The Day I Picked Up Dazai – Side B

A bloody corpse of a young man is lying on my front porch.

I look down at the corpse, then at the front of the house. It is a quiet morning. The apartment across the street is casting a long
black shadow on the pavement in front of me. The trumpet vines planted in the hedge are rustling in the breeze, and whispering
to each other in a way that human cannot decipher. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear the sound of the long-distance trucks
scraping against the road surface. And there is a corpse in the middle of the stairs in front of me.

In any case, to our eyes, a corpse is always a strangely exaggerated presence. But this time it is different. This corpse blends in
with the landscape, becoming one with the everyday peaceful morning scenery. After a while, I realize the reason. The corpse’s
chest is moving up and down faintly. It is not a corpse, it is alive.

I look at the young man. He is all black. A high-collar black cloak, a three-piece suit, a black tie. The things that are not black
are his button-down shirt, and the bandages around his head. This one is a mottled color of white and red. This color pattern
reminds me of some ominous Chinese prophetic characters. The place he is lying is the middle of the stairs that leads to the
front porch. The blood stains continuing down the cracked concrete stairs looks like he has been crawling.

Question. What should I do with this nearly-corpse in front of my eyes?

The answer is simple. If I touch him with the tips of my toes and put some weight on him, he will just roll down to the ground
below. If I do so, then he will not be on my premise anymore. He will be on a public road. The country’s territory. All those who
are in trouble within the territory of the country should be saved by the mercy of the country. An ordinary postman like me
should go home and have breakfast.

I am not doing that because I am a cold and heartless person. I am doing that because it is a survival necessity. The young
man’s wounds are clearly from gunshots. He has been shot multiple times. There are probably more holes in his body than I
can see from here.

I look at the young man, at the road, and the sky, and at him again.

And then I start to act. First, I approach the guy and lift him up by his sides. Then I drag him by his heels into the house and lay
him down on the wall-mounted bed. He is much lighter than he looks. Carrying him alone is not that much of a trouble. I check
his wounds. There are many deep wounds, and the bleeding is not usual, but if he receives immediate proper treatment, it is not
like he will die.

I take out my medical kit box from the back of the closet, and give him some simple first aid treatments. I put a towel under his
upper body, cut his clothes with a pair of scissors to expose the wounds, and check if there is any bullet left inside. In order to
stop the blood flow, I apply pressure on the pressure points: below the armpits, inner elbows, ankles, backs of knees, and tie
them tightly with a clean cloth. Then I put disinfected tourniquets to the wounds to stop the bleeding. Fortunately for him, I can
do this kind of first aid even with my eyes closed.

After I am done with the treatment, I look down at the young man and cross my arms. His breathing has stabilized. His
respiratory system and bones seem to be intact. But he does not seem to be waking up. “It’s fine already, just kick him out.”, I
can hear the angel’s voice in my head. There is nothing more stupid than treating a suspicious guy like this. I guess I should
listen to that voice. That is what a wise man would do.

Before following the angel’s advice, I take another look at the young man. I don’t recognize his face. Probably not someone I
know. I say probably, because the bandages covering most of his face makes it impossible to make out his features.

I feel an uneasiness in my chest.

There is something strange about this young man. It is impossible to say that seeing someone covered in blood in front of your
house is not strange, but I am feeling a completely different kind of discomfort than when I first saw him. I go around and look
at his face. His eyes are closed. His face is pale and tired. His breathing is so faint that it is hard to tell without paying close
attention. But still, I feel a strange power coming from his presence. It’s like will power, a certain sense of trust in his own
body. And more specifically, right…
It is as if the whole thing about him collapsing here is all according to his plan.

The young man opens his eyes and looks at me.

I am startled and jump up. I didn’t notice when he opened his eyes at all. He moves without any sign of movement. He looks
without a sign of looking. He seems to be one of “those people”, the kind of people you will never encounter if you are to lead a
normal life.

Those eyes.

I’m not a person with an excellent observation skill. But even so, just by looking at those eyes, I understand a few things right
away. He probably has killed before. Not one or two digits. Hundreds of people. When you have killed that many people, you
will reach the other side of the mentality that ordinary humans can possess, beyond the other shore where neither light nor
gravity can reach. The spirit of those who have reached that state will be seen first in their eyes, then in their mouth. Their
eyeballs become black holes, and the muscles around their mouth become organs to show the depth of their sin, not their facial
expressions.

And I also know one more thing instantly.

This young man knows me.

“Who are you?”

I ask without thinking.

The voice coming out of my mouth is so cracked, I cannot believe that it’s my own voice. If I didn’t hold my leg strong, it would
have backed up a step on its own.

“Who are you?”

I ask again. There is no answer. I don’t even know if he is listening. Because the light in his eyes show no reactions to my
question. No matter how cold-hearted a person is, if you look at him in the eyes and throw words at him, you can still see some
kind of responses. But this young man does not have any of that. Just black eyes looking at where my figure is.

I cannot say anything much in details, but I associate this young man with a certain state.

There is no heart here. Just a heart-shaped emptiness.

Just as I am thinking this, the young man opens his mouth. He is trying to say something.

To make sure I do not miss anything, I stare at his lips and listen carefully.

But he doesn’t say anything. He just opens his mouth in a certain way. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t show any emotions.
He just changes the shape of his lips. That’s it.

“Do you know me?” I try asking. “Why did you collapse in front of my house? How did you get all those wounds?”

The young man looks at me. He opens his mouth and breathes in as if he is going to say something, but he ends up not saying
anything. His mouth is quietly closed, together with a sign that it should not have been opened from the beginning.

Maybe he cannot speak? Aphasia, or probably congenital speech impediment. People can lose their voices for various reasons.
Mental reasons, brain conditions. Having their throat burn in a fire, or having their pharynx removed through surgeries.
However, I feel that none of those applies to this young man. There is a sign that he has been suppressing the sounds coming
right up to his throat.

He can speak but he doesn’t.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk. But if I leave you untreated, you will die. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

He doesn’t reply. Those eyes are filled with a quiet emptiness. From that, I assume that he is listening. Because if he is deaf,
there should be a reasonable amount of confusion and signs of claiming that he cannot hear.

“To treat you, or to kick you out, it is up to me to decide. As long as you don’t speak, you have no rights to decide. Is that okay?
If it’s not, say something.”

The young man stares at me. A few seconds, then tens of seconds. Then he gently looks away and closes his eyes. Quietly,
emotionlessly.

He can hear, he can speak. The reason he does not talk is because his door is closed. A door built of thick, huge iron that will
not open now matter how hard you try.

“I see. Then I will do as I like.”

I say, my words echoing in the emptiness and dropping into the corner of the room, in the middle of nowhere.

And so begins my communal life between me and the young man.

Strictly speaking, it cannot be called a communal life. It cannot even be called nursing. It’s more like an adjustment work, a
monitoring work, and a maintenance work. If I dare to put it in a terribly devious way, it is like keeping a fish. After all, the
young man just lies in bed and hardly moves all day. Except for eating and going to the toilet, he is not stirring a muscle. He
doesn’t react to what I say or do. It saves me some effort, but it does not feel like dealing with a human at all. I do not expect to
hear words of gratitude, and it is a lot easier than dealing with rampages or complaints, but it makes me feel restless all the
time. I have never experienced something like this in my life.

There is just one time, when I try to change the bandage that covers most of his face, do I get a strong resistance. That is such a
quick reaction that I cannot even imagine. He quickly grabs my wrist as I try to change the bandage. His other body parts do
not move at all. It is just like his hand only has turned into another creature and attacked me.

In fact, that bandage should be changed. The bandage that covers most of his face has turned gray in places, and the blood
stains have darkened into a gloomy color. From a hygienic point of view, it is not in a condition for an injured person to wear.
So I try to change it no matter what, but he is still resisting so stubbornly that I eventually give up. I have carefully applied
disinfectant on it. He will not die.

Probably, I imagine, he is afraid that I will see his face when I change the bandage that covers it. I can see the stubbornness in
the color of those hard and cold eyes. When you are resisted with such strong will, there is no choice but to back up. However,
no matter how many times I try to recall after that, I cannot remember ever seeing him before. Not even in a photo. So, his
worry is absolutely groundless. I think so and I actually speak it out, but there is no response from the other side.

Just do as I like.

I cook his meals, let him change his clothes, and change the bandages on his body. We do not talk. He is not speaking anyway,
and I am not exactly good at conversations. So, his silence itself is a convenient thing. But somehow, I cannot get rid of the
feeling that I have been put on a boat without knowing where it is going.

The time the cops appear at my house, is one of those times.

**

The time the police appear at my house, is one of those times.

“Excuse me, we are from S River Station. Someone reported seeing a man covered in blood collapsing in this neighborhood.
Can we ask you a few things?”
Through the window designed for lighting on the door, I see male figures. Two of them.

I freeze. I am in the middle of boiling water to make coffee in the kitchen at that time.

“Excuse me. This is the police. Is anyone home?”

The unreserved knocking shakes the door again and again. I glance at the young man. The young man whose name I don’t
know. He is not showing any human-like reaction even to the voices outside.

What will happen if they find him? I quickly think. In all probability, this guy has been involved in some kind of criminal
activities. And he is also seeing and committing crimes like breathing… Someone from the other side, the side of the night.
Otherwise, there is no way someone who had been shot all over his body like that would not have gone to the hospital. In other
words, the cops will see him as a treasure, instead of an injured person. So that they can improve their arrest record.

On the other hand, I haven’t committed any crime so far. I just took care of an injured person I saw. It is the duty of a citizen to
report as soon as they find someone with gunshot wounds, but if I tell them, “I didn’t realize it was caused by gun”, the cops
will have no choice but to back down. Like, I thought he was stabbed or something. It is not that difficult to identify a gunshot
wound, but there is currently no crime defined in the criminal law for failing to do so.

In other words, even if I sell this young man to the cops, I can walk away without any claim.

I walk to the front door. To talk to the cops.

I will come up with an excuse to send them away. I think so. If I am going to sell this young man here and now, I would not have
treated his wounds in the first place.

But that stupid dedication of mine can’t be achieved. Something completely out of my expectation has happened. The young
man rushes to the door.

He is ridiculously fast. Like a tightly shrunken spring being released in an instant. He slams open the front door and attacks the
cops.

It is an unpredictable action for everyone. It never crosses my mind that he can possess such agility. He leaps with a speed no
one can expect from an injured person, and jumps onto the shoulder of the surprised cop, before sinking his fingers into the
man’s face.

The cop lets out a brief scream. He goes berserk and slams the young man against the wall near the doorway. But still the youth
doesn’t let him go. He clings onto the cop in a piggyback position, and shoves the fingers on both of his hands into the man’s
ears. He put all the strength in as if he is trying to rip his ears apart. From the young man’s throat comes a fierce roar of a
beast. He pulls his fingers out. The fingertips are soaked in blood. He thrusts them in again.

The cop uses his free arms to grab his attacker’s body and falls into the room just like that. The wooden floor makes a cracking
sound as it breaks.

The slightly younger cop who isn’t attacked finally pulls out his gun as if he just remembers it now. That is a swing-out double-
action revolver. He aims it at the young man.

No warning is made. I see the future where that gun is fired.

I start to move too. I approach the cop and grab his pistol. I slide my thumb between the barrel and the firing pin. This way, the
firing pin won’t be able to hit the primer and the bullet will not come out.

I look at the cop. He looks back at me angrily.

There is a light sound of something dropping behind my back.

Something metallic. I want to look back but I am in a bad position. My right hand is holding the gun. The wall is on my left. I
cannot turn around. This is bad.

Something white is weaving at the edge of my vision.

I didn’t see the moment that thing was thrown. But it is probably the cop who threw it. Because I don’t stock such dangerous
things at home. A gas grenade.

That is a black, cylindrical personal weapon. It emits non-lethal coma gas. It lasts for twelve seconds, and can emit 2.8
kiloliters of gas. This gas was once used as a substitute for anesthesia for surgery in the Great War. Those who inhale it will
find their consciousness fading away. It depends on the concentration of the gas, but generally most will faint before they can
even count to ten. If inhaled in large volume, it can be fatal.

I grab my mouth and nose with my hand. Then I try to find the young man. A gas grenade is not something city police officers
can carry around on patrol.

These guys are not cops.

But something is moving at the edge of my vision. The younger cop has let go of his gun and thrown himself at me.

We tangle together and fall onto the floor. He hits my chest so hard that all the air left in my lung is pushed out.

The white smoke wriggles in and fills my vision as I roll on the floor. It is as if I have fallen into the bottom of a white sea. But I
can only see that white for a short moment.

I cough, breathe in the gas and lose consciousness almost instantly.

***

There is a sound.

A cold and damp sound.

It is so familiar that it does not sound like a meaningful sound at first. It is a sound that will slip past your consciousness, like
the sound of dead leaves rolling, or a train passing by in a distance, that kind of noise. However, it cannot be the same as those
noises.

Because it is the sound of Oda Sakunosuke being beaten.

The sound is low and muffled. It does not sound dangerous. It sounds like a sand bag falling. But it is, in fact, a dangerous
sound.

Dazai knows that.

Because he has been living with it soaking up to his throat for a dauntingly long amount of time.

“Before we start, let me tell you this.” said a voice. The voice of an aged man.

“I don’t like violence.”

The man is holding a blackjack as he speaks. Dazai sees that. Dazai is looking at the man. He is looking hard at him. Through
those sharp and dark eyes behind the face hidden by bandages.

“I don’t like it when people use violence. I don’t like to use it either. So just think about this as business.”

The club is swung down. On the back of the tied up Odasaku. Dazai is staring at that.
Dazai is standing in the corridor of the bunker, where it is completely dark. The distance between him and Odasaku is more
than ten meters. Because of the darkness and the distance, Odasaku and the other guy cannot see Dazai. In fact, they wouldn’t
even notice Dazai if he came within an arm’s reach. That is how much Dazai has melt into a dense shadow and become one
with the darkness himself.

Dazai is looking. He is simply looking hard at Odasaku being beaten.

The club being swung down. Odasaku groaning.

Seeing that violence doesn’t even make his eyes move. His eyes are as still as those of a dead man, not showing the slightest
flicker of emotion.

However, every time the club goes down, Dazai’s fingers twitch. His joints automatically jump and his muscles tense up. And
every time, thin white streaks rise to the surface of his fingers. His fingers bend as if they are grasping something invisible. It is
as if he himself is being beaten.

Dazai has become one with the darkness. That is why no one is able to find Dazai.

However, the elder torturer reacts to the killing intention he emits, which pulsates with every downswing of the club.

“Who is that?”

The man turns around toward the darkness. He can’t see anything. The darkness is deep and dense as mud.

He stops the torture and walks out, to check if anyone is there. Because he cannot help it. Because his experience is giving him
a warning.

He finally reaches the place where Dazai was.

However, there is already no one there.

There is only darkness. As if no one was there from the beginning. It’s as if darkness has taken the form of Dazai, and has
finally turned back to the original darkness and disappeared.

The man is confused. There is only the unchanging, endless darkness that has been there since the beginning of time.

**

That young former cop has no idea what has happened to him.

He was abducted while he was patrolling the underground bunker, but he only realized that he has been abducted much later,
when he found himself in the dark, unable to move a muscle.

He is sitting. On a piece of concrete at the foot of a pile of debris, like a prisoner. He just woke up and cannot understand what
condition he is in. However, even before his brain wakes up, he is clearly aware of one thing. Pain.

His body is in pain. A heavy, sharp pain is rushing through his whole body like an unpleasant signal, making his skin tingle.
But he can’t tell where the pain is from. More than half of his brain is still buried in a muddy coma.

This is an abandoned section in the depth of the underground bunker.

About ten years ago, there was an explosion of an oxygen cylinder used for emergency rescue here, and it has been in half-
collapsed state ever since.
There are gaps crawling like living creatures on the wall and the ceiling, and countless debris piling up. The debris comes in
different sizes, from the size of a fist to the size of a car. And the steel wires used as foundation material are poking out from the
gaps like wild plants.

He is sitting at the end of a dimly lit tunnel, in a narrow passage blocked by debris. On top of the debris that is just the height of
a chair. Or rather, he has been sat there.

He cannot move on his own.

Because his hands and feet have been fixed. His two hands are sandwiched between large pieces of debris. From the elbows up,
they are tightly pinned by the debris that looks like a mouth closing. The debris is not heavy enough to crush his arms right
now, but it is not light enough for him pull his arms out by himself.

“This… is…”

His voice is cracking in despair.

Because he saw his feet.

Two big stakes are piercing through the insteps of his feet, into the floor.

They are old construction wooden stakes. They have the thickness of a thumb, old and rusty. They are piercing through his
leather shoes, his skin, his flesh, his soles and finally into the floor. Fresh blood is still there, spreading in circle on the ground.

Someone has stitched his feet to the floor with those stakes. For what?

“You are feeling the pain.”

A cracked voice comes from the darkness.

The young cop turns to the voice with a frightened face.

“Pain is good. Pain is proof that you are alive. There are even better things. As the pain gets stronger, it can control us, change
the way we think, and sometimes even blow away our personality. Do you know why that is a good thing, Toda Akihiko-kun?”

The voice is intimidating, assertive, and filled with raw danger like a bleeding wound. It is high-pitched as that of a young boy,
but it lacks the human-like characteristics a young boy should have.

The man in the shadow. That is Dazai.

“It is because it continues to show us that our personality, our soul, is nothing but a convenient and unstable hypothesis based
on primitive instincts such as pain and fear.”

Dazai smiles thinly. Most of his face is covered in bandages, so that smile can only be seen through his slightly narrowed eyes
and his mouth, which is distorted and white like the shape of a shamshir.

“You are… the injured person… at the house…” The cop named Toda speaks in a wheezing tone, as a person with a faint
consciousness would do. “How do you… know my name?”

“I know almost everything.” Dazai says in a gentle, soothing voice as he approaches Toda. “You are a member of the criminal
organization “48”. You used to be a local police officer, but you joined the organization after being invited by a former senior
at work. You live near the lower reaches of the Tsurumi river, under the overhead lines. Your parents and sister run a brewery
in Shinshu. You do not put the money you earn here into a bank account, but hide it inside a safe at a dumping site. That is
wise.”

“Wha..”
Dazai speaks with cold eyes, looking down at the pale cop.

“No need to worry. I am not interested in hurting you. Now tell me what you know about the “painting”, everything.”

“What… painting? Who the hell are you? How do you know my nam…”

“Wrong answer.”

Dazai interrupts the guy and kicks him the leg, as if he does not give a damn. That is a light movement, like rolling a pebble
with your toes, but it makes the cop throw his head backward and scream.

“Gyaaaaaahhhh!”

The stakes piercing through his foot shake his bones and nerves when he is kicked, and send the pain throughout his whole
body.

“Honestly speaking, I don’t really want to talk to you either. So, I have to ask you to refrain from unnecessary talk. Just talk
about the “painting”. How do you know that Odasaku has it? How do you even know that the painting is valuable in the first
place?”

“I…” the cop’s face becomes distorted. That is the face of someone whose pain is accumulating and running all over his body.

“I don’t … know.”

“Oh?” Dazai lifts his eyebrows. However, other than that, his expression is completely flat and calm.

“That’s the truth! I just joined so I know almost nothing! I only know that the guy named Oda is hiding a painting that’s worth
hundred millions of yens!”

“Toda-kun.” Dazai walks up to the cop then places his hand on a piece of debris. “This is the hideout of your organization. It
means that there are many of your “replacements” here. If you think that you can save yourself by convincing me that you
know nothing, you have made a mistake. I won’t feel, nor care at all if the like of you dies.”

The cop can feel cold sweat squirting from his whole body. This young man is not lying. It shows in his eyes. That this young
man is only seeing him as a fly in his kitchen.

“I saw you guys’ torture earlier. I am a little relieved.” Dazai’s smile is as thin as a piece of paper. “Cops might be experts in
investigation, but not experts in torture. You can’t even make anyone tell you the time the clock on the wall says with that
child’s fight-like torture. How about I tell you the right way to do it?”

Dazai says so as he picks up a piece of debris under his feet. It weights a few kilograms. One can pick it up without much
trouble if they use both hands.

“What do you think I’m going to do with this?”

Dazai raises the debris. The cop stiffens. If that thing is swung down on his head, his skull will break. He wants to run away,
but he can’t because both his arms and legs are locked.

Dazai stares coldly at his opponent for a moment, before his mouth finally twists into a sneer.

“Not this.” Dazai shakes his head.

“I am not going to hit you with this. I’m tired and my hands hurt. Pros do not use unnecessary force. The correct answer is
this.”
Dazai puts the debris down. On top of the huge and flat piece on the cop’s arms. The cop frowns from the impact of the large
mass.

“And that’s it. How is it? Are you disappointed? Torturing always starts with the softer stuff, you know. That way, it will give
you more time to imagine. Because the greatest fear of a human being is the fear toward their own imagination.”

With that said, Dazai picks up another piece of debris and put it on the same plate.

“It is not a big deal with just one or two, right? But what if there are ten? What if there are twenty? Your arms are locked,
while the weight is gradually added to the top. You are only feeling some pressure and pain now, but there will be a limit. Give
it some time, and slowly, your bones will break, your hands will be crushed. I will just add it up little by little, so that you have
a lot of time to imagine it.”

The blood slowly drains from the cop’s face. Complex thoughts are gone from his eyes. What’s left is only the most primitive
and simple feelings.

“That!” Dazai pokes the guy’s forehead, entertained. “That is fear. The fear towards one’s own imagination. No-one can rob
anyone of their imagination. Now, let us continue.”

One more piece is picked up and placed on top. The pressure starts from his elbows to the tips. Cold sweats slip down from the
cop’s cheek.

It is clear to him what is about to happen. His arms will break. The bones bearing the weight of all the debris are mainly the
forearm’s radius and ulna, the lunate, scaphoid and triquetral bones at the base of the hand. And the finger joints. You put a
weight on these bones and they will start breaking in order, from the point where the force is most concentrated.

It is said that compared to the pain of a flesh wound, the pain from a broken bone is way more intense, unpleasant and
unbearable to anybody.

Moreover, in a normal fracture, the bone will only break at one most pressured point. In this torture, however, once a bone has
broken, the force will concentrate on a new point and have it broken anew. The fracture points will link to one another and
ultimately, the bones will be shattered like they have been put through a wood crusher, and his arms will end up becoming a
flat mattress mixed of flesh and blood.

And it will take a long, long time till he gets there.

“I beg you. Please stop it!”

The cop screams out, trying to escape. But it is hardly a meaningful movement. He barely lifts his hips. His hands are pinned
down, his legs are locked by stakes. He can’t even change his position, let alone escape.

“Answer my question then.”

Dazai leans against the flat debris board, adding weight to it.

“Gyahhhh!!”

The cop’s arms start to crack under the newly added pressure from Dazai’s lounging.

“Tell me about the painting. I came here for that. It is so easy to destroy your organization. But I have to take care of that
painting first. That is Phase one of the plan.”

“Phase one?”

The cop asks with a puzzled voice. He has no idea what his torturer is saying.
There is no-one who can understand it in this world yet.

“I know everything. About you, about your organization, about what happens next.” Dazai’s voice cracks as if he is subduing
something inside. “I just want to know about the painting. Because Odasaku will die at this rate. I have to know the painting’s
whereabout to change the future.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know what you are talking about. I am just an underling here. I really don’t know
anything.”

“Is that so?”

Another piece is loaded. The cop groans. Then, he gathers all the strength he has to pull his arms out. That’s the only way to
survive.

His two arms tense up, his joints become pale and see-through. The cop holds his breath and exerts an unusual strength one
normally can’t have. He manages to move his arm slightly outward.

But that is all he can do.

“It’s useless.” Dazai says with a voice that even exudes tenderness. “If you try with all you’ve got, you might be able to pull
your arms out now. But you won’t. The concrete’s surface is rough. If you try too hard, your skin will come off somewhere.
Plus, the further you pull, the smaller the contact surface will become and the more weight will be put on your skin. In other
words, you will have to pull your arms all the way out, while feeing your skin being torn off and your exposed flesh being cut by
the concrete. I wonder if you can continue the act of grinding your own body till the end?

Fear runs through the cop’s face. His arms loosen. With a ragged breath, he curves his body.

“See?” Dazai smiles. “Your will, your soul is screaming at you to pull your arms out. But your imagination gives birth to your
fear, and that fear is stopping you from pulling them out. That’s why I told you. Our personality, our soul, is nothing but a
convenient and unstable hypothesis based on primitive instincts such as pain and fear. Today, in this moment, your pain is your
master and your king. So, you will speak. You will definitely speak.”

The cop’s body trembles in fear. This is the fear of pain, the fear of his imagination. But the most frightening of all is the young
man in front of him, the king of the Pain land, the one who creates pains and controls pains.”

“You… who the hell are you? How can you do this?”

“I’m a pain expert.” Dazai puts his face closer to the cop’s as he says that, as if he is revealing a secret.

“That’s right. You want an excuse for yourself. Let me give you one then. I’m a Port Mafia’s executive.”

Upon hearing that, the cop bounces as if he is having a seizure. The color of regret surfaces to his eyes. The muscles from all
over his body stiffen up. For a moment, he forgets everything about the debris on his arms, and the stakes on his feet.

“I get it. I will tell you. I will tell you everything. I didn’t know. I didn’t know that this is the kind of job that will piss off the
Port Mafia!” The guy shakes his hair and screams. “I will pay whatever you want. I will sell out as many of my men as you
want. So please help me. I beg you. Please save me!”

The cop has fallen, as easily as that. Dazai smiles thinly.

“How did you know about the painting?” Dazai asks.

“We heard from an art dealer.” The blood runs in the cop’s eyes, as he is trying his best to trace his memories. He finally
realizes that every single word he says will decide his life and his dignity.
“That guy runs a small gallery on the Harbor Street, but he is also involved in forgery trades behind the scenes. People call
him the Grey Merchant. That guy was arrested last month because he messed up. He sold a painting to a customer knowing it
was a fake.”

“It looks like your throat has become a little smoother.” Dazai smiles, sitting down on a nearby piece of debris. “So?”

“Then the city police started looking through his other charges. They didn’t find any major crimes, but they suspected him of a
pretty big incident. Fencing.

“Oh?” Dazai tilts his head. “Keep going.”

The cop speaks in a broken voice to endure the pain.

It was that dealer’s biggest job ever. He was secretly selling stolen goods from Europe. It was a big painting that has to be
carried by two people, showing a farmer couple working diligently in a Medieval European landscape. It was painted by a
member of a noble family in Europe in the 14th century, and was called the best work of its time.

That painting was stolen from an international art museum in France, by a group of skilled thieves. The culprits fled to Japan,
where they contacted the art dealer to convert that painting into cash. The dealing of stolen goods – fencing - was familiar to
that art dealer. However, the scale of the job that time was too large. It was a painting with a historical value. News of the theft
had, of course, spread around the world, making it harder to find a buyer.

However, the dealer finally got that job done. The ultimate person who bought the painting was an extremely wealthy Japanese
man. A man who made a fortune out of an aircraft importing business, a man who had a love for expensive arts. Or rather, he
was in love with himself who owns expensive arts. That wealthy man hung the painting in the basement of his house. He had no
intention of showing it to anyone. He was content with just showing it to himself.

That is why after he was arrested, the first thing the dealer thought about was the painting that he sold. The whereabout of that
painting has become an international concern. If they found just a hint of it, the Europol would show up. If that happened, the
severity of the investigation as well as the charges would be far greater than when the Yokohama City Police was in charge.

Therefore, the dealer came to criminal organization “48” to ask them to erase the evidences of the deal. That was one of the
things “48” was good at. Through the help of their collaborators inside the police, they can steal evidences from the evidence
storage room, or rewrite them with criminal records. The price varies depending on the severity of the crime to be erased, but
“48”’s thorough understanding of the investigation process makes them very popular when it comes to this stuff, and they never
run out of requests.

“48”’s movement was fast. They erased the travel records of the thieves and replaced the surveillance videos of the area near
the warehouse used for fencing transactions. They had the knowledge they had gained through their career, and a thorough
persistence on top of that. Even when they had switched from day to night, from law keepers to outlaws, no one could take that
persistence away from them.

However, that was as far as they got. There were two problems.

The wealthy man who bought the painting had been killed.

And the painting had disappeared.

The man was killed in his own house. Together with his family. There was no lead to the killer. In fact, it was unknown how the
killer broke in, how he killed him and by what kind of weapon.

The only thing known is that he was instantly killed by a shot in the head at close range. The rifling marks on the bullet didn’t
match any records in file.

That was clearly done by a professional hitman.

And the painting was missing. So, there is only one possibility.

The killer knew the value of the painting and stole it.

“Impossible.” Dazai is stunned. “Are you saying that the hitman was Odasaku, and that he stole the painting?”

“How else could it be?” The cops says as he tries to suppress the pain. “The records show that when the murder scene was
inspected, the painting had already been gone. Of course, he might have let go of it himself, right before he was killed, but if he
wanted to transfer such a hard-to-sell painting like that, he would have used the same dealer for sure!”

Dazai stays completely still, his eyes looking at the middle of nowhere.

He rests himself on the debris without saying a word. Simply thinking in silence. His eyes are open without looking at anything,
as if he has even forgot to breath.

“Got it.”

When Dazai finally opens his mouth after a long pause, that voice completely lacks emotions. No mockery, no cruelty, not even
a carnivorous smile, nothing. A complete hollow.

Then he pulls out a gun.

He points the muzzle at the cop’s head.

“Wa.. wait! Why? I told you everything! I betrayed my organization and told you everything. There is nothing else, I swear!”

“You really don’t listen to others.” There is nothing left in Dazai’s voice, not even the ruthlessness. There is nothing in there.
Not even a sign of someone holding a gun, nor talking to a human being.

“I told you. I won’t feel, nor care at all if the like of you dies. And there is one more thing I have not told you yet.”

Dazai bends his finger.

“I hate your organization.”

Gunshot.

**

I open my eyes to an indescribable discomfort.

I am in a temporary cell used to keep the prisoners in the war.

Originally, it must have been a simple nap room inside the bunker to protect yourself from air strikes and such. The room is
about the size of a hotel room, with only a rusty bed frame fixed to the end. The entrance door has been replaced by an iron
door with fresh welding marks, and there is a thick chain used for boat anchoring and a huge lock hanging from the doorknob.
A number of black power lines are wrapped around the hooks lining up on the wall, leading to the murky cage lamp at the back
of the room. That is the only light source. There is no air conditioning, so the air in the room is unclean.

And I am being locked up in the middle of that room. There is no sound, except for the melancholic buzzing from the lights. The
gloomy time is passing by me, wearing a gloomy expression.

I finally realize where that feeling of discomfort comes from. It is too quiet. It has been almost two hours without me hearing
anyone’s footsteps, or anyone’s voices. There is no sign left of the hostile and conciliatory atmosphere I felt when I first came
here. I stand up and put my ears to the entrance door. Still no sign of anyone.
That is when I cannot help but noticing a fact. A fact that puts my mind in confusion. How am I supposed to interpret this
situation?

The lock on the door has been broken.

I poke the chain. It makes a rattling noise and falls to the ground. Same goes with the lock that ties it to the front door. As I turn
the knob and push it, the iron creaks as if it is protesting, before it slowly opens.

I indulge myself in thoughts for a while. Just because the door is open does not mean that I have to leave the room. I can also
wait here. However, what am I supposed to wait for in that case? For the next chance to be hurt? Or perhaps, a chance to give
the guys who have abducted and kept me here a speech, to appreciate their hard work?

In the end, I decide to go out. My two hands are still cuffed but it doesn’t hinder my movement at all.

The underground bunker is long and intricate, like the inside of an unknown underworld creature.

I find my way through the dimly lit corridor. Occasionally, black insects would scurry away near my hands. I can hear the
sound of water dripping somewhere.

A wind is blowing inside the shelter. It is a cold and moist wind that smells depressing like someone’s breath.

I thought I was getting lost. But I am not. I have found a sign.

That is a huge arrow, drawn messily on the ground where the route parts. I walk up to it and try touching it with my hand. That
is blood. Someone has drawn that arrow by blood, so big that no one can miss it. The blood hasn’t dried yet. It has not been
there for that long.

Looking in that direction, I immediately understand the meaning of that arrow. Someone is lying over there.

I rush over to the person, thinking they might not be alive anymore.

He is lying on his side. I can tell his two hands have been messed up even before I am able to get close. His skin is peeling off,
exposing the flesh beneath. The skin from the elbows to the wrists, on the backs and the palms of his hands are torn off as if they
have been clamped by something. However, the other parts of his arms are almost intact. I wonder what kind of attack he has
got to end up in this condition.

There are huge holes on both of his feet that pierce through his shoes. The holes go all the way to the soles, where it is still
bleeding a little bit. I am shocked.

Dead bodies do not bleed. The fact that he is bleeding means that the man is still alive.

I flip him over. I remember that face. He is one of the cops who attacked my house, the younger one. And now he is collapsing
here.

“Wake up. Who did this to you?”

As I tap his cheek, the young cop slightly opens his eyes.

His face is pale as if all the blood has drained off, but he finally manages to focus his gaze. That gaze catches me. It takes him a
few more seconds to understand the meaning of what he is seeing.

“Stop it!”

The cop suddenly pushes me and retreats to roll. Taking short and fast breath, he desperately tries to run away on those limbs
that are no longer acting on his will.
“Hey, wait!”

“Don’t come any closer! Please stop! I beg you!”

“Wait! Calm down! I am not going to hurt you” I approach and grab him by the shoulder.

I brush aside his raging, resisting arms, and stare into his eyes, “Who did this to you? This is your hideout, isn’t it? What
happened to the others?”

The cop finally regains some of his sense. His eyes gradually come into focus and move quickly from side to side, trying to
grasp the situation around him.

“Where… Where is that guy? Isn’t he your friend?”

“That guy?”

I follow the cop’s eyes and check around. But nobody is there.

This is a big storage room. It used to be a huge space for storing water and food for evacuation. Now it is just a huge empty
space with nothing stored inside. The pillars that are too big for a single person to hold, are lining up like lifeless ancient
soldiers.

“He… he said… that there is no escape.” The cop speaks in an exaggerated, flat voice, as if he is delirious due to a fever. “He
also said, if I don’t want everyone here to be killed, I have to tell him where the painting is.”

“Everyone?”

I look around. There is no one here. “Where are the other guys?”

The cop shakes his head in fear. Then he points his finger to the back of the room.

I stand up and look. It is only darkness over there. At the end of the dim light is an exit connecting to a corridor, which is
submerged in an even deeper darkness.

I walk to that direction. I have a premonition.

As I reach the end of that corridor, I light a match to sweep off the darkness. Before I can even see the floor, I already
understand what is there.

A man is lying face down as if he is drowning in a pool of blood. His arms stretch out powerlessly, and he lies in the puddle of
blood as if he is taking a nap on top of a cloud. Behind him, there is another one. This one is curving up in the shape of the
number nine, folding his two arms in. I can smell more blood in the darkness beyond that.

I have a hunch.

Could it be… that everyone in this underground hideout has been taken down?

I approach a man near me and check his pulse. He is alive, even though it does not look much like that from the amount of
blood loss. He is breathing faintly. I observe him. His whole body has been cut dozens of times by a sharp blade. However, the
cuts are perpendicular to the blood vessels. When you cut it that way, it will reduce the bleeding relatively quickly. The
bleeding areas were also carefully selected to avoid the arteries. It reminds me of an artwork created by a top painter.
Delivering pain through thoroughly calculated moves, to prevent the person from dying. He didn’t stay alive. He was kept alive.
A first-class work. By someone from the dark side of the world who possesses a different set of skills from mine.

These guys must have been prepared for violence and attacks. So, for them to be easily devoured like this, not to mention be
tortured in such a way that they couldn’t die, what kind of attackers could that be? And what is their purpose?
The cop just now was threatened that everyone would be killed if he didn’t tell the whereabouts of the painting. In other words,
the one who tortured him wants the information I have about the painting. It means he is my enemy.

Suddenly, I feel like someone who get lost in the freezing cold weather at the top of a mountain, with only his underwear on.
Having nothing to cover for myself, nor a way to escape. Far beyond the pale darkness, a mysterious monster is waiting to tear
me into pieces.

I quickly make my way back. I will ask the still conscious cop for directions and get out of here. That way, the torturer who is
targeting me may leave here too, sparing these dying people.

However, before I can get back to the cop, the whole tunnel shakes.

A shock, followed by a rumble. I can’t stand straight, so I have to hold on to the wall. As far as my eyes can see, the concrete is
shaking and starts falling off into pieces.

“It… started.” I hear a voice. That is from the young cop I just met. I turn to him.

The cop is shivering. Those eyes look like they know for sure the world is coming to an end. I help him stand up. He starts
ranting like a sick man with a high fever, without looking at anywhere.

“They are coming. They are coming. We are all gonna be killed. He uses fear. He uses your imagination. No one can win
against their own imagination. He is going to siege all the exits and burn us to death.”

“Hey. Get yourself together! Who is he? What is going to happen now?”

The cop looks at me. The light in his eyes is pale and white, the light of fear that has swollen from his depth, to the point that it
is almost transmitted to me.

“He is from Port Mafia.”

Port Mafia.

I am not so ignorant that I don’t understand the meaning of those words.

They are like the night wind that flows through the darkest parts of this city. They will follow you wherever you go in the
darkness and rip off your throat with those fangs. The Apostles of Death that no living things can resist. And they are coming
this way.

Another sound of raid. The place shudders like the internal organs of a giant creature in convulsion, cracks running across the
wall. Apparently, we don’t have as much time as I thought.

“So, it is like this.” I say to the cop. “Soon enough this place will be surrounded, and the Port Mafia will come and kill all of
us. However, if I spit out the whereabouts of the painting, everyone will be saved.”

“I… I think so.” The cop replies with a pale face. “It’s not like that guy wants to take anyone’s life. To him, our lives are worth
less than the weeds out there… I beg you. Please save me. I will leave this organization. No matter how much I can earn from
crimes, I don’t want to be in the same world with that monster anymore. So, please help me. I don’t want to die just yet.”

I look at that young cop. He is frightened from the bottom of his heart. The fear has overshadowed his personality, transforming
him from a full-grown man into a life form that only knows how to tremble.

Beyond the light of his eyes, I can see the guy. The guy who controls fear. The devil of Port Mafia. He is manipulating the cop
by a thread of fear and speaking to me.

_Give me the painting._

“I refuse.” I start speaking. “First, I can’t stand the way he tries to subdue others with violence. Second, that painting is not
mine. It belongs to someone else. It is not something I can freely use to trade for my life. Third, that painting does not hold that
much of a value anymore. It is probably not even worth fifty thousand yen, let alone five hundred million. Even if I give them
the painting, I don’t think those guys will let us go.”

“Still! If you don’t give them the painting, everyone will be killed now…”

“Forth.” I cut off the cop’s sentence. “They will not kill me. Even under this circumstance. Because I am the only one who
knows where the painting is. Port Mafia may surround this area and kill everyone here. But they will have to keep me alive.
Because that information exists only in my head. However, if I tell you where the painting is now, the secret will no longer be
mine only, and my life’s value will drop. Then it will become a matter of luck whether Port Mafia will let me live or not.”

“You… what are you talking about?” the man’s voice almost becomes a scream. “Then what about me? What will happen to
us?”

“You are criminals.” I speak in a suppressed tone. “Even if you are going to be shallowed up by a more sinister organization,
it is just the law of nature.”

“You…!”

The cop, still lying down, quickly pulls out a hidden gun. He points it at me.

I take one step back and observe the gun. That is a black, 9mm automatic pistol. The muzzle is firmly pointed at me. As it is an
automatic gun, there is no need to cock it. Even with an injured arm, he can probably fire one shot with no problem.

“Didn’t you hear what I said?” I put my hands up and say. “If I die, the information will be lost. There is no point to threaten
me with a gun.”

“Yeah, that’s right. That’s why you are saying things all high and mighty like that.” There is the color of obsessive desperation
in his eyes. “You think that you are the only one to secure a safe place for yourself. I hate that. On the other hand, what about
me? I am gonna die for sure. Whether you say anything or not. If it is going down that way, then I will shoot you right here to
lighten up my mood a little before I die. How about that? Can you still say such privileged thing?”

In silence, I look down at the man, at the desperation, at the screaming and pleading of a human wishing to live. He will really
shoot me. Without a doubt. It is absolutely as certain as how the dawn will come as long as you wait.

“Now, speak.”

“All right.” I hear myself saying. “If you are that determined, I have no choice but to speak. I don’t think anything will change
if you know though… The wealthy man who owned that painting was killed seven years ago, by my hand. That was my last
job.”

And then, I start telling my story, bit by bit.

**

I killed that wealthy man, simply because it was a mission. I didn’t know why I was killing him, nor what kind of person he was.
I just aimed for his head and pulled the trigger. That was it.

It seemed that the client who ordered the assassination was targeting that painting. I did not find out about it until much later.
My job was only to kill the man. Carrying the painting out and cleaning up the aftermath was another professional’s job. They
did their job. I did my job. And on my way back after the mission, I casually had my eye on a novel on the desk, so I took it and
left the house.

It always starts with the little things.

That novel triggered a lot of things, and I eventually stopped killing. I have not killed a single person since then.

One day about two years after that day, I suddenly came up with an idea that I should go back and return that novel. There was
no big reason for it. It was not out of sense of morality or guilt. It was simply because I thought if I did that, I would be able to
face that novel directly. I already had another copy of the book that I bought by myself.

In the mansion that was once owed by the wealthy man lived a son of his. He was seventeen years old. I later heard that he was
not his real son, but a boy who had lost his parents in an underworld conflict, that the man took in. An orphan.

I must have been out of my mind at that time. To think I would go and meet that son of his. I could have just sneaked into the
house, put the book there and left, and it would have been as easy as bending a finger for me. But anyway, I ended up standing
in front of the son and introducing myself. As “the person who killed your father.”

There was no word that could describe how angry the son was. He had all the rights to be angry. His family was killed by the
underworld, twice. He was hitting me, throwing stuff at me, and attacking me with all sorts of insults. I could easily dodge all of
his attacks, but there was no way to avoid the insults.

When he became exhausted from all the rampage and finally sat down, I explained to him about the killing. After that, he
demanded a compensation. For his father’s life, and for the rental fee of that book I took without permission.

Bring that painting back, he said.

There was no reason for me to accept that request. First, I didn’t know where the painting was then. It must have been bought
by yet another wealthy person far across the sea. I could find some clues if I looked, but that would mean a long, tedious and
unprofitable job on top of that.

If it had not been for the book, I would not have accepted it.

As it turned out, my guess was correct. It was a long, tedious and unprofitable job. To add to that, it was a dangerous job. I had
to get into a private military company (PMC) of nearly one hundred and fifty armed soldiers and carry the painting out under a
rain of bullets, without killing anyone. If I were asked to do it again, I would absolutely refuse. Most of the troubles in my life
were brought upon me by myself.

Standing in front of the painting that I brought back, the son of the wealthy man just looked at it in silence. After about thirty
minutes, he started talking, little by little. About the reason he wanted the painting back. And how that painting was the object
of a bet.

His father wanted his son to become a businessman that would surpass himself. So, he made a promise that if the son could
make ten million yen by the time he turned eighteen, he would give him that painting.

“Stupid parents”, he said. In the first place, it was a dirty painting that had been obtained through illegal means. Did he really
think that the son would try that hard to get his hand on such a thing?

But the son did try very hard. He managed to earn almost 80% of that ten million by himself. He did not try that hard because
he wanted the painting, he said.

There was one year left till the promised eighteen.

That young man asked me to keep that painting for him until then.

The painting had a setup. It had been written on, by a special type of paint that would become visible when exposed to
ultraviolet rays. The text covered an aera of about a quarter of the painting. And it said,

“You are my pride.”

If all the art lovers over the world saw that, they would just faint in anger. This kind of graffiti just blew away the whole five
million yen worth of the painting. The man caused troubles even after his death. But perhaps, that wealthy man did it exactly
because it was trouble.

He probably wanted to say that he wouldn’t care even if the painting’s value was to be reduced to zero, because his son was
worth all that much. Or maybe that was why he went through the trouble of buying that painting illegally. Of course, the truth
stayed unknown until now.

Because I killed the father.

I kept the painting as requested. I put it in a storage box and stored it in a dark, cool and windy place.

It is under the floor of my house, near the foot of my bed.

It is a painting that no longer has any artistic value. There is no point in preserving it with care.However, it has value to that
young man. The son whose father was killed. That painting is the memento of his father, the will of his father, and in a sense,
his father himself.

I am still protecting it now.

It is not to atone for my sin. I am not that kind of an admirable person. It is just because a lot of things piled up, that I decided
to do so.

“And once I have made up my mind, I am not going to change it, no matter who asks me to.” I say as I walk toward the cop.
“Got it? Bandaged man?”

“What?”

Before the cop can react, I quickly snatch the gun from his hand. The cop, whose arms have been injured and cannot even stand
up, do not have the strength to steal it back. I bring the gun close to my face and say.

“This is not a gun.” I say. “This is a listening device. You are listening to us over there, right? You have anticipated this and
created a situation for me to tell where the painting is, and tried to eavesdrop through this gun.”

“This gun … listening device?” The cop was stunned. So he did not know either.

“I found it odd from the beginning. That this was an automatic gun.” I say as I observe the gun. “When they stormed into my
house, they were carrying the revolvers used by the city police. This is a different kind. Perhaps, this automatic pistol was the
one you used when you threatened this guy? One more thing, if you want to threaten me, basically, you will have to come to me
directly. But all I can see here are injured people. So, this is what I came up with: you, in order to find out where the painting is
without showing up here, have created a situation for this cop to threaten me. If that is the case, then there must be a listening
device somewhere.”

Of course, the gun does not answer me. It is just there, cold, heavy and quiet. But just by being there, that gun is radiating its
unique presence to the surroundings. I continue to talk to the gun.

“This is loaded. But I guess it is just a blank, right?” I point the gun at the ceiling and fire a single shot. It makes an explosive
sound and a flash of light cut through the darkness. But that is it. There is no bullet hole on the ceiling.

“That was quite a performance. Did you calculate everything up to this point, and collapse in front of my house on purpose? If
so, that was impressive. Now, I have told you everything about the painting. Break the siege as you promised. Or you can let
everyone in here and we can have a fun killing party. I am fine either way.”

As I am speaking, I check the gun more closely. Originally, it is my tool of trade. I know the balance of the weight like I know
my fingers. The grip is a little heavy. I press the button to release the magazine, it drops into my hand. In the area near the grip
screw, the polymer plastic material on the side of the magazine has been removed and a black rectangle part was embedded in
it. That is the listening device.

I hold up the magazine like a microphone, and talk into the device. “Within ten seconds, you will make three blasts. After that,
you will disappear immediately. If you don’t, I will consider that our negotiation has failed and I will come get you from here.”

I throw away the device and count to ten inside my head. Between eight and nine, a series of shocks shake up the underground
basement. Exactly three times. The blasts sound like thunders from afar, and then the sound suddenly stops as if it has been
chopped off. All that is left is silence. A silence that makes my ears ache.

“It is over.” I take a breath and walk away. “I will call the cops once I get out. The real ones, you know. All of you will be
arrested, but at least you will be treated a little better. Compared to the Mafia.”

“Wa… wait a minute.” The cop says with a hard voice. “You…. Why? You said yourself that you alone could get away with
this. You even knew that the gun I pointed at you couldn’t be used? Could it be that… you… you saved me? For what?”

The answer to that question is simple. But I don’t want to answer him. What is the point of answering anyway? I feel empty. I
am tired, wounded, betrayed by people, and betraying people.”

“I am thirsty.” I say to myself. “I’m going home.”

The guy says something but I don’t hear it. I keep walking out of that place.

***

The light from the gas lamp illuminates the profiles of people walking through the ticket gate.

The blue stars of the city, of which there are only a few, are scattered in the night sky like a film.

The station is surrounded by the night sky, the night scenery, and a group of people walking home in silence. There is no
explosion, no gun shot, no bargaining for your life here. It is the plain scene of the closing of a day like every day, which starts
mechanically and ends mechanically.

Dazai Osamu and Oda Sakunosuke are there at that same station. In different places.

Oda is exhausted. Covering his aching back, he walks among the crowd rushing out of that station.

Dazai stands in the darkness, away from the street lights of the station front, watching Oda as he becomes one with the night.

Oda walks along the station platform, out of the ticket gate, and stesp into the night of the city. After getting out of the
underground bunker, he crossed the mountain and walked over to a nearby village. He negotiated with the farmers there for
them to give him a ride. He then got on buses and trains one after another, back to the nearest station to his home. When he
arrives, it has become completely dark.

Oda rubs his own shoulders, and walks home with an exhausted face as he cracks his neck. His clothes are wrinkled and
covered in mud. Sometimes, people passing by Oda look at him as if they are looking at a strange, foreign creature. But no one
calls out to him. People in the city just don’t do that.

Oda gets through the ticket gate and walks under the street lights, as he takes out a cigarette and puts it in his mouth. Then he
starts searching for something in his jacket. He is looking for a fire.

“Here you go.”

Suddenly, a voice comes from behind him. Oda turns around. In front of his eyes, there is a light from a match. And a hand
holding it.
Oda is caught by surprise for a second, but he immediately places the cigarette in his mouth on that. He closes his eyes,
breathes in the smoke, and breathes it out into the dark night. Then he looks at the person.

“Hi. What a look you’ve got there. Are you okay?”

That is Dazai.

Dazai, who has half melted into the dark, is standing there silently, smiling a smile that does not look like one.

“Nothing.” Oda says so as he looks at the other person through the smoke. “I just tripped.”

“This matchbox is yours, isn’t? I saw you drop it at the ticket gate.”

Oda looks at the matchbox Dazai is holding. It is black on the sides, white on top, and has a logo of a bar in front. It is clearly
the one that Oda always carry with him.

“Yes.” Oda says, looking at the matchbox.

Then he observes the man. He stays silent for a few seconds before asking with a blank expression.

“Have I met you anywhere?”

Dazai smiles a smile of no personality. “No. This is the first time we met.”

The bandages that have covered most of Dazai’s face the whole time are no longer there. He is wearing a flat cap to cover his
eyes, and a black inverness coat to hide his shape and his wounds. As for the voice, Oda has not heard Dazai speak even once.

“Is that so?” Oda says as he takes the matchbox from Dazai and turns his back on him. “Thanks for the match. Good night
then.”

Oda is just taking a few steps when Dazai calls out to him from behind.

“Looks like you got into quite a bit of trouble.”

Oda stops and slowly turns around. “What?”

“Just… You seem so worn out. Your face looks so bad… Also, that thing on your hand and clothes, I can’t see very well in the
dark, but it’s not just dirt. There is blood too, right?”

Oda looks at his own hands. It is true that there is still some blood from when he tried to help the injured cop on his wrists.

“Well, there was a bit of a situation.” Oda says, checking the smell on his hands. “It is not my blood. But it’s true that I got into
some trouble. I got something important taken from me. Something I have always protected.”

“If it has been taken”, Dazai smiles helplessly, “then at least you don’t have to worry about it being taken anymore.”

Oda looks at the other for a while. As if he is trying to look for an answer there.

“Probably.” Oda says. “I can’t forgive the guy who took it, though.”

Dazai slowly nods. Trying to hide his expression.

Oda watches his expression for a moment but he finally turns away. “Thanks for the match. That was a big help. Bye then.”

Dazai looks at the back walking away from him and speaks quickly. “If you ever get into trouble in the future…”
Oda turns around, “Huh?”

“You can turn to The Armed Detective Agency in Yokohama for help. They will take on even the troublesome stuff. And they
will get the job done without fail. I was helped by them in the past, too.”

“I see.” Oda says after he gives it a moment of thought. “I’ll do so then. That is very kind of you. You are a good guy.”

Dazai’s expression becomes distorted.

He opens his mouth, and closes it again, as if he can no longer breathe.

If he tells him everything now, maybe things will go back to how they were. The two of them will go to the bar together and
have a toast. Just like that night.

“Odasa…”

Just as Dazai is about to say that name, a train passes by. The express train passing through that station cuts through the
silence of the night, right next to where Dazai and Oda is.

The darkness and the light alternatively hit the road, and the roar of the steel blows away the silence of the whole surrounding.
Oda narrows his eyes.

The train is long, and the sound it makes sounds like an extended sorrow. Dazai looks down so that no one can see him, his face
twisted in grief. It is as if that long roar is promising him six long years of heartlessness to come.

The train finally passes through.

Oda looks around, trying to get what the other was saying again.

There is nobody there anymore.

Oda blinks his eyes, feeling confused. He looks around. Then he shakes his head as if to shake off all the thoughts, and walks
away with a resigned expression.

Only the cold and quiet night breeze is left blowing through the space where no one remains, trying to fill up the emptiness.

Nobody says a word.

The painting is kept by the Port Mafia for a year, before it is returned to its owner, the son of the wealthy man.

The son keeps it for a few years, and later donates it to a museum anonymously.

That way, Dazai has achieved his goal. Getting Oda to tell him where the painting is without facing him, nor having his face
remembered. And by doing that, Oda will never be targeted by a criminal organization again. That is Dazai’s goal.

He has another goal.

To make Oda despise the Port Mafia. So that he will not join the Port Mafia, thus avoiding his coming death.

That goal is accomplished. Oda becomes involved with not the Port Mafia but the Armed Detective Agency, and joins the
Agency two years later.

And then two years after that, Oda meets Dazai again one more time.

At the bar counter, in the sad melody of a parting song.

That is where Oda points his gun at Dazai, and Dazai says the last goodbye.

The last goodbye of his life.

The End Side Beast