( ❛ ERRATUM. )

                    ❛    What hurts ... ? ... Nothing--    ❜

Sure, muscles ache and skin may tingle, but generally an epidermis remained unaffected even in the immediate wake of bellicose firefight.

Gratitude, subconscious and unspoken, had already been immolated to an ability: a tiger.

On foreign soil, the pair (along with a small force of backup and a slightly more expansive network of informants, although both of the aforementioned groups lacked much personal meaning) find themselves in a hotel. It’s not one that’s excessive in the realm of grandiose (it’s debatable whether one could even use that adjective to begin with); nor is it big (though Atsushi finds that the single bed more than suffices). But a large window on the far wall floods the room with the ambers of the setting sun, offering the room warmth where there might not have been.

Jolted to awareness, the youth came to realize that in the hush, his hand (fingernails bared) had found its way beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, where they—fingers—had found occupation and track raking against the pale skin there.

Less warring now, it’s only the pads that traverse: it’s only a matter of time before it brushes above a branding.

Upon realization, he slips the hand out, replacing it laxly to his side, allowing the compromised shirt to fall loosely over the boundary defined by his belt.

                    ❛    ... Should it ?    ❜

He does stop.

Although it’s a knee-jerk reaction to a voice he wasn’t expecting before it was a concious response to rendered word. He feels no need to turn, no need to grant allowance for the other to see the wretched contortions of his visage as the latter slowly came to fruition.

Gulping, Atsushi feels what had once been an swiftly feigned confidence falter. He’d known it was of faulty constitution, that’s why he’d made an effort to proceed in the dead of night.

He’d failed to take into account the ones who took reign over the sovereign shadows of a metropolitan eventide.

( A careless mistake. )

He does question what the other -- the stray, rabid dog -- cared to gain from deterrence. But he finds himself questioning the integrity of the thoughts immediately conjured -- nay, he’d questioned every thing, every thought, every action he’s taken.

                     ❛    Akutagawa,    ❜

Acknowledgement is quiet, hesitant. It’s successors, equally so, for he knew not what breed of response he’d welcome, nor if he’d get any response at all.

                     ❛    What do you want?    ❜

       ` You don’t have to go. Dazai already explained the circumstances of you refusing. `

It lingers and simmers annoyingly close to the surface, too obtrusive to be effectively smothered, yet simultaneously too faint for another to sense it. Not that he necessarily wanted someone else to -- right? He didn’t know, but that was neither here nor there.

Insomnia is both the harbinger and source of heavy eyelids and well-intended, but ultimately shallow, inquiries of one’s wellbeing ( although they are likely made shallow by his own objections to speaking the truth ) -- he’s dealt with all of them in the minutes? hours? prior ( the directness of the sun betrayed that he must’ve slipped out of consciousness for a brief? moment, although a revered feeling of being rested was expectedly absent ), and most of all, they brought nightmares. Nightmares he’d figured were effectively vanquished some time ago, and then roused to periodic appearances come the death of a ... headmaster, and back for a further nightly encore at the announcement of an assignment in that place.

It was vacated. Not necessarily of its tenants, as Atsushi could neither confirm nor deny to his relative dismay, but of the dense shadow that hung over its architecture : histories, memories. Or at least, it should have been, for he’d always reasoned their lifeline to have been that man.

... Atsushi supposed he wasn’t a great detective yet.

The pads of his fingertips were faintly soiled in rubbed residuum of the pencil tossed mindlessly to the side, the other hand propping up a chin as he gazed out an adjacent window out to a city that had become familiar. Was this home? He would’ve thought so earlier; but Dazai, in pointing to that man as not only a teacher, but a father, had effectively called that into question.

That’s where thoughts always looped back to: Osamu Dazai.

Wait.

                      ❛    sure.    ❜

   WITH EASE, COMPLIANCE CALLS FORTH FROM HIS LIPS ; time had afforded the youth opportunity  ( or, perhaps more accurately, forced him )  to grow accustomed to such idiosyncrasies, much like anything else that happened around the ever-vagrant office  ( although the former, admittedly, took considerably more time )  . like and unlike the other, atsushi doesn’t mind doing his job ; a superior and subordinate are alike in this in the most basic way  ( and perhaps in this way only )  .

     wordlessly, the youth finds his way towards the kitchen to prepare the coffee. thankfully, it seemed that someone had already prepared a pot. kunikida, he’d resolve, unceremoniously preparing the drink, he’d’ve surely been here by now.

     slipping back into the main room of the office, atsushi set the cup before ranpo on a scarce spare space on the desk, quickly deemed safe.

                     ❛    . . . which cases are these , ranpo - san ?    ❜

            dual ears twitch at the faintest of sounds, despite his LOSS he couldn’t ignore a presence LOOMING from the shadows. the street lamp had strayed far from him and he felt a PANG claw at his chest. the moon wasn’t enough—he decided swiftly. pulling from the burrow he picked up his pace toward the paved grounds but his pace soon faltered. of all things to WITNESS in or near the city. it was as though staring at a blank canvas, someone with FURY painted streaks of charcoal across the sheer white. in stories, he had been told of their great FIERY patterns blazing betwixt the shadows. here, there was something daunting but he was allured by the greatness, inexplicable kin.             it wasn’t the first time he had encountered the legendary ancestors but it was a first for one of these colors. he wasted little time, though with hesitant steps he carried himself through the last verdure. breath falling in an anxious pattern until he forced his jaw shut. his tail no longer lashed with fury but remained low to the ground, flicking as curiosity consumed him. his lost meal all but forgotten.             he couldn’t imagine why such grand kin would be wandering these parts. perhaps the city had truly fallen and they were here to clear away the last of their failures. his thoughts built as each remained unanswered. ❛❛….❜❜ trailing like a stalker behind the other didn’t feel right but words were impossible to conjure in one try. THREE times it took before he was able to utter anything, ❛❛…. hi…❜❜ a pathetic greeting for someone who deserved better. still, he was unashamed as he gawked at the unfamiliar, forgetting that even the legends spoke of some who did not walk the same paths as he.

    PRIMAL IS THE NOCTURNAL BEAST, for it pays no heed to the paradigms and institutions of a time where it is unfamiliar, simply discarding it for unrefined, necessary wants. the epoch wherein the tiger would find itself comfortable seldom existed ; perhaps magical in essence, one could suppose, it’s existence affirmed solely within the ordinance of ABILITY. headlines plastered to sea-breeze weathered concrete in a brazen, bolded font proclaiming `MURDER ! ` are not of the animal’s realm of concern, an unrecognized inscription shrouded easily in stark shadows. rather, it’s forced proponent becomes the human which takes it’s place come inevitable daylight, roaming the streets just as another had, carried forth by many of the same desires. but in the government of the waking population, meekness would swiftly overcome one inexperienced and overwrought.

     quick to accredit faint shifts in surrounding sounds to smaller fauna or even more simply to something so mundane as a breeze, golden optics never find need to shift its intent from a metropolis. and yet, a sound, yet still small in magnitude, is somehow different, and is the first thing that so inclines the beast to halt in its stride, maw leading the rest of a countenance to face the other. it’s not unfamiliar with it’s kind, but kinship is not something to be assumed; for it had seen various examples of a similar physique wandering about the city’s concrete veins, lurking in shadows, traces of soot caked naturally to their fur.