazai’s men would arrive. I had a hunch, and if this hunch was correct, then I should’ve been able to find information on Ango there, and that information was probably something I shouldn’t show anyone else in the Mafia. 

Pushing through the weeds, I entered the building. There was nothing on the first floor…if you ignored the loose floor tiles, rusted chairs, and dead beetles scattered about. The evening sun peeked in through the cracks of the boarded windows, illuminating the dust particles in the air. I discovered a few footprints in the dust and gravel-littered floor—military boots. It appeared a number of people had been coming to this spot as of late. 

I had placed a foot on the staircase to the second floor, which looked as if it could come crumbling down at any moment, when I heard a sound coming from somewhere in the building. It was very faint, only about as loud as a kitten rolling on its back. I strode up the staircase, but I didn’t see a soul on the second floor. No signs of anyone on the third floor, either. It was just as I thought. I rushed upstairs, climbing the observation tower that connected to the observation room. 

As I entered a small room at the top of the stairs, I found someone tied to a chair and unable to move. That person yelled at me the moment they noticed I was there. 

“Odasaku! Stay back!” 

I ignored his command and ran over. That man—Ango—struggled to free his hands, which had been tightly tied behind his back, but the rope didn’t even budge. I slipped behind him and began trying to untie his bonds. 

“Why did you come?! The enemies are using this facility as their base!” 

“I just got the feeling that you wanted help.” 

I started to dismantle the knots—no easy feat. 

“I don’t need any help!” 

“Really?” 

I slipped a finger into one of the rope’s knots, then tugged at it with a viselike grip. It loosened slightly. 

“Let me guess one of the reasons you’re in trouble. Mimic found out you were a spy. Am I wrong?” 

“…! That’s…” 

Ango fell silent. 

“Everyone in the Mafia thinks you’re a Mimic spy who infiltrated the Mafia. But it’s actually the opposite; Ango Sakaguchi is a Mafia spy who infiltrated Mimic.” 

Ango instinctively opened his eyes wide and looked at me. 

“Mimic was watching your room through a sniper rifle scope to make sure the old pistol inside wouldn’t get stolen. But why didn’t they just snipe the Mafia’s boss and get it over with? The reason is simple: You lied and said you didn’t know where the boss was. But why did you do that? Because the boss decides everything you say and don’t say about the Mafia.” 

Ango squeezed his eyes shut. Clenching his teeth, he seemed to be struggled to keep down the emotions bubbling up from within. Before long, he opened his eyes again and said, “Odasaku, please, you have to get out of here. I failed.” Ango signaled to the floor above with his chin. “There’s a time bomb upstairs. Now that they know I betrayed them, they plan on leaving no trace of me.” 

“See? I knew you needed my help.” I gave up on trying to untie the knot and pulled out my gun. “Lean as far away from the chair as you can.” 

I carefully aimed at the rope’s knot and fired two shots. The entire chair shook as the rope flew off. 

“Let’s get out of here. How much time do we have before the bomb goes off?” 

“The whole building is coming down any second now!” 

Lending Ango my shoulder, we rushed down the staircase. It appeared Ango was slightly roughed up before being bound; he staggered while holding his side. But even then, we sprinted down the stairs so fast that we almost fell. The bomb went off right as we were about to run out the door. The shock wave came first, followed by blasts of hot air swooping down over us. 

We leaped out the door headfirst. To be more technical about it, the blast blew us outside headfirst, and we were thrown into the thickets. All the air was squeezed out of my lungs. 

Finally, rubble and debris from the building started raining down from the sky. I tried to move out of the way, but the blast from the bomb had rendered my body useless. Fortunately, no heavy chunks of concrete flew our way, and the light boards of the walls were sent flying far into the distance. Still, our backs were uncomfortably pelted with countless bits of gravel both large and small. 

It took almost an entire minute before we could start breathing normally again. I coughed as I brushed the rubble off my head. My vision went back and forth from red to white. 

“Ango… Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, somehow.” 

Ango crawled, pulling himself out of the rubble before looking back at the building. I did the same before turning around as well. The second floor up was essentially destroyed, leaving only the charred framework. Even the flooring of the room where Ango was being held prisoner had been blown away. Mimic really went all out on the explosives. They destroyed any evidence we would’ve used to go after them as well. 

“How much does our boss know about this?” I asked Ango while trying to catch my breath. 

“Almost everything,” he replied. “He’s the only one in the Mafia who knows I infiltrated Mimic. That’s how sensitive this mission is. More people knowing would increase the chances of a leak. This is a fundamental principle when handling secret information.” 

“I’ve been had.” I got up, then took a seat on some rubble. “So that’s why the boss ordered me to find you while keeping the truth a secret.” 

It was insurance in case Ango’s undercover work went south. He needed a pawn who would save him—someone who knew nothing, wouldn’t deceive anyone, and wouldn’t get suspicious no matter what happened. 

“Bombs and close brushes with death aren’t really my thing.” 

Ango shook his head, making his bitterness clear. 

“At any rate, Mimic was as quick as an arrow to react. They didn’t even give me a chance to take measures to protect myself. Ugh. I can see rainbow-colored stars when I close my eyes. What in the world is this?” 

“You get used to it.” 

“I have to inform the boss of what happened.” Ango got to his feet. “Mimic’s commander is a dangerous man. He’s coolheaded, has the qualities of a leader, and seeks conflict. He plans on completely annihilating the Mafia, and his men would slit their own throats for him. I even saw someone do it.” 

“What’s this leader’s name?” I asked. 

“André Gide. He’s a powerful skill user himself. He should be avoided at all costs, especially by you, Odasaku. Whatever you do, do not fight him… By the way, you were the one who found the pistol in the safe in my room, were you not?” 

I replied that I was. 

“That gun is a symbol. There’s a special design on the hammer that proves you’re a member of Mimic. It took me a year to receive one.” 

As Ango stood in the midst of the debris with wobbly legs, he quickly turned his gaze to the thickets in the mountains…as if he was trying to look for something there. 

“It’s too late to stop the war between Mimic and the Mafia. Fighting is all they think about. Moreover, it doesn’t matter to them who they fight. They’d dance the jitterbug with the hound of Hades if it would take them to their next battlefield. If we don’t do something soon, the city will— Ngh!” 

The skin around Ango’s temple tore, and a trail of blood slowly trickled down his cheek. I handed him a handkerchief, which he thanked me for before using it to apply pressure to the wound. 

“Just who are they?” 

“They’re an army…although I’m sure you already figured that out yourself. They’re remnants of an army faction defeated during the previous interorganizational war. These men don’t know how to live outside of a battlefield. They’re known as grau geists—men with no master. Even now, they’re obsessed with warfare—” Ango suddenly turned his gaze to the dirt path. “What’s that?” 

I followed his eyes. A blue temari handball, the type kids use to play games, rolled down the gravel slope. Did it get blown over there during the explosion? The ball rolled to my feet, and I picked it up. It was a deep azure. The strings were coming loose, since it was rather old, but there was something about the beautiful geometric pattern that drew me in. I rolled it around in my hand, and when I put my palms together, it fit perfectly between them. I looked at the back side, but there was nothing particularly unique— 

The earth suddenly shook. All of a sudden, my gaze met the ground in front of me. The next second, I realized I was falling, and I collapsed face-first, despite placing both my hands out to catch myself. My vision blurred. I felt sick. When I looked at my hands, they were covered in a sticky blue liquid; that ball had been coated in it. The parts of my hand covered in the liquid tingled uncomfortably. Major alarm bells rang wildly in my head. 

The vision ended there. 

I stood among the debris. The worst thing about the vision ending was that I was already holding the handball. I immediately threw it away, but it was too late. I started to feel dizzy just like a moment ago. I rubbed my palms on my coat to wipe off the blue slime, but it had already been absorbed into my skin and infiltrated my body. My skill, Flawless, allowed me to see a few seconds—more than five but less than six—into the future in my head. That was how I was able to avoid surprise attacks like sniper fire and explosions. 

However, if I were to realize I was in danger after falling into the trap…there was no way for me to avoid it even if I did have a vision just like the moment before. I had been holding the handball for over six seconds. It was too late. Whoever did this knew about my skill inside and out. There weren’t many people who did. Nervously sweating, I tried to warn Ango, but I couldn’t talk. A dark shadow appeared noiselessly behind him; it was four—no, five people dressed in field tunics as dark as the night with gas masks hiding their faces. They weren’t Mimic. None of them were carrying old-fashioned gray pistols, but rather state-of-the-art precision-guided rifles. They were with the Special Forces. One of the men in black tapped Ango on the shoulder. Ango turned around and nodded as if to say he understood. 

“Odasaku, I apologize for the trouble I caused you.” 

Ango walked over and placed the handkerchief I had just given him in my hand. I couldn’t brace myself, never mind hold the handkerchief. Ango took a white silk glove out of his pocket, then pulled it over his right hand before picking up the blue handball. 

“You are free to speak of everything that happened here. Everything I told you about Mimic was true. I just wish I could have had a drink with you and Dazai one last time at the usual place and time…” 

A Special Forces soldier tapped Ango on the arm, seemingly giving him a signal. After responding with his gaze, Ango looked down at me and smiled as if he had given up. 

“Take care of yourself.” 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ango turn his back to me before leaving with the Special Forces. I wasn’t even able to move my neck or eyes at that point. The world in front of me was slowly swallowed by darkness. My tongue numb, I called out to Ango as he left, but even I didn’t know what I was saying. An indescribable feeling of loneliness was the only thing filling my heart…as if I were floating at the end of the universe. 

Even that was swallowed by darkness. 

My consciousness faded to black.