but how could you live and have no story to tell?

Dazai Osamu is not a woman to be trusted—-even with herself. Chuuya knows it better than anyone. Countless times, she has found her washed up on shore after trying to drown herself in a river, or in a frenzied state after ingesting whatever drugs she could get her bony fingers on. The images of Dazai—- breath faint, pulse weak, with blood soaking her clothing after another attempt—- will forever haunt her.

So, when the brunette starts mumbling about 'phases' and a 'master plan', she grows uneasy. Every time she asks for an explanation, she's met with a stiff smile—- one that doesn't meet her void-like eyes. "Don't worry about it Chuuya, dogs don't need to comprehend their masters' intentions to follow their orders," she taunts. It's a distraction. Chuuya knows that. She's goading her on, hoping the fight distracts her so she'll stop prying. It should not work as well as it does.

The secretive planning never stops, and Chuuya's questions never get answered. Nevertheless, she stays by her side.

Assassination attempts are plentiful. Much more than when they were still lower ranked teenagers, new to the mafia. Dazai has no self-preservation instinct—- that obligation falls to her second-in-command instead. When the White Reaper waltzes into her office after taking care of a mercenary group attempting to take the Boss' head, the ginger takes her place beside Dazai. Her eyes roam over Atsushi, pausing on the spiky collar he had been gifted by none other than the bandaged freak. The blades attached to the inside dig into his esophagus—- serving as a reminder of his position and helping control his ability through anguish.

Chuuya's choker tightens around her own throat.

He walks in as if he owns the place, chin up, and her blood boils. "Lower your head, captain. You're in the presence of the Boss," she barks out, voice like razors. The effect is instant. Jumbled apologies erupt from his mouth, sight drawn to the floor. Dazai's grin is forced. The black of her iris grows even darker still. The muscles of her face are controlled to project a perfect, calm demeanor in the aftermath of an intended extermination.

"It's fine, Chuuya. Good work, Atsushi. I'm glad you made it back safely," she assures. Only Chuuya catches the slight waver in her speech. Neck veiled tightly in pristine white bandages, her trachea bobs against the strips—- swallowing hard. A concerned wrinkle intensifies between the executive's eyebrows.

"Th-Thank you… very much, Dazai," he stumbles with his head still held low.

"Scuse me, errand boy? You got a death wish? You address her as 'Boss.'" Red glows over the silhouette of Atsushi's body. Pristine black flooring crackles and sinks. A crater forms with the boy right at the center. Tiny blades of tile dig into the soles of his boots, courtesy of the ginger woman currently enraged at his disrespect.

Sighing and crossing her legs, Dazai relaxes into her obsidian throne. "Come on, Chuuya. It's fine." Her long, dark hair is flipped back, and she brushes off her subordinate with a wave of her wrapped hand. "Anyway, I want to talk with him alone, so go wait outside." Gloved fingers curl into fists, ready to break someone's, anyone's, face in.

"The hell?! Why?!" Her booming voice echoes through the oppressive, unlit, noiseless room. "What's gotten into you? He ain't an executive or your secretary. The kids just an ordinary grunt. Hell, the fact that he's even getting to see you makes this a special case as is." Sinking further into the grim sea of despair, a distant harpoon lodges itself in her back.

"What makes you say that? I trust Atsushi." Dazai tilts her head up, lips pouting around each syllable—- as though she really could not comprehend the problem.

"Trust don't mean shit. What if he's being controlled by someone's skill or if someone planted a bomb on him? Wouldn't be the first time something like that happened, so there's no way I'm leavin' you alone with him. I won't allow it." An itch under her skin urges her to drag the brunette closer, to guard like she's supposed to. Perhaps if she feels the realness of Chuuya—- her sturdy disposition and the desire to ensure her safety—- she would change her mind.

A simper, all teeth and no warmth, stretches unnaturally over Dazai's gaunt face. "You won't 'allow it'? I'm not asking for permission, Chuuya." She leans in the rest of the short distance between their faces. Chills coalesce in the small area of the ginger's lips where the other shushes her with a freezing finger—- like a dog being muzzled by its owner. "You're an executive, and I'm the Boss. And in the Mafia, orders must be followed at all costs. We must respect the chain of command."

Conceding, her head bows. Despite wanting to mask the sour taste in her mouth, the soft tissue of her face twists. It's an expression Dazai has seen many times—- usually from people indebted to them, made to bite the curb. "Is that how it is? Then do what you want." Sparkling patent leather shoes punish the ground beneath them. Small shocks of gravitons pulse below the slabs of inky tile, much like a heartbeat, stemming from her departing form. "I won't forgive you if you kill the Boss, underling. Because I'm going to kill her one day." Her words float in the air, a lingering smoke that clings to the White Reaper's consciousness—- through this, he remembers to heed her warning.

Hinges screech out in torment, struggling to hold up the weight of grandiose, solid wooden doors. The entrance shuts with a soft clink. Chuuya doesn't look back as her shoulder makes contact with a wall in the hallway. What must they be saying to necessitate keeping her out? The Boss' office is the most secure place in Yokohama. Forty stories high— looking down at the rest of the city below—- it is easily the most formidable, intimidating memorandum of the Port Mafia's power. Intruders never make it past the first floor. Nothing can get in, nothing can get out—- even secrets.

Strategies and schemes are trapped within the office's four black walls unless ordered by the Boss. So why the hushed whispers when Chuuya isn't in the room? There is no way Atsushi of all people is more dependable than her. Yet, Dazai chose him. Bewilderment strikes her, knocking a hard blow to the back of her head. Betrayed and humiliated, her vision goes white.

Unrelated cases start to blend together, landing her in a strange spell, where everything looks and sounds normal, but there is this awful, debilitating phantom of familiarity resonating in her bones. When she thinks, really thinks, about the events in the past few weeks—- the mentions of phases and master plans, the secrets she is now excluded from, the subsequent war on the Detective Agency—- it's all so erratic. Nothing sounds like her. They are reckless, spiteful reactions more than they are well thought out blueprints. And if there's one thing Dazai is, it's thorough.

When a strange boy, scraggy and riled like a feral cat, breaks into their headquarters, Chuuya defers to Dazai. Waiting and willing for orders that never come. The kid rips through the explosion-proof flooring, clawing up level after level—- raven black fabric protrudes from him, shooting every which way, soaring him to the top via demon wings. Still, a command never leaves the Boss' voice box. Deja vu keeps her tethered to her enclosure on the 40th floor. Vibrations award the solid foundations of the skyscraper with swirling debris and broken glass.

The air is thick and hard to take full gulps of breath from, usual billowing wind stills. Her lungs expand and contract as dramatically as they can, but she is left craving more oxygen. Neither of them moves. Neither makes a sound. Shrieking cries and gunshots ring through their ear canals, to the recesses of her brain, taking root in her subconscious. Its a horrible howl of misery from her men—- one she won't be able to forgive Dazai for sitting and watching. And like a puppy, Chuuya waits.

A blank eye scrutinizes the door. Bandages frayed at the edges scratch minute rosy scars into her flesh. With time the blood that rose will settle, and she'll be left the same as she once was again—- sickly pale and barren. Some marks, however, run deeper. They carve into flesh like its paper, branding a person forever as its bounty. Healed but never gone. Fingers twitching, Chuuya wonders what it would feel like to run her battle-roughened hands over those. There must be hundreds, discolored and coating her skin like varnish.

Floating up out of her seat, Dazai finally addresses her. "I'm heading out. Don't wait for me." Something awful curls in the executive's ribcage. A feeling of wrong. Something is just off. The other avoids looking back. Its deliberate—- she's stiff, back tense in an artificial way.

"So that's it, huh?" The wood groans when Dazai pushes it aside. "You're just gonna let our people die? Right now, there's some kid destroying everything, and you're going out?" Her questions are met with silence. A dying ember buried within Chuuya's diaphragm reignites. "Why the hell did you even take the job?! We would've been better off if you'd kicked the bucket."

The brunette stops in her tracks but still doesn't glance back. "If you have a problem with the way I do things, maybe you can try being the Boss instead." Voice hauntingly empty, her fingers fidget and tap against the door. The gauze stretches and relaxes around her limbs with every movement. "I'm sure you'd do a better job," usually a line like that would've had some underlying meaning, a mocking tone and a joke about a dog trying to be its own master accompanying it—- but now it sounds sincere, almost wretched with how feebly its whispered out.

"Hey, wait-" Dazai makes it out of the room and down the hall before Chuuya can finish her sentence. The black-haired boy is still in the building wreaking havoc, but she can't concentrate on that. searching through every room in the building—- even the Boss' favorite hiding spot in the vent above the break room—- is a fruitless endeavor. She's gone. Chuuya has wasted the last hour and a half looking for that giant waste of bandages and she's not even here.

There are pieces of broken glass everywhere, scattered around the concrete, sparkling like glitter at some kind of fucked up party for murderers. Splotches of cherry stain the semi-porous ground, penetrating the bottomless depths. Her men's blood is what fuels this city. The fight has evidently made its way up to the rooftop, but Chuuya can't find it in herself to leave their bodies scattered here alone. Dead men deserve dignity too.

Occasionally, between paying her respects and covering their maimed, broken bodies, she scans the terrace from the bottom. The blue glimmer of the White Reaper's ability is clear as day, even from here. If she squints, it nearly looks like Dazai's.

Dazai.

She could be anywhere now.

Dead, ashen faces all peek up at her. The periwinkle of their lips is sickening. Every bit of them is arctic now. They were full of life just hours before. This is the end Dazai wants. For years, all she could think of, is to be one of these revolting corpses. Eating away at her esophagus, bile raises in Chuuya's throat at the thought of it. Swallowing it down, she glares at the top of the office building. When I go, I hope I go out just as beautifully. The line loops around her brain unceasingly.

Dazai always plans things out, down to every meticulous, seemingly insignificant detail. Even as she's being irresponsible, it's always a front. So why? Why is she keeping secrets? What are the phases and master plans for? Why did she declare war on the agency?

The struggle has stopped. There's no dazzling ruby or brilliant sapphire light shining down on her anymore. Wind twirls up her ponytail. lifting it high in the air. It almost blinds her, creating some sort of pseudo blindfold over her pupils. Yokohama has grown noiseless. Something that faintly reminds her of sage and sea salt wafts through her nostrils. Dazai.

Surely looking like a woman gone mad, Chuuya's head swivels hysterically. Embarrassingly, even she thinks she looks like a dog after being separated from its owner. A budding ache springs up in her vertebrae, but still no sign of the other woman. Just then, she glimpses up again. A flash of long, dark, unkempt hair makes her stomach sink to the pits of hell.

No.

An epiphany shoots through her temples, blooming within the cavity of her skull like a hollow point bullet. It's devastating. The pulse rushing behind her ear canal goes bizarrely quiet. A high-pitched beep, one reminiscent of a dog whistle, disorients her vision. The usual buzz of neurons talking to each other shifts into something bloodcurdling and mute.

So that's her "master plan".

She's going to kill herself.

Dazai feels she's done all she needs, and now she's going to jump. Just like that. After changing the course of Chuuya's life—- soaking her in blood—-she's going to toss her away like a worn-down rag. Time oozes by slowly in thick, heavy glops, coating their bodies in a sticky layer of sluggish fluid, staining everything scarlet.

The moment the brunettes body leans back into empty air, Chuuya’s legs spring into action. She has to save her. has to. Dazai can’t just abandon her like this! Did all those years together mean nothing? Wind pushes up, pulling her clothes up as she falls—- as if trying to stop her from hitting the hard ground. The bandages unravel under the savage lashes and gusts. They stay behind while her body accelerates, reaching up for any way to save themselves.

Dazai is resigned to her fate. Her frigid, raw-boned hands don’t even twitch. Any person would find themselves in a panic at this point. Survival instinct takes over. Secreting adrenal glands make it hard to maintain composure. But she has nothing if not pure self-control and hatred for herself. Glass crunches like bones underneath Chuuya’s shoes. No one even knows what’s happening except her. No one is watching as the Boss plummets to death.

Chuuya won’t either.

Driven by instinct, a vermilion incandescence radiates from Dazai’s body. Within half a second, the light explodes into a million tiny fractures like crystals, forming small blades and descending just as easily as the brunette's body. She looks brilliant surrounded by sparkling red. A nebulous memory of the woman, covered in her own blood materializes at the forefront of Chuuya’s cognizance.

No. Not like that. Never like that.

Chuuya would sooner take a bullet to the cranium than willingly watch as the vigor slowly leaks out of the other.

The impact will no doubt be catastrophic, whether or not she catches Dazai. A single second could be the difference between life and death. Her ability did not slow the projectile hurling towards the concrete even a little. Nerves shakily drive the executive forward, arms extended, ready to embrace the devastating load about to be thrust onto her.

A shift takes place in Chuuya's head the moment her arms wrap around the others waist. The momentum from the descent knocks her back, and with practiced dexterity, she lets it. Brown locks of hair cover her sight and are scarfed down her mouth—- much like a gag. Wounded and irritated wails die in the empty, stifling air. Every vertebrae grinds unpleasantly on the ground, covered in glass. It's a miracle her hat doesn't fly off in the process.

By the time they stop billowing on the floor, Dazai pushes herself off the executive. Her hair is messy, sticking up every which way. Gauze doesn't quite manage to stay tied on properly. The pupil of her one visible eye is shrunken. Thin lips are twisted into an icy grimace. Chuuya has never had so much hatred directed towards her.

A gulf has formed in the foundation of the building where she braced herself for collision. The rumpling of clothes is heard as the other gets up feebly. Her shoulders are hunched over, knees bent—- ready for action. Dazai won't go easy. Panic grips Chuuya's revived heart, squeezing every last bit of prudence. Years of training in the mafia have afforded her more than enough knowledge on how to subjugate wild targets. Her palm pulls back, flinging forward like a hound, ready to clamp its fangs down on its prey's throat.