Bungo Stray Dogs - Volume 8 - Chapter 2.6

It was a dumping ground—a place long forgotten by all. Beneath the stormy sky lay haphazard piles of shipping containers, one on top of the other like dead bodies. Toxic substances illegally dumped in the area seeped into the open soil. Even field mice knew to stay away.

Not located on any map, this was the loneliest place in Yokohama. And near its center lived Dazai.

Dazai didn’t live in a house, though. He lived inside one of the thrown-away shipping containers originally used for exporting cars to foreign countries. Inside the large container was a refrigerator, an exhaust fan, a desk and chair, a bed, and a small, naked light bulb.

Those who knew Dazai didn’t dare come near his home—not even his Port Mafia subordinates—and not because of how eerie the area was. Rather, nobody knew how Dazai would react when someone invaded his private space. Perhaps he would tear off their limbs and kill them, or perhaps he would welcome them with open arms and a cup of tea. Nobody could understand how Dazai worked.

The black wraith of the Port Mafia: That was what people called him.

One year had gone by since he joined the Mafia. He was now in charge of the boss’s personal covert ops unit and was producing staggering results. They had already eliminated numerous organizations and opened new distribution channels. The speed of his achievements was extraordinary, even when compared to past Mafia executives. Even the achievements of Piano Man—the Flags’ founder—were child’s play compared to what Dazai had done.

And yet no one trusted him. Because the darkness lurking within his eyes was deeper than the ink black nights that hung over the dumping ground he inhabited.

The longer he worked for the Mafia, the darker and more unfathomable he became. Nobody knew exactly why, either. Nevertheless, Dazai continued to slaughter his enemies and serve the Port Mafia in order to force himself into an even darker place. His achievements were outstanding. But there was one person who did not take delight in his glory: Dazai himself.

Dazai was alone, seated in a chair in his container, quietly staring into the darkness. His phone on the nearby table suddenly began ringing. It was Chuuya, but Dazai didn’t answer his call. He didn’t even look in the phone’s direction. He simply sat in silence, interlacing his fingers and gazing into the darkness and the door beyond it.

His eyes were exceedingly still; his black pupils were absorbing all sound and light. Nothing could escape his gaze—not even his own emotions.

The phone eventually acquiesced and stopped ringing. A deep silence once again reigned over the room—much deeper and heavier than before the phone had begun ringing.

All of a sudden, Dazai’s eyes faintly moved as he gazed into the abyss. The metal door slowly started to open until the outline of a man emerged from the dim light.

“Charming place you have here, Dazai,” came a lighthearted voice. “What frightens you so much that you choose to live in such a dreary place? Real estate tax?”

Dazai’s expression didn’t change as he replied coarsely, emotionlessly:

“It’s you I’m frightened of, Verlaine.”

The shadowy figure entered the container: a tall man wearing a black hat and a suit the color of the midnight sea. Judging from his playful gaze, he appeared to be enjoying what he saw.

Paul Verlaine—the king of assassins.

“You’re lying,” Verlaine said as he approached. “You fear nothing. I can tell by the look in your eyes. You hardly felt a thing when I tried to kill you just two days ago.”

“I guess you could say I have a slightly unconventional approach to my own death.”

Only the corners of Dazai’s eyes faintly lifted into a smile, but his dark pupils remained utterly still.

“I’d be out of a job if everyone was like you.” Verlaine shrugged. His leather shoes lightly tapped against the floor as he walked to the desk and grabbed the documents lying on top of it. “So these are the Port Mafia’s internal files, yes?”

It was a stack of a few dozen sheets of paper. Selling them to another organization would undoubtedly net a person enough money to fool around and live comfortably for three lifetimes. That was just how valuable these secret documents were.

Verlaine shook the stack of papers by the side of his head. “Two days ago, you told me you would give me these files, which is why I didn’t kill you. I need them for my work, after all. But why’d you do it? What do you want in return? And I don’t want to hear any jokes like, ‘Please don’t kill me.’”

“The reason is simple,” Dazai answered with a faint smirk. Then, in a deep voice—in a nightmarish growl, he added:

“I want to see the Port Mafia burn.”

Verlaine suddenly straightened his face. He then looked at Dazai as one would if they had just realized someone had been there the entire time.

“Didn’t the Port Mafia take you in and care for you?” Verlaine carefully asked after a few moments went by.

“They did.”

“Then why do you want to see it burn?”

Dazai surely heard his question, yet he did not reply. His eyes wandered in silence as if he were searching for some far-off place until his lips eventually curled into a smile—a grievous smirk that would make anyone shriek at the sight of it.

“I’m bored of it already.”

Verlaine’s eyes narrowed. He stared intently at Dazai, seemingly in search of his true intentions.

Dazai glanced back at him, perhaps amused by this, then he muttered as if he was talking to himself, “I couldn’t find anything in the end.”

“Is that so?” Verlaine closed his eyes. “Well, I understand where you’re coming from. You went on a journey with the expectation that you might find something to change you, but all you found was a kingdom of garbage and despair. I’ve been through something similar. Simply breathing, eating, and relieving yourself isn’t living. That’s why we make the journey.”

Verlaine picked up a silver coin off the ground. There was nothing special about it. You could find another like it just about anywhere.

“I appreciate your help, Dazai.”

He then flicked the coin with his fingers.

There was a deafening roar as the coin flew right by Dazai’s face before shooting through the wall behind him. The air wavered, and a thunderous boom rang out when the coin shattered other metallic materials outside, flying in a straight line until it eventually disappeared into the horizon to the west. All that remained was the rising steam left from the melted metal and the vain echoes of freshly torn metal.

“As someone who shares your despair, allow me to give you the honor of being the last one killed.”

Verlaine smiled, still in the same position he’d been in when he flicked the coin.

Dazai didn’t move. He didn’t even blink, even though the coin had just shot right by his head like a bullet.

“I can’t wait,” he replied with a soul-shattering smirk.

Verlaine turned his back to Dazai, then started heading for the door. But the moment he placed a hand on the knob, Dazai asked, “Where do you plan on going now?”

Verlaine turned around, smiling like a magician at the end of a magic trick, and replied:

“To the police station, of course.”