Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the quiet hubbub of the ADA's favourite cafe, Atsushi, Kunikida and Ranpo looked over at Kyoka who was intently peering at her hand of cards. They were trying their best to be patient, but teaching the young detective how to play Uno had been exhausting. She had no concept of strategy and frequently cheated - although she was doing it in a way that gained her more cards rather than less.

Atsushi placed his hand face down on the table, "Need some help?" He asked.

Her eyes met his and then returned to the cards, "No, thank you."

"But Kyoka…"

Ranpo tipped his head back, his eyes closed against the light hanging over their heads. "There's only two moves you can make." He said flatly, "You can reverse the order of play - in which case, Kunikida will play a plus two green card, Atsushi will miss his turn and I will play my last card - or you can play your red three - in which case, I still play my last card." A small self-satisfied smile crept onto his face, "I win either way."

Kunikida dropped his cards, "I believe that analysis defeats the point of the game."

"No one said I couldn't do that."

Atsushi gave him a withering look, "I think it was implied."

Kunikida sighed and consulted his book of Ideals, "It's about time we got back to work anyway; there's enough rumours going around about Guild members rising from the ashes to make me uneasy."

Ranpo crossed his arms over his chest, "They're not Guild members."

"How do you know?"

"They're too rash in the way they act. Too disorganised. If they were headed by Fitzgerald, Alcott would inevitably be strategising for them." He articulated with ease, "The Guild moves as a whole, with purpose. This is something different."

Atsushi sucked in his bottom lip. They were referring to an outbreak of wild paranoia in a block of flats just a few miles away. The residents had been disappearing one by one for up to days at a time and had then returned home, totally delusional. It was as if each of them had had their grip on reality surgically removed. Atsushi hoped it wasn't an ability user gone rogue, but as the cases kept mounting up, it was looking like it couldn't possibly be anything else.

Kunikida touched the rim of his glasses, "Perhaps it would be better if this was the Guild. We don't know what to expect from a rogue agent."

"Then shouldn't we make the first move?" Atsushi weighed in.

"Soon enough." Kunikida answered, "Until then I need to speak with Dazai about what we can do to keep this paranoia from spreading. Hopefully his nullification ability will put an end to the outbreak."

From the other end of the table, Kyoka drew a red three from her hand and placed it on the stack of cards in the middle of the table. "I meant to tell you earlier, there was a letter to you from Dazai on his desk this morning."

"A letter?"

Kyoka nodded, placed her cards down and then reached a hand inside her kimono. She drew out a plain white envelope with Kunikida written on the front. The writing was an unfamiliar and nearly illegible scrawl which was unusual, even for Dazai.

Kunikida accepted the envelope with a frown. "I believe a text would have sufficed."

He opened the envelope and pulled out a small sheet of paper. On the front, it read: 

Knock twice . 

And on the rear, simply:

The Overlook.

Ranpo held out his hand expectantly and Kunikida passed along the letter with a sigh, "What is this supposed to be, an invitation?"

Ranpo hummed as he held the note against the light, "Yes, but not from Dazai-san - he's being held at the Overlook." 

"You mean he's in danger?" Atsushi exclaimed.

Ranpo rolled his head to the side, "No, he's very good at this sort of thing."

"It's true," Kunikida chimed in, "I'm sure he does it out of boredom - a way of testing himself, even. Or testing me." He said with a sudden hint of resentment.

"Well, where's the Overlook?"

"I think I've seen that place before." Kyoka put her finger to her lips, "It's a really big hotel on the south side of town - it sort of sprang up from nowhere a few days ago."

"Out of nowhere, hm?" Kunikida closed his eyes, "Sounds like an ability user."

"I thought it was pretty…" Said Kyoka dejectedly.

"So, what are we waiting for? Let's go!" Jumping up from his seat, Atsushi rushed towards the cafe door.

"Hey, tiger boy!" Ranpo called after him, "Don't you think you're forgetting something?"

Atsushi pivoted on his foot, a look of confusion pressing on his features, "No, I- uh…"

Ranpo smiled and placed his last card in the centre of the table; a green three. "I win."

Chapter Text

Atsushi followed close behind Kyoka as she lead the three of them down a tight alleyway. Ranpo had his hands in his pockets and was lagging behind lazily at the back of the group while Kunikida had stuck his head in his book and refused to remove it, even to look up.

"Do you come through this alley a lot?" Atsushi asked Kyoka.

"No, but you can cut through to the market down here. I like to come at night, when there's no one around. It's peaceful."

Atsushi furrowed his brow. The alley wasn't wide enough for more than two people to walk side by side and there wasn't any lighting - at night, you probably couldn't see more than two feet in front of your face. Even now the alley gave off a disquieting atmosphere that made him shiver; he wouldn't say somewhere like this could ever be peaceful.

Kyoka tugged at his sleeve, "Look, you can see the top of the hotel from here." She said, pointing over the buildings. 

In the distance, maybe a mile or so away, a brown roof arched towards the sky. It had snow white walls and about a dozen wide windows that faced the street. It was enormous.

Kunikida stole a quick glance over the top of his book, "Isn't that where the abandoned Dyor Warehouse used to be? It would have taken months to build something like that here. Planning permission alone…"

"It wasn't built." Kyoka replied, "It's like I said - one day, it was just there."

The four detectives pushed on to the hotel. There were open bags of concrete mix and bricks lying in haphazard piles around the entrance, where perfectly manicured hedges were planted around the perimeter of the hotel. A thin layer of snow dusted the rooftops and the frames of the windows but it was still summer and there wasn't a cloud in sight. 

Is this an ability? Atsushi wondered to himself. 

It was magnificent in scale and detail, much like the many polished pieces that came together to make the Moby Dick.

He stepped onto the porch, eyeing the large oak doors suspiciously as if they might suddenly unhinge and swallow him whole.

Ranpo - who had been subtly distancing himself from the Outlook - cupped his hands around his mouth, "Why don't you try knocking, Atsushi?" He called over with a smile, "Someone should stay out here, you know, just in case."

Kunikida crossed his arms over his chest and gave Ranpo a warning glare, his blonde hair twisting in the wind. "We're all going together."

"I'd love to stay - really, I would - but I believe my skills are better suited elsewhere. Like this paranoia outbreak." With one finger, Ranpo pushed up the rim of his hat, revealing two crafty green eyes. He turned on his heel and started to wander away. "Why don't I just take care of that and you guys take care of this?"

"Scared of a little footwork?" Kunikida intoned with a tilt of his head. He pressed his book of Ideals to his chest. "I didn't think great detectives were supposed to run from a good mystery."

Ranpo stopped abruptly. From the way his lips twitched under the shadow of his hat, Atsushi could tell Kunikida had struck a chord. He said nothing in reply. His cape flapped silently in the wind.

With a sigh, Kunikida stepped onto the porch, "Well, come on you two. It appears that-"

"Wait, wait, wait!" Ranpo yelled, running over to join them. He planted both feet on the porch, his brow furrowed intently, his eyes half-lidded with faux disinterest. "If you die, I will not have that be the last thing you said to me." He muttered.

"Your faith in me is astounding." 

Atsushi let go of the breath he had been holding and looked between the three detectives, "Ready?" He said.

Kunikida and Kyoka nodded in unison. Ranpo looked decidedly nervous but his lips locked into a solid line and he tensed his whole body, ready for anything. As Atsushi turned to the door, Ranpo wrapped his foot around the porch handrail.

Then, two loud, firm knocks.

Atsushi stood back expectantly alongside Kunikida. For a moment, the four of them stared blankly at the door.

Kyoka looked at him sideways, "You think they heard us?"

"Should I knock again?"

"The instructions were clear." Kunikida hummed.

Another bout of silence.

"I'm going to knock again." Atsushi declared.

"Wait-"

All of a sudden, the porch pitched forward and the floor disappeared under their feet. The sound of screaming rose up and then fell, swallowed by the abyss, leaving nothing behind.

Silence once again settled outside the Outlook but it didn't last long.

With his heart in his mouth and one foot still wrapped around the handrail, Ranpo hitched himself up from the precipice. He locked both arms around the wooden frame and dared to peer back over his shoulder. His heels were hanging over the edge of nothingness - mere millimetres of earth between him and whatever laid down there. "A trapdoor…" He said breathlessly, "How original."

Chapter Text

In a pitch black space, Dazai opened his eyes. 

He had to blink twice to make sure they were open. The blackness was so complete that he couldn't even see his hands in front of his face. He supposed it wouldn't do any good to see them; he could feel they were bound behind him to the legs of a chair, and with duct tape no less. He let out a small sound of irritation. His lockpicking skills have worked miracles before, but he wasn't Houdini. 

After taking a breath, he mentally examined his body for wounds. There was a slight ache in his side and the stale tang of blood on his tongue but, otherwise, he felt fine. He held that thought for a moment and then shook his head. No, there was something else too - his head was feeling extremely woolly, as if he was pulling himself out of a drug-addled slumber. His thoughts came one at a time; slow, disjointed and barely audible.

What happened? Where am I? Who…

He tipped his head to the side and scratched his ear against his shoulder. 

This wouldn't do. 

He needed to be able to think straight or this whole situation would turn dire. If he wasn't in control, he left himself at the mercy of his captors, and that was never a good opening move.

Once again he attempted to gather himself, focusing his brain despite the drug-induced fog. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe. In and out. Slow and steady. 

Concentrate .

And there it was; a small hole in the fog. A pinhole of light in the grey. He closed himself around the memory and felt the rush of his senses as they embraced the past.

He was standing at the train station on another of Kunikida's errands - something about a zombie at the local cemetery. He didn't really know, he hadn't been paying attention. 

Regardless, Dazai didn't suppose there was any truth to the case; he had only ever known one person who could bring the dead back to life - and Dazai and Chuyya had already seen to it that he wouldn't be doing it again.

There was an announcement over the speakers telling everyone to step away from the platform edge as the next train passed through. It was approaching from the right at extraordinary speed. For a moment, Dazai remembered thinking about jumping in front of it. The idea passed through his mind easily, glowing with promise, making his feet linger a little bit closer to the edge than he should.

But then the train passed. Carriage after carriage carried into the distance and away from Yokohama. The rhythmic beat of wheels on rails faded away. 

Chu-chunk, chu-chunk.

Nevermind, he could always catch the next one.

Dazai grunted. As much as he strained his brain, the rest of the memory wasn't coming to the foreground. Like a half-painted picture, the pieces failed to come together, leaving him with only his imagination to fill in the gaps. Had he gotten on the train? He supposed he would have. He certainly didn't jump in front of it - too much mess - and, if he was on his way to the cemetery, he was intending to help with the investigation.

He wasn't sure why. This was the sort of errand he would send Atsushi or Ranpo on - disguised as a learning experience, of course - maybe even Kyoka if he could risk frightening civilians.

If he had come himself, that meant he had figured out something important.

"Which was…?" He murmured to himself, wracking his brain hard enough to trigger a headache.

Silence. 

Heavy, black, unyielding silence from all corners of the room. From the way his voice echoed back at him, Dazai knew he was sitting in the middle of an empty space, but there was something strange about the echo.

He craned his neck, squinting into the darkness. "Oh, I didn't know I had company." He smiled thinly.

At first, there was no reply and Dazai wondered for a moment if he had been sitting in the darkness for too long. The person was as still as a statue - even the rise and fall of their chest was almost imperceptible, the noise of their breathing completely muted. But then the figure twisted in their seat and hit the light switch, expelling the shadows with a white flash.

Dazai closed his eyes with a groan as pink spots danced across his retinas. There were hospital-grade spotlights pointed at him from all different directions, bathing him in blinding light. He forced his eyes open but the light was so intense he could hardly see beyond it.

"All this, just for me?" Dazai chuckled, his eyes squeezed shut, "You shouldn't have."

Slow, careful footsteps padded across the room, circling behind and then in front of Dazai, taking him in from all angles.

"You are quite the honoured guest." Said the man in a deep, sophisticated baritone, "It would be wrong to shine a spotlight on anyone else, as it were."

"Funny. I don't remember being invited."

"I'm surprised you remember anything at all." The man replied easily, "Short-term amnesia is a very common side-effect."

"Of what?"

A dangerous laugh punctuated the pause.

"That's none of your concern."

Dazai was only able to open his eyes a fraction, but it was enough to catch a glimpse of the man behind the lights. His raven hair was raked back with gel, revealing two cold, blue eyes and an all too wide smile. He was wearing a muzzle of leather and wire pulled so tight against his face that the skin of his cheeks was starting to bleed.

Hot nausea settled in Dazai's stomach. "Who are you?"

"My name is Dr. Thomas Harris." He enunciated with all the flourish of a high-class gentleman (Dazai half-expected him to bow) as he pushed his hands into the pockets of his blue overalls. A chilling spark ignited in his eyes like a blue flame. "We'll be getting to know each other very well over the next few hours-"

"I don't need a doctor." Dazai dared to cut back.

"Ah, I see you're confused." Harris was still smiling, his white teeth shining behind the muzzle. "I'm not that kind of doctor - I'm a psychiatrist."

A flat expression pressed on Dazai's features, "Don't make me laugh."

"Come now," Harris said, pulling up a chair, "There's nothing to be afraid of. Why, if you'd like, I could go first?"

Dazai raised an eyebrow, "Go first?"

"Yes, Dazai. Those drugs must still be clouding your mind, hm? You're not as quick on the ball as I've been told."

Dazai rolled his eyes.

"By 'first' I mean that I will tell you something that you would like to know about me and then you will tell me something I want to know in return."

"Like sharing secrets? How exciting~" Dazai smiled, feigning joy.

"There's no need to pretend with me." Harris intoned, the smile falling from his own face. 

Harris and Dazai were sat maybe a metre apart but the doctor's presence filled up the whole room like a black tide, swallowing everything in its path. Dazai felt his head above the water, but the sensation of sinking made his heart flutter. 

He narrowed his eyes at Harris, the heat of his gaze burning hot like a laser beam. "How do I know you'll tell the truth?"

Harris shrugged, "I suppose you can't. Though you are not bound to answer truthfully either, are you, Dazai-san?" Harris closed his eyes and steepled his fingers in front of his face, "However, I believe there is more that can be learned from a lie than the truth."

"Is that right?" Dazai murmured. He studied the doctor carefully, but he couldn't sense the low thrum of power in the air like he could with most ability users. Instead, the air felt as tense as razorwire.

Harris opened his eyes, "I see." 

Suddenly, he pulled his chair closer to Dazai until their knees were touching. Now that deadly black wave was up to his nose, threatening to cut off his air and snuff him out. Dazai let out a gasp, "What are you doing?"

"You're concerned I am using an ability, are you not?" Harris explained. He was so close that Dazai could smell his breath - the scent of stale food and dried blood. He wanted to vomit. "This is no ability." Harris whispered, "We're just talking, Dazai. Wouldn't you like to get to know me better?"

Dazai turned away and recoiled hard into the chair. He felt his ability ‘ No Longer Human ’ pooling at his kneecaps, waiting to latch on to something, but it was just as Harris said - whatever this was, it wasn't an ability. "If I talk, will you not sit so close to me?" Dazai implored.

"Consider it done." Harris nodded. He got up silently and returned the chair to its original position. Once he was sat down, he raised an eyebrow, "You can have that information for free." Harris told him, straightening the legs of his overalls as if he were wearing a fine suit and not a prison outfit. "It's nice to be on even ground after all. Now, ask me a question, Dazai. What do you desire to know?"

Dazai regarded the Doctor with caution, the same way he would look at a tiger, watching for any sudden movements, but he sat there like a housecat; docile and content. He pursed his lips and asked the first thing that came to mind, "What do you want with me?"

"That's simple." The Doctor tipped his head forward, elbows perched on his knees, "We want you to join us."

Chapter Text

Atsushi opened his eyes slowly. His face was pressed against a garish carpet with hexagons of orange and brown throbbing in his peripheral vision. A dull ache surged through his chest. He was winded and it took all his strength just to continue to draw breath. 

Must have been a hell of a fall , he thought to himself.  

His hands were pinned under his chest and he rolled over to free them. There was a single warm light hanging overhead but no sign of where he had come from. No sunlight, no trapdoors, no latches or handles or even a split in the paintwork. Just one lonely bulb. 

Then suddenly, there was a shadow looming over him, blotting out the light.

"Kunikida…?" He whispered.

"That's right. Are you able to walk?" Kunikida offered his hand but Atsushi waved it away. 

He sat up, feeling the blood rush away from his head. He sucked in a breath and tried to blink away the shadows, "I'll be fine. Where's Kyoka?"

"Just down the hall." Kunikida looked over his shoulder. The constant look of concern that was usually present on Kunikida’s face was tinged with urgency and it sent a bolt of anxiety through Atsushi’s stomach. He pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, “All of the doors here appear to be locked and there’s no telling where they’ll lead.”
“What about Demon Snow?” Atsushi said, climbing to his feet, “Surely she can…” He paused as he caught sight of Kyoka at the end of the hallway. Demon Snow floated by her side with her katana wedged between the door and the frame. The katana was being bent with such force that it was vibrating in her hand, but the door refused to budge.

“Oh.”

“‘Oh’ indeed.” Kunikida agreed, holding out two thin pieces of metal. “Lockpicks don’t work either - this one snapped in half the moment it entered the lock.”

“So the doors are resistant to our abilities?” 

Kunikida pointed down the hall, “Just observe.”

Demon Snow moved back from the door frame, raising the sword over her head, the whole length of it gleaming with ferocious energy. Then she brought it down, again and again. The blade was a blur of white. Each time the sword buried itself in the centre of the door. Her aim was firm and true, but when she finally pulled away, the door looked the same as all the others - completely untouched.

Kyoka looked over at Kunikida and Atsushi. Her expression was vacant. “What should we do?”

“What if we all try to open one together?” Atsushi suggested, “Maybe the doors are vulnerable to non-ability based attacks.”

There was a beat of silence.
“Well,” Kunikida sighed, “It’s as good a suggestion as any. Which should we open?”

“What about this one?” Atsushi put his hand on the door to his right. The number 313 was engraved on a gold plate fixed below the spyhole, glinting with fresh polish. He took the handle in his hand and twisted it.

To everyone's horror, the door yawned open.

Atsushi’s jaw dropped, “I-I thought you said-”

“I know what I said.” Kunikida snapped, “We checked every one of these doors before you were awake and they were all locked.”

Kyoka padded down the hall, her sandals slapping against the soft carpet. “What’s in there, Atsushi-kun?”

Atsushi peered inside, taking in the huge scale of the room. It looked like a bar, with red walls and wooden stools. Bottles of alcohol were lined up neatly in front of a mirror which made the space look twice as big as it is. Everything was immaculate - there wasn’t even a hint of dust on the shelves.

The three of them crossed the threshold, allowing the door to close and seal them in.

“Wow,” Atsushi said, marvelling at the rows of unopened bottles on the counter, “There must be every kind of alcohol here.”

“I don’t like this place,” Kyoka said, poking one of the cushions on an antique chair. “It smells funny - like an old person’s house.”

Kunikida picked up one of the bottles behind the counter - they all seemed very real. The liquid swished about inside, red and gold and amber and white, creating little bubbles as it moved. He put the bottle down and crossed his arms over his chest. If this hotel was an ability then it would be wise to remember that the normal rules of reality might not apply here.

Just then, the door they had entered from eased open. A man stepped in, his brown hair slightly wild and falling in loose tresses about his face. Thin silver-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose, behind which two grey eyes gleamed like murky pebbles. He was dressed for the cold - a thick winter jacket in a bold tone of orange was zipped all the way to his mouth and his boots were coated in snow. 

“Good morning~” The man smiled broadly, “Welcome to the Overlook Hotel.”

Atsushi and Kyoka looked at each other and then to Kunikida who was standing there stoically with his arms folded over his chest.

“Who are you?” Kunikida responded evenly.

“Ah, I’m glad you asked! I’m the caretaker of everything you see here.” He said, making a grand sweeping gesture to the room, “My name is Stephen King and it’s a pleasure to meet you all! You must be Kunikida, I’ve heard all about you.” His voice was mild and kind as he extended a gloved hand to Kunikida. 

The latter refused to move. “I believe you have a companion of ours trapped here - Dazai Osamu. We’ve come to retrieve him.” 

King’s carefree exterior faltered for a split second. “Dazai, Dazai…” He put a hand to his chin as he mulled the name over. “Doesn’t ring any bells, I’m afraid!” He smiles.

Kunikida tilted his head towards King.

“I could help you look, if it’s that important.” King relented with a frown, “After all, there are no unhappy residents at the Overlook.”

Atsushi raised an eyebrow, “Residents? You mean people live here?”
“Of course!” King snapped a little too harshly, “Why else do you think I would be the caretaker of this hotel? The guests need to be tended to,” He nodded, almost to himself. “Need to be looked after.” 

Kunikida cut in smoothly, “Of course, and we wouldn’t want to keep you any longer than necessary.” He said, “Now, are you sure you haven’t seen a man named Dazai? Wild, brown hair, covered in bandages… Annoying…” 

King’s coat whispered as he dropped his arms to his side. All the previous enthusiasm from a moment ago had drained out of his face. “Do you not believe me?” 

“What?”

“I said I don’t know.” King answered firmly. The tone in his voice was building to a threatening pitch. “Is that so hard to understand? Was I not clear enough? People like you… You come in, uninvited, you try to break my doors and then you accuse me of lying?” He crossed his arms, holding himself by the elbows, “No… No, I’m sorry, we’re getting off on the wrong foot. Don’t pay any attention to that- to me. Let’s just… start over.” He sucked in a breath and gathered himself, “I don’t know who you’re talking about, but I can help you. After all, the Overlook is big.” He turned his head over his shoulder, looking warily at the closed door behind him. His voice dropped to a whisper, “It’s huge - 400 rooms in total, and that’s just counting bedrooms. Even I don’t know how many people live within these walls, but they’re my guests,” He affirmed resolutely, “And I care deeply for all of them.”

Atsushi swallowed, wanting desperately to ask a question but not daring to disturb King’s flow.

King looked up at the ceiling. “Do you hear that?” He whispered urgently, “There goes another one.”

Atsushi, Kunikida and Kyoka all craned their necks to the ceiling.

“Can you hear it?” King said breathlessly, “Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-tat. It sounds just like that. Shhh! Listen, listen!” He implored.

The air in the room was deathly still, but no one could hear a thing from above. Atsushi strained his ears, calling on his ability to magnify every little sound, yet there was nothing, not even a whisper. He felt a chill run through his core - something was very wrong.

King’s face was pinched with concentration. “They come in through the roof, I’m sure of it.” He chuckled quietly, menacingly, “New guests, always new guests.”

“Uh, Mr. King?” Atsushi ventured softly.

“What is it?” King said, not daring to rip his eyes away from the ceiling even for a second.

“Well, do you think you could help us find our friend?”

“Your… friend.” King paused, humming in thought as if he had never heard the word before. “This Dazai fellow?” He asked.

“Exactly.” Nodded Atsushi.

“Um, yes, yes I think that’s something I could do.” He smiled again, finally tearing his eyes away from the roof. “You just have to do exactly as I say, Atsushi-kun.” 

Atsushi had to bite his tongue. 

How did he know his name? How did he know Kunikida’s name?  

He didn’t have time to ask and he certainly couldn’t allow Mr. King to stop mid-flow. He nodded curtly, “No problem.”

“Then follow me, it’s a little hard to get around here so you’ll have to stay close.” His eyes flickered to the ceiling again, then he turned around and opened the door that they had all come through.

Kunikida simply couldn’t help himself. “Isn’t that where we just came from?”

King looked over his shoulder, a flash of something dark and venomous passing across his features, “Not anymore.”

Sure enough, the door opened into a hall with a grand staircase and a high vaulted ceiling - very different to the narrow confines they had found themselves in not more than ten minutes ago. A collective gasp escaped the group. King trudged in, knocking the snow from his boots across the tiled floor. “We'll search upstairs first." He murmured, "New guests tend to lodge upstairs."

Atsushi nodded in affirmation, turning around to inspect the huge room, but as he did, his blood ran cold.

"Kyoka?" He called out, "Kyoka, where are you?"

There was no answer and no trace of her anywhere at all. His heart pounded against his ribcage. "Kyoka!"

No, she couldn't be gone. Where could she even run off to?

"Oh dear," King said as he carried on up the stairs, "Not to worry, we'll see her again."

Kunikida's expression tightened, "Where is Kyoka?"

"Probably in that room we just left." King answered smoothly, "That's what happens when you dawdle."

Atsushi's eyes hardened as he whipped around to open the door. But just as before, it was firmly locked in place, not yielding a millimetre in his grasp.

"We can't leave her!" He implored, "Please, Mr. King, can't you open the door?"

King stopped in his tracks, halfway between the floors. "Even if I could," He said without turning around, "She wouldn't be there anymore. The rooms have already shifted, but she's still here, somewhere." He patted the oak bannister as if it would appease the Outlook. "Isn't that right?" He said to no one in particular. His voice drifted into silence as he continued to drag himself up the stairs. "Come now, we have a lot of rooms to search."

Atsushi glanced at Kunikida, "Is it really okay to leave her?" He asked, chewing on his lip.

"She's a powerful ability-user and stronger than you give her credit for." Replied Kunikida, "All we can hope for is to find Dazai and put an end to this before it's too late."

"I hope he's here." 

"Me too. Now, come on." Kunikida squeezed his shoulder, "We can't waste anymore time here."

The two detectives jogged up the stairs, sticking closely behind King so that he couldn't disappear from their sight.

In his thick, downy coat, King smiled.

One down, two to go.

"Take your pick." King suddenly announced, gesturing to the hallway before them. 

There were at least twenty doors lining the corridor. The same garish orange carpet lined the floor, twisting in mesmerising patterns under their feet. It made Atsushi feel sick.

"Why don't you look in these rooms," Kunikida suggested, pointing to the right side of the hall, "And I'll do these on the left."

Atsushi gave him a determined nod and set about opening the first door - room 200. It slid open easily with no resistance.

Inside was a perfectly normal hotel room. The furniture was a little outdated and the stench of mould clung to everything in sight, but the room was empty. No Dazai here.

Just as he was about to close the door he heard Kunikida over his shoulder. He was yelling to someone inside whatever room he had opened and making an awful racket.

Atsushi turned around.

In front of Kunikida, at the far end of hotel room 201, stood a little girl with a grenade pressed to her chest. She was very small - maybe only five or six years old - and in floods of tears. With one finger, she was easing the pin out of the grenade, which was enough to send Kunikida racing into the room. By the time he had crossed the threshold, Atsushi realised too late that this was a trap.

"Kunikida!" He yelled.

But he had already committed to saving the little girl, his body leaned all the way forward for maximum momentum, his Ideals tightly clasped in one hand. There was a flash of light, a thunderous boom and then the door sealed shut behind him.

"Kunikida!"

Summoning his ability into his arms, Atsushi wrapped one hand around the door handle and planted the other on the frame. Then he pulled with every ounce of energy he had.

He pulled and pulled and wrenched the door from side to side, but it didn't budge, it didn't even register his touch.

Atsushi let go, heaving in a lungful of air.

A soft hand landed between his shoulder blades, "And then there was one." King smiled at Atsushi.

Atsushi drew himself away, his hands still transformed into white paws. His bottom lip wavered, "What do you mean?" 

"Well, look for yourself." King responded, gesturing to the door.

"But the door is locked."

"Is it?" King said, raising an eyebrow.

Once again, Atsushi braced himself against the doorframe, but when he went to touch the handle, the door slipped open by itself.

It was empty.

It looked just like the other room.

Stale, musty air filled his nostrils, telling him that the room had been empty for years. The furniture was totally undisturbed. There wasn't even a hint of a footprint on the carpet inside.

How could that be?

He wanted to step inside, desperate to find Kunikida and drag him out before he could disappear again, but he hesitated on the threshold.

King was stifling a laugh - shiny little tears of joy beading in the corners of his eyes. "Oh dear, oh dear." He repeated, palming the tears away. "That was a little too easy."

Atsushi lashed out, grabbing a handful of orange coat in his paw. "What did you do?"

" I didn't do anything." King said, trying to swallow his laughter. "It's the Overlook." He gasped between fits of giggles, gripping tightly onto Atsushi's hand. "Don't you see that? He's a guest now. He's part of the Overlook." 

Atsushi pulled King's face closer to his own, "Where are they?" He threatened, his purple eyes sharpening into points, "Bring them back!"

Under the handful of orange material, King's face suddenly went slack, completely devoid of any emotion. His arms dropped to his side. His dead, grey eyes bore holes into Atsushi's own. "I couldn't do that even if I wanted to." He whispered, "Don't you hear it? Don't you hear the hotel under your feet and beneath your fingertips whenever you touch it? Don't you feel it's power pulsing under the wood?" He winced, as if merely talking about the hotel caused him pain. His eyes flit around the hallway, from corner to corner, to every dark shadow and dusty space. He swallowed, "It can hear you. It can hear both of us right now."

Atsushi gave King a shake, returning his focus to the present. "I don't care about that. You need to help me find my friends."

King regarded him slowly with some vague interest but it was clear that the meaning in Atsushi's words went in one ear and out the other. Once again, his hands clasped Atsushi's wrists and buried themselves beneath his fur. Atsushi cringed from his grip but he didn’t let go. If he lost King now, there was no telling where he would end up.

"Tell me," King whispered, leaning in closer, "What are you most afraid of?"

"What?"

"What is your worst fear, Atsushi-kun? What keeps you awake at night? What thought sits in your stomach like a coiled viper, waiting for a moment of vulnerability to strike?" He prodded a finger into the centre of Atsushi's brow, "I can see it on your face; the fear. There's no use denying it."

Atsushi let out a growl of frustration and threw King to the floor. His back collided with the wall and he slipped down to the carpet like a ragdoll. He sat so motionless and defeated that Atsushi panicked and thought he'd killed him, but then he rolled his head up to the ceiling and blinked thoughtfully. His glasses twinkled in the light.

"It's okay to be scared." King murmured, "I'm scared all the time."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It has everything to do with everything." King smiled. He leaned over and pushed one of the doors open, "Just take a look inside."

"No."

"Atsushi," He intoned, "I'm trying to help you. Focus on what you want and the Overlook will hear you. The Overlook will take you there."

Atsushi pursed his lips. 

He didn't believe him and he certainly didn't trust him, but what other choice did he have? 

He stepped right up to the threshold and peered inside. Again, he was presented with the same image. A spotless room, vintage bedsheets and a single chair facing a desk.

Another fit of giggles escapes from King, "Do you see it?"

"See what?"

"What you're most afraid of."

Atsushi squinted into the space. He wondered absentmindedly if his deepest fear was bad decor and small spaces.

"No."

"Wait for it." King chuckled.

"Wait for-" Atsushi was cut off by a black entity spearing his chest. Warm red droplets of blood flew from the corners of his mouth, staining his shirt crimson. He gasped for breath, holding the familiar spear between his fingers.

It couldn't be. But somehow, undeniably, it was.

"Akutagawa." He managed to say.

Then he was dragged into the room as the door slammed shut behind him.

In the ensuing silence, King stared deeply into the palms of his hands. He could feel the Overlook settling beneath him, like a great monster descending into hibernation; it was comforting. He knew the beast was satiated, at least for now.

With one hand, he petted the carpet, stroking through the fine fibres carefully, "What do you think?" He said aloud to no one in particular, "Do you think they'll make it?"

He didn't expect an answer.

The Overlook never answered.

Chapter Text

Dazai raised an eyebrow, "You want me to join you?" He repeated slowly. 

The look on Dr. Harris' face was unflinching. On either side of his mask, dried blood stuck to the skin of his cheeks. He never even made so much as a token effort to clean it away.

Dazai was reminded of himself when he looked at Harris and he hated that.

He blew a loose strand of hair out of his face, "Unlikely." He said, "I've already found people that will tolerate me - that's more than enough."

"Really?" Harris cocked his head to the side, "Don't you think you deserve more than to simply be 'tolerated'."

"No." Dazai replied without hesitation. "Is that your question?"

"No." Harris replied in kind. 

"But you said-"

"Don't play silly games with me, Dazai. If you don't want to talk, then you shouldn't give your answers so freely." A sickly smile spread from one ear to the other, "Now tell me, why are you still sitting here?”

Dazai felt a wave of ice pass over him from head to toe, though you wouldn’t know it from the way he set his jaw and observed Harris with complete disinterest. It was something he was glad he learned during his time in the Port Mafia. Being able to disguise his feelings, no matter how much they ached within him, was a valuable skill.

“I didn’t realise I had a choice.” He spoke, keeping his tone even. His fingers flexed underneath the bindings. “If you’d be so kind as to release me and show me the door, I’d happily be on my way-”

“Please,” Harris waved away the suggestion, “We both know you’re not trapped here.”

Dazai felt his heart clench unpleasantly in the cavity of his chest.

“I think you like being caught;” Harris continued, “Whether it’s to test yourself or it’s a desperate plea for attention, I’m not so sure, but I know you get some sort of enjoyment from it.” He touched a finger to his mask, forcing another tendril of crimson to streak down his cheeks. “Is it the feeling of vulnerability? The feeling of being alone, maybe? After all, it must be rare to feel powerless with an ability like yours…”

Dazai barely stifled a yawn, “Are you done?” He muttered, “That’s not my question by the way, I'm just getting a little bored.”

Harris gave him an empathetic look; the same look a parent may don after seeing their child trip and fall. He shrugged, “Your dishonesty wounds me, Dazai.”
“Isn’t that what you expected of me?” 

Harris didn’t answer. “You may ask your question now.”

“Who do you work for?”

“I work for myself.” Harris said, a smug lilt of self-satisfaction in his voice. “However, if you must know, I regularly work with two other ability users. We share much of the same philosophy and so it was only natural to come together as a team.”

“Who-”

“Ah, ah, ah.” Harris reprimanded him, “It’s my turn.”

Dazai closed his mouth and sat back in his chair, “Fine, fine. Go ahead.”

“Thank you, Dazai. You know, it’s refreshing to be honest with someone, for once.” Harris leaned forward in his chair, “I hope you’ll return the favour with this next question.”

Dazai’s fingers twitched. Harris had a way of saying things that set Dazai on edge. It was comparable to being under Mori’s scrutiny; having to watch his every move and every word, lest he offer up a window into his soul. Dazai checked his posture; it felt casual and placid - very typically Dazai, he thought. 

A blank slate. A picture of cool rebellion. A fly in the ointment.

He clicked his tongue at Harris, “Just ask the question.”

"As you wish: why are you trying to kill yourself?"

"Does it matter?" Dazai blinked, trying to make the answer sound effortless and worthless as it rolled out of his mouth. It almost worked but there's a trace of rogue emotion lingering on his tongue. He couldn’t quite identify it, but he knew it was there, tinting his black words with colour. He talked quickly, hoping Harris didn't catch on. "It's something of an obsession, if you must know - always has been, always will be." He remarked blandly. "Take from that what you will."

Harris nodded, breathing in the information. His blue eyes traced the outline of Dazai's brow, following the line of his nose to the unyielding frown that was permanently set on his face. 

Dazai blinked again. He felt Harris' eyes crawling over his skin but he remained impervious. Shying away now would be a sign of weakness - a vulnerability that could be split open with ease.

"Thank you." Harris spoke softly, letting his gaze rest on Dazai. "It has always bothered me how someone so skilled could be so careless with their own life, but I think I am beginning to understand now. 

"Everyone you've ever met must think your attempts at suicide are evidence that you believe in your own myth - that you think you are indestructible. But that's far from the truth, isn't it?

"You've seen death up close. You've killed people and you've nearly been killed yourself. That's what it's like to be an executive in the Port Mafia, after all. You are under no illusion when it comes to your own mortality, in fact, you're hyper-aware of it. Wielding that power of yours is at once a gift and a curse. It makes you a god, but it also makes you mortal. You bleed just the same as all those men you killed.

"At some point, you became numb to the sense of death - the feeling of a life ebbing away between your fingertips. It bores you and you're frightened that makes you an unfeeling monster. Therefore, you overcompensate by exaggerating features of your personality: your suicidal tendencies, your boundless energy - it's all a smoke screen that the real Dazai hides behind. 

"And who is that real Dazai?" Harris announced finally. He pointed to each of his fingers in turn, "A monster? A man? A child under the thumb of the Mafia? You've spent so long meticulously burying him that I doubt you really know yourself." 

The air was sharp as Harris' statement hung over them. He steepled his hands in front of his mask as if deep in prayer, his eyes never once breaking from Dazai's face. 

The silence pressed painfully into the room, swallowing up every corner, leaving nowhere to hide.

Dazai didn’t move. It felt as though he had been stripped to his soul and, for once, he was unsure of how to play his response. 

Would sarcasm invite further analysis? Would brushing him off validate the Doctor’s conclusions? 

He tried to breathe, but oxygen didn’t come easily. 

“Come now~” Harris hummed, “It’s your turn.”

“Forgive me, but I don’t feel like playing.” Dazai couldn’t help the disgusted tone in his voice - it felt like Harris had gotten under his fingernails.

Dirty.

He felt dirty. 

“I still owe you an answer, Dazai. Please, I insist.” Harris kicked out his legs, crossing one over the other. “You can ask me anything you like. After all, it’s only fair. One hand washes the other and so on~”

Dazai did his best to conceal the look on his face. 

He knew that Harris wasn’t an ability user, but he couldn’t help feeling that he could peer inside him, totally uninhibited by Dazai’s false veneer. 

Had his choice of words been a mere coincidence? Or did it mean something more than that?

Harris uncrossed his legs and placed both feet flat on the floor, dragging his chair an inch or two closer behind him. “You’re still here, Dazai-san.” He whispered, “You must want to know something.”  

"I keep telling you, it's not by choice."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Well, then you'll have no problem with me testing your little theory." Harris got up from the chair and pulled out a small cylindrical object from his rear pocket. It was a red varnished handle with points on either side.

Dazai recognised it immediately: A switchblade.

White teeth glinted in the shadow of Harris' mask, "You wouldn't mind that, would you?"

Dazai ripped his eyes away from the knife. His breathing was steady, his pulse was slow.

Concentrate , he told himself.

"If you expect me to beg-" 

"I don't want you to beg. I just want the truth."

Dazai opened his palms, "I'm still here, aren't I?"

Harris squeezed the switchblade and the silver point slid out, glittering in the light. It was a stiletto blade with finely tapered edges. A fine choice of weapon.

Harris tipped the blade towards Dazai. "Yes." He answered, "Yes you are."

The movement was so sudden, Dazai barely had time to brace himself.

The blade slashed through the air.

Chapter Text

Kyoka tried the door handle once more. 

Nothing - but she expected as much. 

She let out a sigh and turned back to the bar. Could she be stuck in a worse room? There was nothing to do here: no books, no TVs, not even an interesting picture or two to look at on the walls.

A strange smell clouded the air - a mix of stale alcohol and citrus cleaning agents. Even so, she could still smell the musty scent beneath. Mould and mildew.

Gross .

She decided against summoning Demon Snow again; it was harder to think when she was around. Slipping behind the bar, Kyoka picked up one of the bottles on the fully stocked shelf. It was a small, round bottle with a black label pasted on the front. Shiny gold letters read: “Dreamcatcher Fine Whisky”. She held it up to the light, turning it slowly in her hand. The brown liquid inside shimmered back at her.

She’d never had alcohol before.

She looked over her shoulder. 

No one was there. 

No one would know if she did. She’d obviously only try a little bit, just to see what it was like, of course. Then she’d put it right back where it was supposed to be. If Atsushi or Kunikida walked in, well, she would just say she was looking at it. Testing if it was real or not, you know?

Yes , Kyoka reasoned, that makes sense .

She twisted off the lid and cautiously leaned in to smell it.

Immediately she recoiled. 

“Eww.” Kyoka exclaimed, forcing her nose into the crook of her elbow.
This is what adults drank? This is what made people dance and smile at bars? Did they have to make it smell so strong?

She breathed in the room again. Her nose and throat were on fire, but it soon passed. Once again, she looked over her shoulder and scanned the room. 

Not a soul to be seen.

Okay , she thought, just a sip . It’s probably not as bad as it smells .

She held her breath and put the bottle to her lips. Then she took a long pull.

That was a mistake.

She spat the whisky out over the floor, sticking her tongue out in disgust. It tasted like the inside of an ashtray - smoky and hot and suffocating. She twisted the lid back on and returned the bottle to the shelf. Maybe it was for the best that drinking was left to the adults - she certainly didn't see the appeal.

Hopefully there was some water around here. 

She poked around under the bar. There were a couple of fridges, some wires and pipes running close to the ground and a large box of crisps.

Maybe this wouldn't be as bad as she thought.

She pried open one of the fridges. Both of them were dark - probably powered off at the mains - but there were a few bottles at the very back. The first one she pulled out was a beer, but behind it was a bottle of orange juice. She smiled, grateful to wash out the taste.

She finished off the bottle quickly, placing it down on the counter. 

As the minutes passed, Kyoka started to feel a little anxiety in her chest. She didn't mind being left alone; there was no threat here and, although this bar wasn't her favourite place, it was a peaceful reprieve all the same. However, they were technically on a case right now and she should probably be doing something other than sitting around, bored to death.

She called on Demon Snow who appeared beside her at the bar. The ghostly apparition hovered over a bar stool regarding her with empty eyes.

"Demon Snow," Kyoka commanded, "Find a way out of this room."

The ghoul didn't move. It was completely motionless, as if it hadn't heard her at all. 

Kyoka set her jaw, "Demon Snow," She repeated.

Demon Snow reached across her body for the katana sheathed at her side. Her eyes were fixed on Kyoka.

Kyoka swallowed. 

Is she going to-

She didn't get to finish the thought. Instead, she dropped to her knees, ducking behind the counter as Demon Snow slashed into the air. She rolled out to the corner of the bar and slid into cover.

"Demon Snow!" 

The white katana lodged in the wooden shelves to Kyoka's left, smashing through one of the fridges. Glass and plastic explodes across the floor.

Kyoka seized the opportunity to jump out from cover. She grabbed a hefty bottle from the shelf and hurled it at Demon Snow. It found its mark, hitting the ghoul square in the face. Demon Snow lurched back and let the blade slip from her fingers. The opening is only a few seconds wide, but for those few seconds, Demon Snow is completely disarmed.

Kyoka pounced, drawing her dagger from the belt of her kimono.

She slashed horizontally across the ghoul's chest.

But the air in front of her was suddenly empty.

Demon Snow was gone.

Kyoka made a sound of surprise and pulled her knife close to her chest. She was breathing fast and her heartbeat was pounding in her ears, but she couldn't afford to lose focus now. 

Very slowly, she crept up to the edge of the counter and peered out over the room. 

Demon Snow was hovering on the far side of the room, a thin red line blooming between her shoulders. With one hand, she examined the material of her kimono and pulled it closer to her face.

Kyoka furrowed her brow. "Why are you acting like this?" She muttered to herself.

Demon Snow looked up, her empty eyes taking in Kyoka with a blank expression. It was as if she didn't even recognise her anymore.

Behind Demon Snow, a figure shuffled closer. In a soft, familiar voice it said, "Ah, Demon Snow, it's been so long. I'm glad to see you again."

A grey hand hooked under the ghoul's arm and gently pulled it away from the bloody wound.

Kyoka's eyes opened wide.

There's no way. There's absolutely no way. It's not possible.

Yet there she was.

Kyoka's mother touched Demon Snow's forehead, "You haven't changed a bit." She said. 

Her mother’s skin was a sickly hue - the colour of a clouded sky - with dark veins running under paper-thin skin. Her gentle eyes had yellowed and her long hair was thin and frayed, but it was her. It was undeniable.

Kyoka cupped her hand to her mouth.

She was even wearing her funeral dress - long and black with a lace trim along the hem.

When their eyes met, it was as if Kyoka's whole world had been shaken to its core. She couldn't breathe.

"That's- that's not possible!" She cried aloud, "Who are you?"

"Kyoka!" Her mother smiled, "What a surprise to see you here."

Kyoka put a finger to her lips, chewing thoughtfully on her knuckle. It took all of her willpower to stay exactly where she was because, as desperately as she wanted this to be real, she knew that that thing over there cannot possibly be her mother. 

But then…  

"Demon Snow!" Kyoka shouted to the ghoul.

Demon Snow looked up blankly, her sword still hanging at her side.   

Kyoka's mother shook her head, "Kyoka, my dear, don't you believe me?"

"How can I? Demon Snow killed you! You're dead!"

"But now I've been given a second chance." She said, her tone rising to a dangerous pitch. Her black eyes narrowed into fine points, "You killed me Kyoka and, I swear, you won't be able to get away with it again!"

Kyoka's mouth dropped open, tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

"Demon Snow!" Ordered her mother, "Kill my daughter!"

Demon Snow rushed to the bar and launched herself into the air. Her katana was raised over her shoulder and as she dropped through the air, she swung forward, levelling the blade at Kyoka's head.

Kyoka moved her body to the side. Both hands found the edge of the counter and she threw her legs over the top. The katana smashed into the rows of alcohol behind her, sending splinters of glass flying everywhere.

"Why are you doing this?" She screamed at her mother.

Demon Snow spun in place, her katana poised behind her head, both elbows raised for maximum speed and strength. Kyoka tucked her head into her chest and rolled forward. She barely escaped in time as Demon Snow sliced into the ground. The carpet split in half and the floorboards underneath threw up shards of wood.

Kyoka gritted her teeth and turned to Demon Snow. She raised her dagger, "Stop this!" She implored, her hand shaking with adrenaline, "It's not my fault. I didn't kill you!"

Demon Snow ripped her sword from the floorboards and readied it once more. The blood bleeding through her ethereal kimono was a deep crimson so dark that it's almost black.

Kyoka set her jaw and fell into a natural battle stance. Her fingers tightened around the dagger. "You were infected by blood." She said to her mother, her eyes fixed on Demon Snow. "You killed yourself - it had nothing to do with me."

"We both know that's not true." Her mother replied. There was a rattle in her voice as if it hadn't been used for years. Her eyes fell expectantly on Demon Snow. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

Demon Snow needed no further instruction. She slashed forward, bursting into the space with electric energy. Kyoka leaned back but the katana is a split second too fast. It caught her right arm, splitting through fabric and sending a spray of blood into the air. Kyoka let out a cry and jumped back.

Her free hand clamped tightly over the wound. 

"Demon Snow, listen to me!" She screamed. 

The ghoul didn't hear her; it was too busy examining the blood on the end of its sword.

Kyoka pushed her back to the wall. She was shaking all over, her legs and arms vibrating with an intoxicating mixture of fear and adrenaline.

"Hey," She heard in her ear. The sound was so faint under the thunder of her heartbeat she wondered if she had actually heard anything at all.

"Hey, Kyoka." It said again.

Kyoka looked down. There was a small ventilation grate on the floor and it’s metal grate bent inwards like a mouth, forming each word with certainty. "Can you hear me?"

Kyoka pulled her hand away from her arm; it was slick with blood. Had she been poisoned? Was the alcohol tainted?

"Kyoka!" The vent snapped.

"Yes, I hear you! What are you?"

Demon Snow swung her blade up and down, spraying droplets of fresh blood onto the carpet. Her face turned to Kyoka. Nothing was written there but the desire to carry out her orders.

"Just listen to me," Said the vent, "You have to kill your mother."

"What?"

"Just trust me! You don't have a lot of time."

Kyoka crouched low as Demon Snow sliced above her head. The katana circled back around and arched towards her. She caught the blade against her dagger, forcing it to halt in mid air.

"Forget Demon Snow!" The vent howled, "She won't stop until your mother is dead."

"But I can't!" Kyoka was shoved back by the ghoul, skidding across the hardwood floor. The force was so strong that she didn't stop until her foot hit the opposite wall. 

"She's dead!" The vent called from behind Demon Snow. "That isn't really her and I know you know that!"

Kyoka's mother made a gesture to Demon Snow. In an instant, Demon Snow stabbed her katana into the vent, easily piercing the metal. The vent split in half with a crack and a scream and the air became deathly still.

Kyoka gasped.

"My goodness," Her mother lamented, "I didn't think that vent would ever stop talking." Then he smiled, holding her chin in her hand, "Now that we're alone, let's finish this."

"First," Kyoka shouted across the room, "You have to tell me something."

Demon Snow pulled forward but her mother hooked her under the arm.

"Hold on, I want to hear this." Her yellowed eyes flashed, "What is it?"

"What was the last thing you said to me before you died?"

Kyoka's mother blinked in surprise, but the expression quickly shifted to indifference. She shrugged, "I said, 'I'll never forgive you.'"

Kyoka's heart clenched painfully.

That's not true! She would never say such a thing!

"Now, if you're done wasting time-"

Kyoka ran towards Demon Snow, easily evading a well-timed blade to the neck and sliding to the floor. She caught herself just in time and came to a full stop. She looked up and threw her dagger into her mother's shoulder. Her mother lurched backwards, unleashing an unholy wail. Her hands grasped blindly at the weapon. She wrenched it out - causing blood to spray thick and black into the air - and threw it to the ground. The metal clattered against wood.

Her mother's face twisted in pain, "You little-" 

Kyoka didn't allow her time to finish. She grabbed her mother by the knees and forced her to the ground. Together, they crashed to the floor.

"You're not my mother!" She screamed. 

Both of their hands reached for the dagger but Kyoka's mother was faster. She gripped the handle, slashing in a wide arch above her, but Kyoka caught her by the wrist.

"I don't know who you are." She snarled, squeezing her wrist tight until her mother relented. “But you’re not her. She would never say something like that!”

Her mother smiled below her, blood staining her teeth. “How dare you.” Her free hand grabbed a fistful of Kyoka’s kimono and pulled her close, “Why don’t I show you what it was like.”

A black shadow fell across Kyoka’s shoulders.

It was Demon Snow. Her katana high above her head, perfectly positioned for the killing blow. 

Kyoka’s eyes were wide and glossy, “Mother…” 

“Die.”

The blade screamed down to the ground. 

Seconds slow to a crawl. 

A tear slides down Kyoka’s cheek.

I’m not ready to die!

Kyoka let go of her mother and rolled forward, her hand still tangled in her kimono. Her mother tried to hold on but the blade came too quickly, slicing through her chest and head with enough power to split her in half. A final fountain of black blood erupted from the impact, smearing Demon Snow with gore. She didn’t even scream.

Her life was extinguished in an instant.

The ghoul hesitated over the body.

Kyoka tried to breathe slowly but oxygen only came to her in gasping, choking bouts. Tears rolled freely down her face as she pulled her mother’s hand from her kimono. She swiped them away and turned back to Demon Snow.

“Demon Snow!” She ordered, trying to strike the fear from her voice, “Disappear!”

The ghoul regarded her slowly, then nodded, fading into nothingness.

Kyoka was breathing hard, desperate to fill her lungs. 

It’s over, she thought, it’s over now.

She tried not to look at the corpse lying prone on the hardwood. Instead, she clamped down on the wound on her arm and sheathed her dagger.

“Are… Are you still there?” She panted between breaths. Her eyes searched the vent where bits of metal lie in pieces on the carpet. It didn’t look like a mouth anymore - it looked like a hole in the floor.

“Hello?”

“Kyoka,” The vent murmured with effort, “Come closer.”  

Kyoka cautiously advanced, feeling the tight pulse of anxiety in her heart. She padded over one step at a time. There was no movement from the vent, nothing to warrant the warning feeling in her chest, but she couldn’t help it. Nothing seemed right in this hotel.

“What do you want?” She asked the vent.

“The same thing as you.” It spoke faintly, “Help me destroy this hotel.”

Chapter Text

Dazai tore his right hand free from his binds, catching Harris’ blade in his palm. His hand shuddered against Harris. Blood dripped out between his fingers, hot and wet against his skin.

“Ah, there you are.” Harris spoke, still bearing down on the blade, “I wondered when you would show yourself.”

"You left me little choice." Dazai hissed through gritted teeth. His other wrist was still bound to the chair, but he was almost free. 

If I could have stalled just a moment longer… 

Harris pushed down, inching the blade towards Dazai's shoulder. The blade burned against his palm, slicing into the webbing of his thumb.

"Don't you think you've proved your point?" Dazai grunted.

"Maybe." Harris tilted his head, relinquishing some of the pressure.

The blade slid out of Dazai's palm.

"But this isn't about proving a point."

Dazai was just a second too slow, catching Harris at the wrist as the switchblade stabbed into his shoulder. He let out a cry of pain as the metal drove through skin and muscle. 

“This is about reinforcement.” Harris twisted the blade in place, forcing another strangled cry from Dazai’s lungs. “I need your full attention.”

Dazai finally ripped his other hand free, gripping onto Harris’ wrist with every last ounce of his strength. His forehead was slick with sweat as the pain erupted across his chest, but he still couldn’t remove the blade from his shoulder. 

“Well, that’s one way to get it.” He managed to joke, leaving hot, bloody handprints on Harris’ sleeve. He gasped for air. With one foot, he pushed himself back, but Harris followed him effortlessly, deepening the puncture wound with every movement. He stifled another groan. Everything burned with pain, but he needed to pull his faculties together to stand a chance.

Dazai set his jaw and kicked out, finding the soft pad of Harris’ knee under his heel. The Doctor held steady but Dazai used the leverage to topple the chair, sending them both skidding across the linoleum floor. Dazai’s hands slid across the surface, struggling to gain traction. There was blood everywhere. He felt the dull thump of the wound oozing against his bandaged torso but there was no time to consider the damage. He pulled himself agonisingly to his feet, wavering in the light as he looked over at Doctor Harris. 

“Well?” Dazai panted, clutching his hand to his shoulder, “I’m listening.”

The Doctor considered him briefly before returning his gaze to the switchblade. He pulled a small cloth from his pocket, wiping away the blood with slow, meticulous strokes. “Now that we have the lies out of the way, I believe I still owe you an answer.”

“I thought I told you,” Dazai huffed, “I don’t want to play your games.”

“Fine, then feel free to leave.” With the knife, Harris pointed to a solid steel door to his right. “It’s open. You can leave whenever you like.”

Dazai’s eyes narrowed into fine points. 

He had played mental chess with Dostoyevsky before, but nothing had ever felt this taxing. Where Dostoyevsky forced him to think five or six steps ahead, Harris played in the present moment - constantly adapting and analysing. He was directed by instinct alone and that felt inherently more dangerous. 

Dazai clutched his shoulder tighter and considered the door.

“But,” Said Harris, “Once you leave, you can’t return.”

Dazai let out a chuckle, “And why would I want to come back?”

“There are many different reasons.” Harris sheathed the switchblade and placed it back in his pocket. “Let’s consider your current situation. You are a hostage in an unknown location with a criminal. Members of the Armed Detective Agency have already been alerted to your position and are on their way as we speak. You’re safe for now-”

Dazai scoffed.

“You can laugh, but I consider that we are evenly matched. Even when unarmed and injured you pose a significant threat. That being said, if you choose to leave, I won’t stop you.” Harris put his hand to his chin, “I estimate the members of ADA will arrive in about an hour - plenty of time for us to finish our discussion, if you so desire. You can ask your questions and I can ask mine. Or, if you’d prefer, you can leave. So what will you do?”

Dazai raised an eyebrow, his voice flat and threatening, “And what if I decide to kill you?” 

“You would lose,” Harris answered, “But I won’t stop you from trying.”

Dazai stood to his full height. Blood pooled under his hand, cutting jagged pathways across his tan coat. He was not completely out of the game, but he knew a shoulder injury to the dominant side of his body would significantly hinder him - something Harris probably concluded hours ago.

Dazai squeezed his hand into a fist, sending fresh red rivulets across his palm.

Harris wasn’t an opponent to underestimate. He had pushed the dagger into Dazai with just one hand, the other poised behind his back. He had also known Dazai was cutting himself free from the very beginning. There had been no room to surprise Harris. He seemed to see right through Dazai and he was stronger than he looked. 

Damn it.

Dazai let out a breath. “How do I know the Armed Detective Agency are here?”

“I know your detective skills are sharp, Dazai.” He returned with a smile, “Don’t expect me to do all the work for you. I haven’t told you a lie since I entered this room and you know that as well as I do. A lie would send shivers up your spine.” Harris leaned forward, “You would feel it in your blood .”

“Touché.” Dazai remarked. 

“So what will it be?”

Dazai blinked. It felt as if all his thoughts and plans had drained directly out of his head, leaving only a white space behind. If he didn’t want to fight, he didn’t have to. If he wanted to leave, he could. It was simply a matter of what he wanted to do.

His injuries pulsed with fresh pain, urging him towards the door, but Dazai resisted, fixing his feet in place. He didn't know if it was because of their similarities or because of the way Harris had read him like a book, but either way, he needed to know more. All he had to do was think of a question - one which would draw out as much information as possible. An answer he could use for future reference. A question that would put them on a level playing field.

"Alright, I have a question." Dazai announced, pointing a finger at Harris, "But you have to answer in as much detail as possible. Not like before with all your word-play and dancing around the question." He demanded, "I want a real answer - a detailed answer."

Harris performed a slight bow, "So long as I know the answer, you shall receive what you've asked for, Dazai-san."

"Okay then, tell me this:" Dazai said, smiling thinly, "Who are you, Dr. Harris? I want to know everything ."

Chapter Text

Kunikida braced himself for the explosion. The little girl had been too fast to pull the pin - he hadn’t even had time to react. He couldn’t be blamed for that, but he would blame himself all the same. 

As he crossed his arms over his face he felt the heat of the grenade dissipating. He breathed hard through the smoke; a small fire smouldered where she was standing, but the little girl was gone. All that remained were her brown brogue shoes, smothered with ash. 

Kunikida held his hand to his mouth. A rising tide of bile sat at the back of his throat but he forced it down. She was gone - there was nothing he could do about that.

Kunikida turned around. The door was closed behind him. He put his palm on the handle and twisted it - locked.

"Obviously." He breathed, "What a fool…"

Mentally he cursed Dazai for getting kidnapped. In all likelihood, it had been done on purpose, and when he got hold of that waste of bandages he was finally going to shake some sense into him. 

He often wondered if Dazai did it just to get under his skin. He was Kunikida's mirror image. The chaos to his order. The impulse to his plans. The suicidal maniac to his…

Well, he didn't have one for that.

Dazai was purposely provocative, but that was true for almost everyone he met. He knew how to push people's buttons. 

How he would fare in a kidnap situation was almost a forgone conclusion.

Kunikida let his hand slip from the handle.

There had to be another way out, he just had to think this through and come up with a plan. 

Thankfully, he didn't have to worry too much about Kyoka or Atsushi; despite their age, they were excellent fighters and perfectly capable of fending for themselves. He was sure that they would do just fine in a combat situation. However…

He cast his eyes to the pile of ash on the ground. 

If the purpose of the hotel was to ensnare them, hadn't it already succeeded? After all, King had talked about there being residents in the hotel. Were they trapped here too?

No, he couldn't afford to think like that. 

The Overlook was an ability and, like any other ability, it was inevitably tied to a human being, with all their vulnerabilities and doubts and dreams. No ability was perfect - there was always room for error.

He pulled out his pen and tapped it against his bottom lip. Then he set to work. 

The pen strokes were precise; mapping out the known locations, the shared features of rooms, and all the potential exits within his book of Ideals. The sketches weren’t perfect, but they would do for now. Then he started to hone in on Stephen King - at once both a nervous, paranoid caretaker and an unfeeling shell of a man. Now that he came to think of it, Kunikida thought he had been genuinely anxious in the bar. Hadn’t he said that even he didn’t know how many people were living in the Overlook? He tapped his pen on the page and then circled a single word:

Fear.

King was scared, constantly. Kunikida could practically see the fear vibrating off of his figure when King heard that sound. That rat-a-tat-tat from upstairs. Real or not, the thought that a new guest had gotten inside without him knowing had set him on edge.

A new guest, hm? Kunikida pondered.

He raised his head slowly, hearing the sound of something moving around behind him. 

“Kunikida, it’s been a long time.”

Kunikida peered over his shoulder. His book snapped shut in his fingers.

Rokuzou… it couldn’t be.

Rokuzou had been an excellent hacker with endless potential. Since his father’s death at the hands of the Azure King, Kunikida had felt personally responsible for him - providing him food and a safe place to lay his head for as long as necessary. He had given his life for Kunikida and, for that, Kunikida had never forgiven himself.

“Rokuzou…” Kunikida muttered in disbelief, “You’re alive?”

Rokuzou touched a hand to his chest, “Oh, is that what this is?” He replied with a smile.

He was dressed in a smart black blazer and slacks, with a crisp white shirt and black tie. The clothes were unusual for Rokuzou - in fact, Kunikida could only remember seeing him in a suit once… 

Oh.

“You can’t be alive.” Kunikida shook his head as he came to his senses, “I went to your funeral - I know you’re dead.”

“Well, you changed your tune quickly~” Rokuzou deflated a little, thrusting his hands into his pockets. The skin of his face looked sallow, his eyes pitted and devoid of light.

Kunikida wasn’t sure how to respond. Despite his logical conclusions, the man before him certainly looked and sounded like Rokuzou. He even stood the same way and smiled with the same genuine brightness.

“I know what you must be thinking,” Rokuzou said, breaking Kunikida from his thoughts, “But it’s me. It really is me.” He looked around the room and then dropped his voice to a whisper, “Look, I’ll level with you, okay?”

“Is something wrong?”

“Keep your voice down,” Rokuzou hissed, waving Kunikida over, “They’re listening.”

Kunikida narrowed his eyes at Rokuzou. He quickly scanned the room himself; nothing appeared to be amiss but, in a place like this, how could he be sure?

He obliged and took a step forward.

“Good. Listen, I’m not sure what happened, but I woke up here yesterday.” Rokuzou’s voice was thin and urgent as he leaned in, “There was a man with a mask and a lady in a long dress. They talked to me for hours, trying to get information from me about you and the others.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Nothing!” Rokuzou clamped his hand over his mouth. Slowly, he looked around, barely daring to breathe. The room remained silent.

“What-”
“Shhh!” Rokuzou closed the distance between them, his index finger pressed to his lips.

Kunikida pulled back a little, trying to keep his heart rate steady. He remembered the word circled in his Ideals; if this was about creating fear, he had to keep his head on straight.

Breathe.

He locked eyes with Rokuzou and raised a questioning eyebrow, “What happened then?” Keeping his voice low, he clarified, “If you didn’t say anything?”

“Well, it’s not like I didn’t say anything .”
Kunikida felt his breath hitch. 

During his lifetime, Rokuzou had access to some of the ADA’s most confidential material. His intel alone could put every single member at significant risk.

Kunikida’s eyes glowed white hot, “What did you say?”

“Relax.” Rokuzou intoned, “I just made some stuff up - made them think I was on their side.” He pressed a palm into Kunikida’s shoulder, “Would have thought you had more faith in me than that.”

“I’m sorry-”
“It doesn’t matter.” Shaking his head, Rokuzou met Kunikida’s gaze, “They told me that if I was able to kill you, I could have my life back.” He waited for the other shoe to drop but when Kunikida didn’t react, he allowed himself to smile, “You knew already?”

“I’d come to a similar conclusion.” Kunikida shrugged, “Go on.”

“Well, I thought if I just agreed and went along with it, that would mean I could see you one last time. So, I dropped in some fake intel about the agency and about you and here I am.” His smile widened.

“So you don’t want to kill me?”
“Why would I want that?” Rokuzou’s smile faltered, “I already saved your life once. It’d be foolish to try and kill you, wouldn’t it?”

Kunikida regarded him with cool detachment. It was difficult to bury the memory of Rokuzou when he was staring him in the face, but he had no other choice. Rokuzou, the real one, was dead. He had no sympathy for this ghoul.

Rokuzou’s eyes darted back and forth between Kunikida’s own, “So,” He finally said, “That’s how it’s going to be.”

In one explosive movement, Rokuzou pulled a gun from under his blazer and aimed at Kunikida’s head. The latter was faster, darting to the side before the bullet left the chamber. A bang rung out and the door swallowed the bullet whole. Within seconds, Kunikida crossed the room and turned over the desk by the bed, launching a vase and a mirror to the ground. They shattered into bits and skittered over the floor. Kunikida crouched close behind the desk.

“You’re quick, Kunikida-kun!” Rokuzou cried. He squeezed the trigger and sent four rounds into the desk. None of them pierce all the way through, but the wood at either side of Kunikida’s head splintered into chips. “Quicker than you used to be! You’re at a massive disadvantage.” He pulled up his shirt revealing a single bullet hole scar and the trademark Y incision left behind by an autopsy. The ridges of the incision were high and black with old blood. “I’m already dead!” He laughed manically.

Kunikida tried to block out Rokuzou as he opened his book of Ideals. He conjured a pistol from a torn page and clutched it tight to his chest.

For a moment, he didn’t move. He could hear Rokuzou padding around impatiently behind him but he didn’t dare step any closer. He knew what Kunikida was capable of when his enemies were within arm’s reach. That’s why he had lied. That’s why he had tried to draw him in and catch him off guard.

It was the only way he could hope to win .

Kunikida turned his head to the side, “If you’re at an advantage, what are you doing over there?”

Rokuzou squeezed the trigger and another round exploded into the desk. This time the wood split, allowing a small circle of light to shine through. Rokuzou chuckled, “You sound awfully confident back there.”

“That’s because I know you.” Kunikida ripped another page from his Ideals, “Doppo Poet: Flashbang!”

Rokuzou jumped back as the grey cylinder plants itself between his legs. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

The flashbang detonated, lighting up the room in white.

Kunikida climbed to his knees and aimed over the top of the desk. But, as he did, Rokuzou levelled his pistol and fired blindly into his corner of the room. Five shots rung out. Two in the wall. Two in the floor. One in Kunikida’s shoulder.

Kunikida cried out in pain and dropped to the floor, pushing his back into the desk. He pulled at his shirt in disbelief. It was only a small hole but the blood came quickly, pulsing out across his chest with every beat of his heart. He clenched the material tightly in his palm.

He could hear Rokuzou laughing as the smoke thinned, “You think I don’t remember all your old tricks, hm?” Rokuzou taunted, “Come on, show me something new!”

Kunikida’s expression hardened, “Alright, what about this: based on my count, you only have one bullet left. The gun you’re holding is a Glock 17 which holds a maximum of twelve rounds.” Kunikida stifled a groan as he shifted position, “You shot one of them into the door, five of them into the desk and five more just now. If you fail to kill me with this next shot, I will close the distance between us before you are able to reload.” He paused, listening for Rokuzou. There was nothing but silence on the other side of the desk. He tensed his finger against the trigger.

“Tell me something,” Rokuzou muttered, “Will you enjoy killing me again?”

“What?”

Rokuzou threw his gun to the floor, throwing up his arms in surrender. “Did you not hear me or did you not understand the question?” 

Kunikida locked eyes with Rokuzou over the desk.

“Or is it neither?” Rokuzou asked again, “Are you in denial?”

“I didn’t kill you.” Kunikida countered, “You saved my life.”

“By giving my own. And now you’re about to make me do it again just to save your own skin, aren’t you, Kunikida-kun?”

Kunikida winced, clutching his shoulder tighter. He aimed his gun at Rokuzou. “I can’t do anything to change the past.”

“Then what are you going to do now?”

“I’m going to put you back where you belong.” Kunikida said, steadying himself.

Breathe in. 

Breathe out.

Rokuzou’s eyes went wide.

“I’m sorry.”

Bang.

*

Chapter Text

Harris drank in the stale air, thinking carefully about how he could answer such an open-ended question. He and Dazai both knew that he could be curt and provide the most surface-level answer possible. 

But where was the challenge in that?

Harris spread his arms wide, "Where should I begin?"

“A detailed list of your darkest secrets would be wonderful~” Dazai smiled, his hand still pressed against his shoulder. “Oh, and your greatest weakness.”
“My kryptonite?”

“Exactly,” Dazai nodded, “You must have a kind of kryptonite.”

“Maybe. We’re all vulnerable to something,” Harris agreed, “I’m only human, after all.” He took another deep breath. The smell of the room filled his senses - musty air, tinged with the smell of blood and sterile dressings. It smelled familiar and warm. It smelled like home. And then-

“Wait, wait, wait!” Dazai waved his good arm at Harris, slashing back and forth urgently.

“What?”

“Can I sit down, first?” He said, “It feels like this is going to take a while.”

“Of course.”

Harris turned around and walked the short distance to his chair on the other side of the room. Behind him he heard Dazai call out, “You’re not going to stab me again, are you?”

“It depends.” Harris grabbed the seat of his own chair and lowered himself into it. “You’re not going to lie to me again, are you?”

Dazai sat down simultaneously. The distance between them seemed smaller somehow - Dazai supposed that was because he now knew just how quickly Harris could cross it. The duct tape on either side of his chair was split open and hung loose beside him. There was a mixture of dry and wet blood all over the floor and the soles of his shoes. He crossed his legs, “‘Lie’ is such an ugly word…”

“An apt word, nonetheless.”

Dazai rolled his eyes, “Just answer the question.”
“Gladly." Harris smiled and put his hands to the sides of his face. "But first, it's about time you see me as I am."

Slowly, he threaded his fingers under the leather straps pressed to his head and unhooked two buckles in turn with a click. The leather fell away from his skin, but he held the mask in place a moment longer - reluctant to let go.

"It's been a while." He whispered.

Then he pulled the mask from his face.

The skin beneath was pale and deeply scarred a hundred times over. There were old, fresh and healing wounds around his temples where the straps had bitten into his flesh the hardest and blood, lots of blood. Pink pressure marks around his eyes and nose were beginning to fade, revealing a face that may have been considered handsome many years ago.

Dazai wasn't surprised by what he saw but he felt a twinge in his chest all the same. The comparisons he could have made between himself and Harris were becoming a little too much. He could feel the boundaries beginning to blur; his own colours bleeding into Harris.

It was hard to see such suffering reflected back at him.

Harris placed the mask on his knee with a small smile, "Isn't it strange? I don't quite feel myself without it - it’s like I have broken myself apart."

Dazai pursed his lips.

"I was made to wear this for the first time a few years ago; after my arrest.” Harris looked up, meeting Dazai’s eyes, “I would wear it whenever I went out and they would restrain me like an animal. But when you spend twenty-four hours alone every day, it’s nice to stretch your legs,” He donned a wry smile, “Even if it’s only metaphorically.

“On the rare occasions when the FBI would require my assistance, I would accept. In return, they would offer me a mental escape - they would offer me a part of themselves. It was during one of these cases that I met Clarice Starling. She was young and fresh out of the academy. Naïve? Maybe,” He shrugged, “But that is to be expected when one doesn’t warn you of the danger you are facing.

“She was small, pretty - doe-eyed and bare-faced which made her look much younger than her years. I remember how she set her jaw when she first saw me. Determined and persistent. Never straying from the objective. For the first time, I felt seen . Like her eyes had cut through me and set upon my soul. And I saw her . 

“It’s nice to be seen.” He remarked, touching the edges of the mask. “But in exchange, it leaves you vulnerable. When you invite someone in, it inevitably makes it harder to contain yourself. You start to draw in the essence of other people. You become… someone else. 

“When I was a psychiatrist, I witnessed the same thing in a lot of my patients. They would sit in my office; a fragile teacup filled with life’s problems and worries. It didn’t take a lot of force to break them. Just a little push. 

“When they shattered, our sessions would become focused on rebuilding them. But oftentimes, pieces were missing. Great holes remained in their psyches and, from them, their souls continued to pour out until they were spent. Empty again and shattered further.

“They would hold onto every remnant of themselves like a drowning man throws his hands out at debris. Desperate and ready to break again, they would finally throw their hands out to me - their one constant.

“And so it would begin. Session after session, they were slowly infused with elements of my character. A little more cold, a little more detached. Their pieces intermingled with parts of myself - the original tapestry torn beyond recognition.

"But none of my patients had ever truly seen me. They recreated me, they mimicked me, they carved a part of me into their being, but they never even came close. Not like Clarice. 

“We selfishly used each other for our own gains; her desire to catch a killer and mine to be free.” Harris smiled softly. Even in the harsh light of the room, he managed to give off a very human air that was different to anything Dazai had seen before. The aura practically banished the black tide at Harris’ back, leaving only a scarred man in its wake.

The essence of Clarice. 

“In the end, we both got what we desired,” Harris nodded, “And left an indelible mark on each other in the process…”

Dazai sucked in a breath. Out of all the things he had expected Harris to recount, he hadn't predicted a love story. Was it a love story? It certainly felt like Clarice had found a heart in Harris when no one else could. Was that the weakness he was hoping to find? 

Was it worth it?

Dazai frowned, “You found yourself in someone else…”

“You could say that.” Harris agreed, “You could say many things about the relationship I shared with Clarice. We were soulmates; the kind of people that are inextricably drawn together despite any number of boundaries that one or the other has to overcome. At once it was divine and it was taboo. Art and sin. A thing simply not meant to be.” He turned his blue eyes to Dazai, “I was fortunate to find my mirror image - to be seen for who I am, but what about you, Dazai?” He pondered openly, “Has anyone truly seen you?”

Dazai swallowed the lump in his throat. As much as he wanted to deny it, something deeply buried within him was forcing its way out. He could feel the heat of his many secrets burning against his brain, aching to be spoken, to be free. His regrets, his demons, the many lives he had ended. He can see the blood on his hands. So much blood. He could never be clean. 

Dazai gritted his teeth, but the black tide had already crept into his heart and devoured him whole.

The Dazai that he had so carefully cultivated over the years was being swept away in a single breath.

I need to be seen. 

A smile split Harris’ face, “Don’t worry, Dazai. I see you.”

Chapter Text

Kunikida adjusted his glasses and sighed. Did he dare try the door again? He almost couldn’t bring himself to cross the room. It would mean stepping over the ever increasing pool of blood next to Rokuzou and Rokuzou himself, of course.

From his book of Ideals, Kunikida summoned a roll of bandages and pressed it to the wound in his shoulder. There was no exit wound and the bleeding had slowed significantly - hopefully that was sufficient. He wasn’t about to sit there and try to dig the bullet out. 

From the other side of the room he heard a small bang, like metal knocking against metal. He looked over the desk but there didn't appear to be any movement.

Rokuzou was looking back at him; a bullet between his unblinking eyes. 

Kunikida frowned, “Is someone there?”

Another bang sounded. 

He wasn’t sure where it was coming from, but it sounded closer this time. Adjusting his position sent a fresh wave of pain rolling out across his ribs. “Who is that?” He asked, trying to keep his voice level.

There was another bang. Then another. Then a vent cover flew off the wall and smashed into the floor.

Kunikida reached for his gun, but before he could, a familiar face emerged from the vent.

“Kunikida! Am I glad I found you. Do you know how many rooms I had to try before this one?”

“Ranpo?” Kunikida exclaimed, his jaw hanging open.

The detective grinned back at him. There was a small slash on his cheek but it did nothing to abate his infectious energy. “Well, you didn’t think I’d leave you guys behind did you?” He pushed his hat up with one finger, “Now, get over here before everything moves around again.”

Kunikida didn’t need to be told twice. With some effort, he drew himself to his feet and carefully traversed the blood-stained carpet. He caught Rokuzou’s eyes one last time. That cold, dead stare. The black blood on white skin.

“Kunikida,” Ranpo sighed, “I know it can’t have been easy-”

“It’s fine.” Kunikida intoned, “He died a long time ago.”

Ranpo moved over to allow Kunikida into the vent; it was big enough to crouch in, but a long way from comfortable. Both ends seemed to stretch into a shadowy infinity.

Kunikida looked over at Ranpo, “Have you been in the vents this whole time?”

“No!” Ranpo crossed his arms, as if offended by the suggestion. “I’ve been working.”
“Alright then, what have you been working on?”

“Well, when you guys all fell through the porch, I hung around outside,”

Kunikida raised an eyebrow.

“Trying to figure out the best way in, obviously!” Ranpo snapped, his voice bouncing off the metal walls. “I thought I’d go around the back since the front was off limits and I found a ladder to the roof. The skylights opened easily enough and I made my way inside.”

Kunikida tilted his head to the side, “So that’s who King could hear…” 

“I thought I was being pretty quiet, but I wound up trapped in a room like you.”
“How did you get out?”

“Easy!” Ranpo smiled, his green eyes gleaming. “The concept of the room is very similar to Poe-kun’s books; you are trapped inside until you overcome the fearful scenario within. In my case, I am deathly afraid of losing my deductive ability…” Ranpo hesitated for a second or two before glancing at Kunikida, “And snakes.”

“Snakes?”

“Yes.” Ranpo nodded, refusing to elaborate further, “Anyway, when I found myself in a room full of snakes without my ability, I came to the conclusion that the rooms must produce a kind of hallucinatory effect based on a person’s deepest fears.” Ranpo put a finger to his lips, “It was quite simple really~”

Kunikida looked out at the room where Rokuzou’s body still lies. “So Rokuzou was a hallucination?”

Ranpo cracked his eyes open a fraction. “Not exactly.” 

Kunikida’s eyes returned a wide, unbelieving glare, “You mean-”

“Yes and no.” Ranpo cut in, “Yes, that was Rokuzou but, it wasn’t really Rokuzou. Just-” He waved the thought away with both hands, “Just trust me, okay?”

“But-”

“Kunikida,” Ranpo reached over and placed a hand on his shoulder. His green eyes flashed with perfect seriousness, demanding Kunikida’s full attention. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You kept your head steady and you focused on keeping yourself alive. There’s nothing to feel guilty about, okay? Atsushi and Kyoka need us right now and they need you to keep your mind on task.”

Kunikida’s mouth formed a thin line. 

Atsushi and Kyoka… I have to stay strong for them, if not for myself.

He nodded.

“Good.” Ranpo smiled, “Now follow me. It’s about time for a group reunion.”

As Ranpo finished, the room before them started to shudder, flashing in and out of focus in the square space where the vent cover used to be.

“What’s happening?” Kunikida asked.

“The rooms are about to move.” Ranpo pointed to the edges of the square hole. “Do you see this distortion?” 

Beneath Ranpo’s finger, Kunikida could just about make out a difference in the light inside and outside the vent. A thin dividing line of only a few millimetres marked the space, vibrating with energy. 

“I see it.”

“Anything beyond this line moves with the room.” Ranpo pulled out a pen from his pocket, “Observe.”

Raising the pen up to the square of light, Ranpo held it steady between his fingers. The room was flashing faster now, shifting side to side and bending away as if caught in a black hole. The image stuttered suddenly and then it was gone. A new room, almost identical to the last, filled the space.

The desk was upright. The vase and the mirror were unbroken. Rokuzou was gone.    

Ranpo pulled the pen back into the vent; the top half had been cleanly severed from the bottom. He tucked it back into his pocket. “For some reason, the ventilation shafts act as a skeleton, allowing the rooms to swap places in a set space. So, as long as we stay in the vents we can avoid the shift.” 

“That’s brilliant.”

“I know. Now, come on, we really should get going.”

In the network of endless turns and dead ends, Kunikida followed closely behind Ranpo. Despite the questions and the doubts ringing in his head, he kept his mouth firmly closed. He didn’t need to know the answers right now. The whereabouts of Atsushi and Kyoka was infinitely more pressing.

Suddenly, Ranpo stopped and Kunikida nearly fell over him.  

“Ranpo-”

“Shh!” Ranpo turned round, his finger pressed to his lips. With his other hand, he indicated the vent grate to his right. Neither of them can see through it but they can hear the people inside without issue.

The reason? Because they were shouting at the top of their lungs. 

“Why don’t you finish this like a man, Man-Tiger?” Shouted one of the occupants, “Just admit that you are outmatched and I will make your death quick in return.”

Then came the sound of glass shattering and wood crunching.

"Let me out of this room, Akutagawa!" Roared Atsushi, high and loud and infused with adrenaline. "I don't want to fight you."

Ranpo and Kunikida exchanged a look.

"Guess we know what Atsushi's greatest fear is…" Ranpo shrugged.

Kunikida leaned back, his foot poised to kick out the vent cover. "Let's put an end to this-"

"Woah!" Ranpo cried, grabbing his foot, "Not so fast! Do you have any idea how hallucinations work?"

"What do you mean?"

"Consider this:" Ranpo said, "Akutagawa is a hallucination, but Atsushi is real and in an extreme state of stress. If we enter the room now, we are more than likely going to be injured by Atsushi's attempts to kill Akutagawa." 

"But-"

"Moreover," Ranpo cut in, "Akutagawa may be a hallucination, but he still poses a threat to Atsushi."

With one hand, Ranpo rolled up his left shirt sleeve to the elbow. Pressed into his skin were two dark brown circles, about the size and shape of a couple of marbles.

"I got this from one of the snakes I was trapped with." Ranpo intoned, "It was a type of banded krait; their venom is highly toxic and can induce paralysis. While still in a state of shock, I felt the venom take effect exactly as I expected it to." He said slowly, "The snake wrapped around my arm and the venom burned in my blood, turning my skin from pink to red to black. It made me feel as though I was going to die. The point is," Ranpo frowned, rolling his sleeve back down, "I believed in the power of that snake and that belief could have killed me."

Kunikida shook off his hand and returned his foot to the floor, "So, what do you suggest we do?"

Ranpo turned to the vent, thin lines of light falling across his face. "You still have your book, don't you?"

Atsushi jumped to the side, narrowly avoiding another black blade to the chest. His shirt was already soaked in blood, but the pain had eased considerably; the wounds were already closing. "How did you even get here?"

Akutagawa made a wide sweeping gesture with his hand and the black tendrils of his coat. “It doesn’t matter; I came to kill you.” He pushed the back of his hand to his mouth and stifled a cough, “Your feeble attempts to escape won’t gain you any sympathy here.”

Atsushi gritted his teeth, “I don’t have time for this!”

“Then you’d better kill me,” Akutagawa snapped, “Before I kill you.”

The carpet under Atsushi’s feet became a sea of spikes as he pushed off from the ground. The black bolts flew in every direction, smashing into the ceiling and walls with enough force to shake the room. Atsushi avoided two, one surging towards his throat and the other grazing the skin of his ankle. He used his ability to catch himself on his forepaws and spring back into the air, the agility of the move catching Akutagawa off guard momentarily.

“Damn you, parasite.” Akutagawa snarls.

Atsushi saw the next attack before Akutagawa had even thought of it. Hundreds of black tendrils twisted out of the ceiling, reaching out to grab him, but Atsushi crouched low and jumped forwards, his powerful tiger legs launching him into Akutagawa. He hit the red boundary between the two of them full force, his claws sinking into solid air. 

He couldn’t help feeling that he had fought this same fight before.

“What do you want from me?” Atsushi implored.

“Don’t ask stupid questions.” Akutagawa stepped forward, his whole essence surging into Rashomon until Atsushi was blown backwards across the room. His back collided with the wall, splitting the plaster and knocking a painting off the wall. Akutagawa thrust his hands into his pockets, “I want you to die, Man-Tiger.” 

“All for Dazai-san’s approval?”

“Don’t pretend like you know me.” 

Rashomon charged forwards, its red, monstrous mouth gaping wide open. 

Atsushi jumped to the side, narrowly avoiding its teeth. Another demonic head split off from the barb and he had to jump to clear it. It whipped to the side, snapping open an air vent and sending the cover careening into the air. Atsushi dived for cover, but had to stop mid-step.

“Ranpo?”

“Now, Kunikida!” Ranpo yelled, throwing a slip of paper into the air.

“Doppo Poet: Smoke Bomb!”

The piece of paper morphed into a silver canister that bounced twice over the hardwood floor before rolling to a stop at Akutagawa’s feet.

Atsushi and Akutagawa locked eyes.

Then there was a bang and the room filled with an impenetrable grey fog. Atsushi squinted into the grey, but he couldn't see a thing. If he called out now, Akutagawa could spear him by sound alone. He had to find Ranpo and Kunikida.

Atsushi reached out a hand to the wall closest to him, but it was further away than he remembered and he toppled over before he could catch himself.

“Got you.” Akutagawa snarled.

All of a sudden, Atsushi felt a sharp pain in his chest. He looked down to see the head of Rashomon chomping into his midsection. 

Hot blood filled his throat. He tried to cough and clear his lungs but there was just more blood. Blood everywhere.

Then he felt a sharp pressure on his arm. 

“Atsushi!” Ranpo yelled at him from within the grey. He could faintly see his face in the vignette of his vision, blending and blurring into the shadows. 

“Ranpo.”

All of a sudden, a hand flew out of the smoke and slapped him in the face.

“Pay attention!” Ranpo commanded, his voice a thousand times more serious than Atsushi ever remembers; he was instantly enraptured. “Are you listening? You’re not going to die.” Ranpo grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him forward, but Rashomon was so deeply lodged in his ribcage that it was impossible to move. Ranpo gritted his teeth, “This isn’t real. None of this is real.”

Atsushi blinked. Isn’t real? Did he really just hear that? It was hard to tell with his heartbeat thumping in his ears. He could feel the blood between his teeth, dripping down his chin. 

He felt warm.

A hopeless expression on Ranpo’s face surfaced for an instant - so brief, Atsushi wasn’t even sure it was there in the first place. Then he wrapped his arms under Atsushi’s shoulders and heaved him backwards. Rashomon moved with them, chewing hungrily on Atsushi’s flesh.

“I’m sorry,” Atsushi whispered, his whole body limp in Ranpo’s arms, “Did I do badly?”

“Kunikida!”

“Over here!” Kunikida’s voice echoed somewhere far away, “Hurry! I think the room is starting to shift.”

Atsushi coughed, sending little red droplets over Ranpo’s cape. He frowned, “I think I messed up.”

“You have to stop talking like that and listen to me.” Ranpo spoke into his ear, “You’re scared and you’re injured, but I need you to focus on something else.”

“What...?”

“It can be anything at all.” Ranpo pulled him a step further, “You’re not in any danger, so I just need you to be as relaxed as possible.”

“But… Akutagawa…”

“Atsushi, do you trust me?” Ranpo asked.

“Yes-”

“Then shut up and do what I tell you to do. We won’t make it to the vent with Rashomon slowing us down and, if we get split up, there’s no telling how long it will take us to find each other again. When I tell you that is not Akutagawa, do you believe me?”

There was a brief, noticeable pause, “Y-”

“Don’t lie to me.” Ranpo reprimanded, inching him towards the vent. “I need you to believe me. None of this is real - it’s all in your head. Do you believe me?”

“Yes.” Atsushi managed to say, his vision clouding. He tried to block out the pain in his chest. 

It’s not real. It’s not real.

They took a step back together.

“Do you believe me?”

“Yes!”

Another step.

“Good, good! Just listen to my voice, that’s all I want you to focus on. I want you to only listen to me.”

Step.

“You’re going to be okay, just keep going. A little further.”
Step.

“In here. Quickly.”

Ranpo pushed Atsushi into Kunikida’s arms and together they all squashed into the vent. The pain in Atsushi’s chest suddenly eased and, when he finally glanced down, Rashomon was gone, but the hole remained. He clutched the wound with both hands, his vision still black around the edges. “What just happened?”

“You were hallucinating.” Kunikida answered, “The rooms in this hotel appear to be aware of what you’re most afraid of and bring those fears to life in the form of a physical hallucination.”

“Exactly right.” Ranpo smiled, touching his hat. The front of his shirt was splattered with Atsushi’s blood but it looked as though Rashomon had never even touched him. Ranpo’s eyes cracked open accusingly, “We would have saved a lot of time and effort if you had just believed me in the first place though. You should have unwavering faith in me at all times.”

 “But-”

“Unwavering!” Ranpo repeated.

“Fine, fine.” Atsushi palmed away the blood on his chin and looked at Kunikida, “It’s good to see you’re both okay, but where’s Kyoka?”

“I haven’t seen her since-”

“That’s alright, don’t worry.” Ranpo interrupted, his eyes gleaming, “I sent her on a very important mission.”

Kyoka had been crouching around in the vents for a long while now. Her back was starting to feel stiff but she couldn’t afford to slow down. She had to find Dazai. There was another vent cover up ahead. Maybe this would be the one.

Carefully, she peered between the slatted metal. There was a lot more light inside than she was used to seeing. The walls were white and the floor was linoleum - a sharp departure from the red and wood decor in the rest of the hotel rooms.

Her fingers pressed against the vent as she craned her neck for a better view.

There were two people inside, both sitting down and talking quietly.

“It’s almost time.” One of them said, his blue jumpsuit crisp against the white background, “They’ll be here soon.”

Kyoka put a hand to her mouth, barely stifling a gasp. 

Dazai turned towards the vent, his hollow eyes boring into Kyoka’s own; though there was no way he could see her, she felt his eyes lock onto her like a predator spotting its prey. He looked completely different. There was no warmth in his gaze, no energy in the way he moved. It was like someone had surgically removed his soul, leaving only an empty shell behind.

His tan coat was red with blood and his skin seemed even paler in contrast.  

He smiled and she felt her heart jump into her mouth.

“They’re already here.” He said.

Chapter Text

"You sent her to find Dazai alone ?" Kunikida's eyes were wide, his voice deathly serious, "Are you crazy?"

"She's perfectly equipped to do so. In fact, she was the best person to look for Dazai-san out of all of us." Ranpo said over his shoulder, "She's quick, she's small and she can defend herself. When she finds Dazai, she'll send Demon Snow to lead us back to her. I thought it was a good plan. Don't you think so too, Atsushi?"

Atsushi swallowed. He was crawling through the vent ahead of Ranpo and could feel his green eyes boring into the back of his skull. "Uhh…"

"Don't drag Atsushi into this." Kunikida snapped, "What happens if she gets trapped in another room?"

"Then she'll just crawl back into the vents-"

"What if there aren't any vents?"

Ranpo sighed, "Then we'll find her. She knows about the hallucinations. She'll be fine."

The three of them fell into an awkward silence. Atsushi set the pace at the front, his chest wound healing slowly as he dragged himself forward. Behind him, Ranpo was directing the group away from any unnecessary turns that would have them going back on themselves while Kunikida kept track of their position in his book of Ideals. He made a quick note and frowned, "Well, I hope we hear from her soon. This hotel is enormous."

"How many rooms did King say there were?" Atsushi asked.

"400." Kunikida replied, checking his notes, "Though he said that only included bedrooms."

"So the bar we saw…"

" And any other communal spaces, hallways or stairways," Ranpo chimed in.

"Won't be included in that 400, correct." Kunikida agreed. "Regardless, I believe the hotel is bigger than it appeared to be from outside."

"Do you think there are more than two floors?"

"From what we've seen so far, no."

"But," Ranpo added, "It’s quite possible."

"That's not helpful-"

"Just another good reason to split up when we did." Ranpo shrugged.

Kunikida sighed, "At least we're covering more ground this way."

"And if the room moves like the others, we're more likely to bump into Dazai this way too." Ranpo squeezed Atsushi's shoulder, "Take a left here. We'll head back down to the ground floor through that shaft over there."

Atsushi nodded and slipped into the left vent. The pathway to the vent system downstairs snaked back and forth, forcing them to crouch through one at a time. Atsushi went first, his chest aching as he squeezed through and dropped into the ground floor. He leaned back and shouted to Ranpo, "All clear."

"Got it!"

Atsushi slid forwards to make room for Ranpo but as he did he knocked into something with his foot. It made a metallic sound in the near pitch blackness. He leaned over and groped for the object. It was small and cylindrical and, as he focused his ability and sharpened his eyesight, he noticed the sleek point shining back at him.

Kyoka's knife.

“What’s that?” Ranpo said, dropping in behind Atsushi.

“It’s Kyoka’s.”

“Are you sure? Let me see.” Ranpo reached for the knife and Atsushi passed it over. He studied it carefully for a moment, examining it from all angles in the low light. "Where did you find this?"

"Just over there. Do you think-"

"No." Ranpo said, regarding him coldly, " Don't think like that."

Kunikida dropped into the vent behind Ranpo. "You could have warned me about the narrow turns back there." He said, rubbing a bump on the back of his head. There was a beat of pervasive silence. He narrowed his eyes, "What's wrong?"

Atsushi looked over at Ranpo and Ranpo held up the knife, "Kyoka dropped this."

Kunikida grabbed him by the wrist, "What do you mean 'dropped'? She always carries her knife with her."

Ranpo shook off his hand, "Exactly, Kunikida. That's exactly right." He snapped, "Now, both of you, please stop panicking and keep your voices down ."

"What are you talking about?"

"Yeah, what's going on?"

"It's very simple." Ranpo whispered. With the knife, he pointed behind Atsushi. "We'll find her down there; she sent this as a warning."

"What?"

"Ugh, do I have to explain everything?" Ranpo rolled his head backwards, dragging a palm over his face. After a moment, he looked between the two detectives and released a breath. "Okay, okay. Look, Kyoka never leaves her knife, hm? It wouldn't make sense for her to unsheathe it and drop it in a struggle - at least, not within the confines of this vent. That leaves us with one option: Kyoka left this behind on purpose."

"But why-"

"Think about it, Atsushi!" Ranpo demanded in a hushed tone, "Kyoka never leaves her knife behind; she's essentially defenceless without it. Except-"

"Except for Demon Snow."

"Correct. However, if she knew Demon Snow wouldn't be able to signal us, she might drop her knife to warn us instead." Ranpo continued at full tilt, almost hysterical, "And why would she be without Demon Snow?"

Atsushi hesitated, his mind racing wordlessly through all the possibilities. He couldn’t grasp a single one, until-

"Dazai-san." He muttered.

"That's right." Ranpo nodded, "We can't afford to waste anymore time. We have to go before-" He cut himself off prematurely as the colour drained from his face. He looked as if he had seen a ghost.

Atsushi reached out to him, "Ranpo? Are you alright?"

Ranpo swallowed. He opened his mouth, barely able to raise his voice above a whisper. "Told you so."

Atsushi followed Ranpo's eyeline over his shoulder.

His jaw dropped.

It was Dazai.

He was peering into the vent at a jaunty angle with a wide smile on his lips. Even this far away, it was obvious to everyone that it wasn’t a genuine smile; his eyes were far too piercing.

"It's about time you guys got here!" Dazai called down to them, "I almost thought you weren't coming."

"Dazai?" Kunikida responded in disbelief, "Are you alright?"

"Eh," He shrugged, "I've been in worse places."

Kunikida moved forward but Ranpo planted a hand on his chest. The detective's face yielded an unreadable expression.

"Dazai," Ranpo stated, "Have you seen Kyoka?"

"Of course," He smiled again, his dark eyes flashing dangerously. He reminded Ranpo of the banded krait that had bitten him. Coiled and waiting to pounce. "But you already know that, don't you?"

Everyone held their breath but Ranpo gave nothing away. He set his jaw.

Dazai let out a little chuckle, "Come on, let's not have this discussion here." He groaned, "My neck is getting sore."

Atsushi and Kunikida exchanged a look.

Atsushi opened his mouth to speak but Ranpo clapped him on the shoulder, "That sounds like a great idea, Dazai-san." He intoned. His eyes glimmered in the shadows like cutting emeralds. "Then you can tell us what you've been up to."

"Oh," He hummed, "It'd be my pleasure."

Atsushi, Ranpo and Kunikida all climbed out of the vent. Their hands and clothes were coated in a mixture of fine dust, blood and gore; even the front of Ranpo's shirt has been stained red by Atsushi. Dazai raised an eyebrow, "Well, it looks like you three have certainly had an interesting time."

"I could say the same for you." Ranpo pointed at Dazai's coat. The dried blood was concentrated around a puncture wound on the right side, cutting ragged, gory rivers into the tan cotton.

Dazai looked down cartoonishly, as if he had forgotten all about it. "Hm, I guess you're right."

"Dazai," Kunikida murmured, "What happened to you?"

In the glaring white light, Dazai grinned. The hollows of his eyes seemed deeper and ringed with purple. There were streaks of blood on his cheeks. Blood in his hair.

Atsushi felt a pang of guilt. 

"First things first," Dazai held up a finger, his palm slick with blood. "Let's go and meet up with Kyoka." He closed his eyes and waved at the group of three, "Before you ask: yes, she's fine, she's just sleeping."

"Sleeping?"

"Unconscious, yes." Dazai tapped his head, "She didn't feel a thing."

"Dazai!" Atsushi cried.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Kunikida stepped forward, his shoulders shuddering with anger. "You knocked out Kyoka? Have you lost your mind?"

"She's fine , what's the big deal?" Dazai replied, "Dr. Harris just wants to talk to her-"

Kunikida suddenly lashed out, grabbing Dazai by the collar. "Where is she? I swear, if this is another of your foolish games-"

"Take your hands off me, Kunikida." Dazai wrapped his hands around Kunikida's wrists. His eyes were so dark, they were almost black - a pit from which not even light could escape.

Kunikida blinked, gritting his teeth, "Make me."

"You don't want that."

"Dazai!" A voice from the far side of the room reprimanded. A silver door squealed open and Dr. Harris entered, his mask once again pressed tightly to his face. "Ah, I see you're all here. You may leave now," He said blandly, "We already have everything we need."

Kunikida looked over Dazai's shoulder, his hand still firmly grasping a handful of white cotton. He didn’t let go.

"You can even take your little friend with you." Harris added, nodding at the door, "She's just through there. She'll need about an hour to come around, but she's perfectly alright."

Kunikida's glasses flashed in the light, "Then what did you come for?"

"Why, Dazai of course." Harris smiled, "Sorry to waste your time. The rest of you have proved unnecessary; Dazai's ability frankly outshines you all."

"Thank you, Dr. Harris."

Kunikida's mouth hung open, "You can't be serious." 

Dazai smiled, "Test me."

The silence that followed hung heavy in the air.

Atsushi had seen them at each other's throats before, but never like this. At this rate, they were going to kill each other. 

He looked over at Ranpo who seemed to have been waiting patiently for an opportunity to present itself.

"Tell me," Ranpo called to Harris, "If you only wanted Dazai, then why did you invite the rest of us here?"

For the first time, an expression of genuine surprise surfaced on Harris' face. His eyes scan over Ranpo for a hint of deception but, even as a connoisseur of falsehoods, he didn't detect the slightest trace. He exhaled through his nose. "An invitation, hm?"

"Yeah."

"That's right." Atsushi concurred, feeling a burst of courage blossom in his chest, "We got a letter with the hotel's name on it earlier today."

Another beat of silence.

"Damn him." Harris hissed, "Shelley!"

A woman appeared instantly at the door, her pallid complexion reminiscent of the skin of a corpse. She smiled sardonically, "Yes? What is it? I'm very busy."

"Find that bastard Stephen King." Harris growled, "He's crossed me for the last time!"

"Oh for goodness sakes, the two of you are just as bad as each other. I'm not about to run around on an errand for you." Shelley huffed, "Besides, I invited them."

"You?" Harris' blue eyes glinted dangerously; a cutting knife. 

Shelley pushed the door wide open. Her black hair was tightly wound into a bun on top of her head, with ringlets framing her amber eyes and the faint pink of her lips. The skirt of her dress tumbled all the way to her toes in ruffles of emerald and black. 

"Don't be sore at me, Harris." She said, twisting the wedding ring hanging around her neck, "It doesn't suit you. We could always use more recruits."

Harris tightened up, his whole body seemingly stiffening at the mere suggestion. He cocked his head, "Is that right? Tired of making them yourself, are you?"

"You say that as if there's no skill required in raising the dead!"

"I dare say there isn't."

"Excuse me!" Ranpo shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. Shelley and Harris both snapped to attention. "Can we go now?"

Kunikida looked over at Harris; his hands were still wrapped in Dazai's shirt. "Yes, I think we'll take our chances with Dazai. He'll snap out of it eventually."

"Kunikida-kun~" Dazai hummed playfully, "You're treading a thin line~"

"Didn't anyone tell you, it's rude to interrupt, Ranpo?" Harris said, letting out a low chuckle, "You can try to take him with you, but, if we can't stop you, the Overlook certainly will."

The door to the room suddenly slammed shut behind Stephen King. The zip of his orange coat was pulled up all the way under his nose and his hands were shaking violently as if he was frozen to the bone. He thrust them into his pockets. 

"Four!" He exclaimed suddenly, "Four. I knew there had to be four of them. It was you, wasn't it?" He said pointing an unsteady finger at Ranpo, "You were upstairs disturbing the other guests."

"Now, now, Mr. King." Harris said softly, "I need you to concentrate. Do you remember what I said you needed to do if any guests came to disturb me?"

King grimaced, forcing his fists against his temples, "Ah! We can't have any more guests, Harris! There’s not enough room! This is too much!"

"Will you get a hold of yourself?" 

King snapped bolt upright as if he had been struck by lightning. "Get out!" He seethed, "Get out! Get out! Get out!"

“Would you shut up!”

Suddenly, the whole room tipped towards the door; the action is so violent it’s nearly ripped from its hinges. Everyone but Dazai and King started to slide towards the far wall, desperately trying to grab onto something. Atsushi's claws did nothing to slow his fall, slipping easily over the linoleum floor. He managed to grab Ranpo's hand as he fell past.

"What do we do?" He said.

Ranpo shook his head. He looked back at the open door where Harris and Shelley were being funnelled into the darkness. The walls were closing, narrowing, bending before their eyes.

Harris grabbed Shelley by the arm, "I told you not to push him. Do you see what you've created?"

She smiled at him, "I didn’t push him. I pushed you ."

Atsushi looked up. Kunikida was still grappling with Dazai, though he was starting to lose his footing as the angle of the room increased.

Dazai squeezed Kunikida's wrists so hard that he let out a cry of pain. "Let go, Kunikida."

"But, Dazai-"

"Enough. Let go, Kunikida. I belong here." Dazai said. In the endless depths of his eyes, a flash of light, like a pebble at the bottom of a well, glimmered back at him. It disappeared just as suddenly, but Kunikida could be sure he had seen it. Dazai's lips were a hard line, "I'm sorry."

In one swift movement, he twisted Kunikida's arm the wrong way. There was a deafening crack followed by a scream of pain.

"Kunikida!" Atsushi yelled. He had managed to catch hold of the door frame below but could feel the metal heating up under his fingers. It was as if the steel was becoming molten.

Kunikida let go. The room was almost completely vertical as he fell through the air. With his good hand, he desperately searched for something to grab onto. 

Atsushi held on to the doorframe a moment longer, feeling the skin of his paw starting to protest and burn. 

Then he had to let go. 

He reached out, grabbing Kunikida's palm as they slipped into the darkness below.

Chapter Text

"Ugh, my head."

"Get your hand off me!"

"That's my hand!"

"Hey!"

"Who is that?"

"What do you mean 'who is that'? It's obviously me."

"Ranpo?"

"Harris?"

There was a pause. 

In the darkness, it was difficult to make out any defining features in the mass of tangled limbs. Atsushi still had hold of Kunikida's hand but he had lost Ranpo's. A body was laying over his legs - a dead weight.

An exasperated sigh came from his left, "Well, we can't all sit around in the dark like this." It said. It sounded like Harris, his voice crisp and gravelly against the silence. "I propose a momentary ceasefire, at least until we can see each other."

Shelly immediately protested, "Harris!"

"Yes, Shelley?" Harris said, his tone overwhelmingly condescending, "Might I remind you that one of them has excellent night vision and that this situation is a direct result of your carelessness."

Shelley opened her mouth.

"A ceasefire… would be acceptable." Kunikida groaned. He pulled his palm from Atsushi's grip and blindly put pen to paper. His broken arm was slung loosely across his lap. Pain radiated out in tight, swelling circles but Kunikida ignored it as much as he was able. The leaf of paper tore easily from his book. "Doppo Poet… Lantern"

In the steady glow of the lantern's orange light, four faces were illuminated. Harris, Shelley, Kunikida and Atsushi.

"Where's the other one?" Harris murmured through his mask, "It's Ranpo, isn't it? The little one with the glasses."

Shelley sighed, untangling herself from Harris, "Oh, would you take that silly thing off? No one can hear a word you're saying." She looked at each of the men in turn, a disappointed look pressing on her brow. "The little detective is gone? He was my favourite."

Atsushi felt the weight of the limp body pressing down on his legs. He tried to draw his legs back but the body was deceptively heavy for its size.

"Is that…?" Shelley whispered.

“No, I don’t think so.” Kunikida responded. He gestured with the lantern, throwing arcs of light across their faces. “Look at the clothes. Look at the hair.”

Atsushi peered in closer. He was right; this wasn’t Ranpo. Whoever it was, they were lying face down, their long, black hair pathetically awry.

Atsushi looked at Kunikida and the same thought seemed to hit them simultaneously.

“Kyoka?”

Atsushi nudged the body and it responded with an irritated groan.

Shelley rolled her eyes, “Oh, it’s you .”

The body turned over, revealing a pretty, angular face with sweeping blue eyes. She was wearing a red dress with a matching red silk shawl. She smiled, wide and white and punctuated with razor-sharp canines, “Shelley! I missed you!” Two pale porcelain arms caught Shelley around the throat. “How long has it been?”

“Not long enough, Sheridan.”

“Oh, don’t be like that.” She purred, “I know you missed me too.”

Shelley grimaced. With both hands, she prized herself free from the woman’s grip. “Ugh, have some self-respect - your behaviour is embarrassing. Did you really have to lie on top of us like that?"

“Shelley, Shelley, let's not fight. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” Sheridan said. Her eyes hovered a moment too long on Kunikida underneath her thick black bangs, “Who’s Mr. tall, blonde and handsome over there?”

Kunikida blinked.

Sheridan giggled and Shelley elbowed her in the side.

Harris pinched the space between his eyebrows, “Have you forgotten the plan entirely?”

“Plan?” Sheridan drawled, studying her red, pointed fingernails, “You didn’t include me, did you? I hate plans.”

“I didn’t foresee us ever requiring your help.” Harris bit back.

“But now… what? Oh, let me guess,” Sheridan looked up, an eternally bored expression etched on her face. “King threw you out after you upset him and now you’re trapped with me. Oh , and it was you, wasn’t it?” Sheridan remarked, pointing at Shelley with a smile. “You devious cow.”

“It was an accident.”

Sheridan snorted.

Kunikida sighed and pulled the lantern to his chest. His face was awash with orange light, “Do you know how to get out of here, Sheridan?”

“Oh my~” She hummed. In the dark, her big, blue eyes flashed like brilliant diamonds, “I love a man who knows what he wants.”

Atsushi looked over at Kunikida. He was completely composed - a feather on a still pond. 

All of Dazai’s teasing must have really paid off. He thought.

Kunikida’s glasses slipped forward on his nose. His expression was soft, his voice gentle and soothing. “Would you help us find a way out?” He said.

Sheridan let out a girlish squeal. Flattening her palm against her forehead, she slipped dramatically into Shelley’s lap. “Ooh~”

“Sheridan!”

“What?” She snapped at Harris, “He asked nicely. That’s more than you’ve ever done.” 

“That’s because I don’t respect you. You’re pathetic.”

Sheridan’s lip twitched and her hand curled into a fist. “Say it again and I’ll cut out your throat.”

Harris observed her with half-lidded eyes - even so, he appears to respect the threat. “How uncouth…”

"Whatever." Sheridan climbed to her feet, turning back to offer a hand to Kunikida. "Here, let me help you."

Kunikida set the lantern on the floor, offering up his good arm for Sheridan to grab. Atsushi, Shelley and Harris rose alongside him.

Seeing an opportunity, Harris snatched up the lantern from under Atsushi's fingers. "Ah, ah, I think I'll hold on to this. You can always conjure up a new one."

"You won't need it anyway." Sheridan whispered to Kunikida. For a second, she stopped and smelt the air. It smelt slightly musty - the way a large, damp cellar might smell - layered beneath the copper-y tang of blood following Atsushi around. Only, it wasn't just Atsushi she could smell. Sheridan smiled. She takes a few steps forward, leaving the group behind as she was enveloped entirely by the shadows.

Kunikida swallowed. 

"Look at her go - isn't that typical?" Harris chuckled behind him, "You should never rest all your hopes on Sheridan Le Fanu; she'll cut you out before you know it."

Kunikida opened his mouth but didn't get a chance to speak.

There were the unmistakable sounds of a scuffle echoing through the darkness. 

Shoes slapped against the floor. Fists found soft flesh. A grunt of pain.

"Ugh, get off of me!"

Atsushi strained his eyes against the dark, "Ranpo?"

"You're a feisty one~" Sheridan teased. "But you're so small! It's cute~"

"Let go!"

Ranpo swung his arms backwards, barely grazing the skin of Sheridan's cheek.

Then there was a loud ripping sound. Threads torn apart, shredded with ease by pointed fingers.

A beat of agonising silence.

Quietly, threateningly, under the rush of blood in his ears, Atsushi heard her speak.

"Stop struggling." Sheridan intoned, "Or next time, it'll be your neck. Do you understand?" As the body obediently went limp in her arms, she looked up at the group swathed in light. She smiled and sung, "I found him~"

Nobody said a word.

Sheridan's arms were hooked under Ranpo's armpits and she carried him easily, as if he weighed nothing at all. The material of his cape had nearly been torn in two. His hat hung low over his eyes.

"No need to look so glum." Sheridan giggled joyfully, "This is the fun part."

In one smooth motion, she unhooked her arms and threw Ranpo into the middle of the group. He hit Atsushi in the shoulder and both of them fell to the floor. They landed in a heap in front of Harris but, even in the commotion, no one could take their eyes off of Sheridan. She raised her arm to the sky.

"Room number three-hundred and four, number two-hundred and two and number sixty-eight." She ordered. Her pointed fingers spread out as she channelled the power of the Overlook. It released a deep, guttural groan in response - the sound of a great oak tree bending in a hurricane.

"Sheridan!" Harris snapped, "What the hell do you think you're- Ah!"

Shelley stamped on Harris' foot and gave him a pointed look. She turned and flashed her warm amber eyes at Sheridan. "Sheridan, my love, don't you think this is a bit much?"

"’A bit much?’ Oh Shelley, you used to be more fun than that." Sheridan said, a musical lilt to her voice. She put her thumb and forefinger together. Shelley stepped back.

Harris gritted his teeth, "That's it, I've had enough of this." He swung the lantern over his shoulder and threw it at Sheridan. The lamp arced through the shadows. Orange firelight twisted forward, lighting up Sheridan's ghostly form before smashing at her feet. Fire spilled out in all directions.

"Are you mad?" Shelley stabbed her finger into Harris' chest, "What have you done?” Her voice dropped to an urgent whisper, “You might have killed her."

The crackling fire morphed into a wall of yellow flame; Sheridan laughed, the vivid, mad sound bouncing out from under the hellish heat. The five of them heard her snap her fingers together as the floor broke open under their feet. Atsushi scrambled upwards but, before he could help Ranpo up, a solid wall materialised between them, soaring infinitely upwards.

“Ranpo!”

Another one smashed through the floor behind him. He turned around just in time to see Kunikida’s face disappear behind the garish floral pattern of orange wallpaper. The ceiling swept across the room, sealing him in as landscape paintings appeared one after the other on the wall. A bed and a desk. A mirror and a vase. Atsushi looked down to see a familiar circular rug tinged with red stains.

Blood.

His blood.

It was the same room.

“Damn it, Sheridan!” There was a thump-thump-thump on the wall behind him. It was Shelley and she was pressed as tightly to the door as she could possibly be. She twisted the door handle over and over, yanking it backwards and forwards without result. “Sheridan! Can you hear me? You let us out right now! You can’t do this to me!” She whipped around, teetering on her black leather heels. “You.” She said, “You can open this door, can’t you?”

Atsushi’s mouth hung open.

“Well don’t just stand there, boy! Do something!”

Atsushi closed his eyes. 

This was not happening. 

It’s not real.

He commanded himself to think rationally. To control the fear. But when he opened his eyes, all he could see was Akutagawa.

At the same moment, Shelley blinked back at him. She could have sworn that the little white-haired boy had been standing before her, but all she could see was him . Her first attempt at raising the dead. 

Her first monster - the true Frankenstein.

She stumbled backwards, slamming into the door. “It can’t be you.”

“It can’t be you.” Atsushi said, pressing his hands against his temples. His hands had already unconsciously morphed into tiger paws, as if the very sight of Akutagawa was enough to trigger his fight or flight response. He couldn’t control it. His heartbeat was pounding in his eardrums.

From across the room, the lights were flickering behind Shelley. Her hands were outstretched as sparks of white electricity danced between her fingertips. Her hair stood on end.

She stared down the monster.

Atsushi swallowed.

Then the lights went out.

Chapter Text

Dazai watched as three members of ADA fell into depths that he was incapable of reaching. 

Kunikida.

Ranpo.

Atsushi.

His face was completely devoid of emotion. He didn’t feel a thing and why should he? 

Those people down there were dead to him. Good riddance.

And yet…

The door slammed shut and the room returned to its usual equilibrium.

Behind Dazai, Stephen King was murmuring to himself, "Oh, that was bad. That was really bad." He had his fingers in his mouth as he paced round in tight round circles. He threw his hood over his head and yanked the sides down so far that his face completely disappeared beneath the fur-lined trim. "Ah, this is a disaster! What am I going to do? Stupid! Stupid!"

Dazai looked over his shoulder, his eyes half-lidded and bored. "Why? What's down there?"

King paused in place. With both hands, he raised his hood slightly and peeked out. Two grey eyes stared back at Dazai, widening in surprise as if he half-expected himself to be the only person in this room. "Hm?" King whispered, "Down where?"

"Down there." Dazai indicated the door with a barely there smile. "Don't tell me you've forgotten."

King flinched, "No, no. I didn't forget."

Dazai turned on his heel. His tall, imposing figure was awash with blood and King reeled at the sight. “Then tell me,” Dazai leaned in, “Please.”

“I don’t know.” King exclaimed, pulling the hood back over his eyes. “I can’t stop it! It’s out of control. Hungry, hungry, always hungry.”

Dazai reached out a hand but paused halfway, his fingertips hovering over King’s jacket. If the Hotel Overlook was King’s ability - which he highly suspected it was - touching him would undo this potentially advantageous situation. Reluctantly, he tucked his hands into his pockets. “Look, there’s nothing to be afraid of.” He tried to inject a little softness into his voice, but it’s false and hollow; if anything, it made him sound even scarier. He tried not to grimace at King’s whimpering form. “You have to take me to Dr. Harris.”

“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”

“No!” King suddenly snapped. He ripped off his hood and lunged at Dazai who wasn't quick enough to jump away. He managed to catch Dazai by the elbows.

“Stop! You’ll ruin everything.”

“But don’t you see?” King’s grey eyes searched Dazai’s face intently without blinking. For someone so timid looking, the sheer force of his vice-like grip came as a surprise. He clamped Dazai’s arms to his side. “This isn’t a power you can control. This isn’t something you can take away from me.”

Dazai hesitated as he looked around the room. He was right. No Longer Human pulsed in his veins, like a parasite constantly seeking out its next meal, but it found nothing within King. The Overlook remained standing; an indestructible monolith. 

Tendrils of dark hair hung around King’s eyes, “That’s what they don’t understand, nobody understands. I don’t control the Overlook.” There was a moment of clarity in King’s expression and he smiled at Dazai, “I can’t escape.”

Dazai grimaced as he wiggled free of King’s grip. “What are you smiling for? That doesn’t help either of us. Besides,” Dazai sighed, brushing down the creases in his jacket, “We both know that’s a lie.”

The smile on King’s face wavered and then flattened into a frown. His grey eyes were empty. “What did you say?”

“It’s a lie.” Dazai snapped impatiently, “You’re a liar. This whole room just turned sideways! This pathetic act of yours is just that; an act!”

King swung his arm at Dazai’s face but came to a stop before he could make contact. Dazai had caught him by the wrist.

“Cute.” Dazai intoned. He dragged King forward until they were face to face, nose to nose, staring into each other's soulless eyes. “Who are you expecting to fool?”

“Isn’t it you who is the fool?” King didn’t struggle in Dazai’s grip, nor pull away or even display a fraction of his previous cowardice. It is as if he had transformed into a completely different person. He reached up to Dazai’s face with the other hand and touched the spot between his eyebrows, “So much fear.” He muttered, “I can feel it within you. You’ve had to hide it for so long that it feels unnatural, doesn’t it? To be afraid?”

Dazai pushed King backwards, feeling his skin crawl where he had been touched. He turned over his hands; the sensation was so vivid it felt as though he had been stung. “What is wrong with you?”

“Why don’t you let it out? Tell me what you're most afraid of.” King whispered. He tucked one hand into his pocket and touched the white tiled wall with the other. His fingers traced the pristine grout and familiar hairline fractures that only he could ever notice. "I can help you, Dazai.”

From where he was standing, Dazai regarded King like a particularly nasty stain on his shoe. “I don’t need your help. I'm not afraid of you or this hotel. Now bring me to Doctor Harris before I do something you'll regret."

The Overlook rumbled above and below them. Walls shifted into place as loose furniture and debris vibrated across the floor.

Dazai reached out for the wall to balance himself, "What is that?"

King didn't respond. His eyes were as wide as saucers as they slid across the tiles and drilled into the linoleum floor. He looked at the space so intently that Dazai almost believed he could see through into the room below them. "It's her."

Dazai wound back and slapped King in the face. The skin of his palm connected with a satisfying smack as he hooked his other hand under King's collar and pulled him closer. "Who?" Dazai growled, "You're not making any sense."

King's head rolled backwards, "Ha ha~" He muttered mirthlessly, "You want to know what I'm afraid of, Dazai?" With both hands he gripped onto Dazai's hand and righted himself. His wild hair was sticking up at all angles and there was a bright red mark blossoming on his cheek. "I'm afraid of this hotel. I'm always afraid and I haven't felt anything else in years, but I pity you. You know why?" King blinked, "Because you're afraid of yourself and that is such a terrible fate for someone like you."

Dazai tried to release his grip but King only clamped down tighter, forcing his fingers into a tight fist.

"I heard everything." King's blank, doll eyes arrested his attention. Infinitely deep and infinitely empty - like a black hole. Totally void. "If you listen close enough, you can hear all the residents - the way they scream at night, it's like music." He rasped, "I try not to get lost in their voices, but you, you were so clear, so loud," King smiled, "So full of pain. Like a beautiful melody rising over a cacophony.” 

Dazai sucked in a breath, “That conversation was private.”

King turned his head to the wall, that same glassy, unseeing look in his eyes. “Nothing is private here, Dazai. I’m the host and the Overlook is my parasite, or, perhaps, it is the other way round.” 

“Enough.”

“Hm. So what are you going to do about it?”

Dazai tightened his grip on King and lurched backwards. He arched over with enough force to throw King to the floor, but his fingers were still locked together under King’s crushing grip. No matter how much he twisted and pulled, he could not break free.

“Come on~” King taunted from the ground, “You have to try harder than that.”

“Let go of me!”

“No.”

Dazai didn’t need an invitation. He leaned back once more, dragging King into a sitting position and then fired his foot into King’s face. The corner of his shoe caught under King’s nose with a sickening crack. His glasses split in two and a spray of blood erupted into the air. Fine shards of glass skittered across the floor. His head rocked backwards, hanging limp and angled sharply towards the floor.

“Let go!” 

King let out a gurgling laugh, like the sound of water bubbling down a clogged drain. There were red stains on his teeth and his voice was thick with blood. He raised his head slowly, “Does that scare you? Does it frighten you to think I heard you spill your soul? All your pretty little secrets, are they mine now too?” 

Dazai gritted his teeth and twisted his arm back. It took him a fraction of a second too long to see King’s eyes drift across his shoulder. If he had seen the expression, he might have stopped in time, but his fist was already in motion. He aimed the sharp ridges of his knuckles under King’s left eye, positioned for an orbital fracture - just like he would have in his Port Mafia days. 

Then there was a sharp pop.

For a moment, the world lurched sideways at a drunken angle and Dazai’s vision coned. He wondered if the room had moved again, but his feet remained grounded. He couldn't understand why until he felt a sharp pain radiating out of his left eye socket. 

He clutched his face and King did the same.

Except it was not King.

A pair of eerily familiar brown eyes blinked back at him. 

Unruly brunette bangs. Bandages peeking out behind his coat collar. An unyielding blank expression.

Dazai’s breath hitched in his throat as he recognised himself.

"What's wrong, Dazai?" Said his mirror image. It's voice was a perfect copy too, ebbing and flowing with the same rhythm. He leaned forward, orange coat rustling in the deathly silence.

"Are you scared yet?"

Chapter Text

Ranpo touches the red floral wallpaper, feeling out the slightly raised gold foil detail beneath a white peony. It is just as real as all the other rooms. 

"Interesting." He muses.

The unfurling leaves and falling petals feel textured beneath his fingertips - the attention to detail is extraordinary.

"Ranpo."

"Just a moment." Ranpo says without turning around. He searches the wall with his eyes, glancing first left and then right - no ventilation shafts here. No easy escape. No way out. 

He steadies himself against the wall.

"Ranpo." 

"One second." Ranpo fixes his eyes forward. He can't afford to feel fear - that in itself would be admitting defeat and almost certainly guarantee his demise. The image of the white peony jumps out at him from the wall, peaceful and beautiful, flat and dead. 

He sighs, "Dr. Harris, I presume?"

"In the flesh." Harris answers with a smile.

Ranpo turns around slowly, observing the masked man with lidded eyes. He cuts an imposing figure; tall and wiry but radiating power with every breath. Fighting Harris was out of the question. Even if Ranpo could somehow catch him off guard, the man had a considerable height and reach advantage. Not to mention the fact that he would have to cross to the other side of the room without attracting Harris' attention. With one hand, he touched his belt; he still had Kyoka's knife tucked into the waistband of his trousers, but he couldn't hope to use it without first putting himself in considerable danger.

He blinks at Harris, "Psychologist?"

" Psychiatrist ." Harris interjects, "A subtle but important distinction; my profession allows me to prescribe medication."

"What kind?"

"Anything you can dream of; antipsychotics, antidepressants, benzodiazepines." Harris tilts his head to the side, "Are you feeling unwell?"

Internally, Ranpo's stomach clenches but the look on his face remains stoic. "Is that how you got Dazai here?"

"You're the detective. Shouldn't you be telling me?"

Ranpo doesn't answer.

"Let me ask you something." Harris has his hands folded behind his back as he takes a step forward, shortening the distance between them. There is no space for Ranpo to back into and he fights the compelling urge to move his feet. "You're a detective, hm? Your deduction skills are rumoured to be inhuman; solving crimes that would stump a city in a matter of minutes. Impressive work - I've seen some of it myself, you know." Harris grips the bottom of his mask in thought, "That's why this situation confounds me. Why would someone like you willingly walk into the Overlook? You must have foreseen the dangers." He smiles, adding, "Especially for someone with no combat experience to speak of."

"I wouldn't expect you to understand." Ranpo cuts in, keeping his voice even. He removes his glasses from his trouser pocket and carefully unfolds the arms. The glass reflects a shimmer of light across his green eyes. "You’ve been in Yokohama for a few months now, haven’t you?” He states, “Testing your techniques out on the residents of a flat not far from the Agency and creating an outbreak of paranoia. I’ve had the displeasure of viewing your handiwork up close;” He grimaces. He had talked about the case just this morning and it was still fresh in his mind. “It’s unsightly work, Doctor - not becoming of someone like yourself.”

Harris looks like he’s taken a punch to the gut, “Excuse me?”

“Well,” Ranpo relaxes slightly, falling into his natural rhythm and allowing his ability to guide him. “You didn’t get your first test subjects quite right, did you? One after the other you took them here to break them apart and rebuild them. You wanted them to be your puppets but you pushed them too far; people were so wildly afraid that they jumped at their own shadows. They weren’t listening to you like you had intended, but you needed to hone your skills somehow.” Ranpo’s dark hair falls across his eyes, “After all, I imagine breaking Dazai wasn’t easy.” 

Harris chuckles, his blue eyes glowing hot like a flame, "Fascinating. I see now why Shelley was so taken with you." The floorboards creak under his foot as he edges closer, "I wonder what it's like inside your mind. If I could take my shoes off and poke around your memories - what would I see?"

Ranpo touches his waistband.

"Don't be foolish." Harris intones, "We both know that the dagger you're carrying isn't worth a damn against me."

The air is deathly still.

"You're not a fighter." Says Harris, "I can tell by the way you hold yourself and the cadence in your voice. Just look at your hands." 

Ranpo doesn't need to look down to know they're quivering against his sides. He sets his eyes firmly on Harris.

"You don't have it in you to kill me," He continues, "And, even if you did, you wouldn't make it very far. I've gutted men far more intimidating than you. I'm not unfamiliar to the way a body writhes between life and death or the smell of a liver or a lung, freshly dissected and sizzling in the heat of a pan. Yet, I wonder how your flesh will taste." There's a small click; it's Harris' switchblade, glinting in the yellow light. "Mm, yes. I think I'll start with that pesky brain of yours."

Kunikida cradles his broken arm as he watches the flames die down around Sheridan's feet. She stamps out the last spark with the heel of her shoe. "Ugh, that Harris. What a drama queen." She says, flicking her hair over her shoulder, "Oh well, at least we have a moment alone."

"What do you want?" Kunikida articulates slowly. A broken arm and a bullet in the shoulder means there isn't a lot of room for recourse with Sheridan. He grimaces, "You have me at an extreme disadvantage."

Sheridan tilts her head to the left then to the right, examining Kunikida from head to toe, "I see. Your friend really did a number on you, didn't he? With friends like that, who needs enemies?"

"He's not himself-"

"Oh, I know." Sheridan waves a hand at him as she adjusts her red silk shawl. "No one is themself after talking to Harris - he has that kind of effect on people."

Kunikida doesn't reply. He looks morosely at the wooden door to Sheridan's side; it might as well be painted shut and (knowing the Overlook) it probably is.

"Hm, you're quite relaxed for someone in such a dire situation, aren't you, Kunikida-kun?" Sheridan puts a finger to her lips, "Your two little friends could be dead or dying right now. Doesn't that scare you?"

"I have faith in Ranpo and Atsushi's abilities." Kunikida responds without hesitation, "I don't see why my feelings should concern you."

"Concern?" Sheridan snorts, "No, no, it's just a bit of a pastime for me. When you've lived for a thousand years, there's only one thing that doesn't lose its brilliance: other people's heartache." She smiles, blue eyes flashing, "The way fear transforms itself into desperation and hopelessness, like a fire reducing itself to ash, collapsing in on itself. I never get tired of that~"

"Did you say a thousand years?" Kunikida remarks, glossing over the morbid sentiment.

"I look good for my age, don't I?"

“I assume you’re being hyperbolic.”

“Not at all!” Sheridan giggles, “Well, maybe just a little. Do you know what it's like to have seen it all? Two World Wars, a handful of revolutions, even a Great Plague. I've seen civilizations discovered and razed to the ground, all in the blink of an eye. What can you do when nothing in the world surprises you anymore? It's all so frightfully boring."

"So," Kunikida raises an eyebrow, his voice flat, "You've chosen to live in a basement?"

"Oh, you put it so poetically~" The lilt in Sheridan's voice disappears as she glares at him, "No, I didn't choose to live here. I'm trapped in this stupid place."

"You have a funny way of showing it." With one hand Kunikida indicates the room. He takes a moment to inspect the walls; no air vents like before. He frowns, "From what you've demonstrated to me so far, you appear to be quite capable of molding this hotel to your will."

"You're forgetting something."

"Oh?"

"My dear," Sheridan sweeps forward, her red dress twirling about her knees. There's little more than a meter between them and, from this distance, the sharp ivory tone of her skin appears to give her an ethereal glow against the crimson décor. "If it were so simple, don't you think I would have left a long time ago? No, there's one important difference between me and King." She puts a finger to her lips, "The Overlook may be our prison, but I can assure you he's not a prisoner; he's the warden."

Kunikida regards Sheridan closely, "What are you saying?"

"I can help you escape." She whispers, edging so close to him that she nearly stands on his feet, "But I will need something from you in return."

Atsushi glimpses Akutagawa in the darkness of the room. 

Small bolts of electricity crackle and pop in the air behind him and Atsushi knows it's Shelley's power seeping through, but in his heart and in his mind a creeping sense of fear digs in deep. He can scarcely think of anything else.

"Please don't do this!" Atsushi implores, "I don't want to fight you."

"Then lay down and die!" Akutagawa calls to him.

Rashomon surges suddenly across the ground, a flash of white at its heels as Atsushi leaps to the side. His heart is pounding in his chest. The last fight had almost killed him and, if it hadn't been for Ranpo and Kunikida, he surely would have died. He grits his teeth, "We're wasting time!"

Shelley locks eyes with her monster. It's quicker than she remembers, with violet eyes that glitter in the dark. Her wedding ring twists in the air about her neck as she feels a new bolt of fear zigzag through her chest. The monster had already taken her husband years ago - she wasn't going to let the same thing happen to her.

Lightening erupts from both of her hands, surging in unpredictable patterns through the darkness. Atsushi jumps up as a stray bolt explodes into his leg. He lets out an agonizing cry. The smell of burnt flesh fills his senses and forces bile to the back of his throat.

Shelley lets out a frantic laugh, "Just stay still, I'll put you out of your misery."

Atsushi drops to the floor, his arms pinwheeling backwards as he slides into the wall behind him. Even in the dark he can see tendrils of smoke curling into the air where his trousers are singed. He has to think of something before he's burned to a crisp.

He bites his lip and focuses his thoughts. There has to be a clue - something he can use to escape. There are no air vents like before, but there has to be another way. After all, King is able to make rooms trade places, so why can’t he?

Of course.

The memory hits Atsushi full force like a bucket of ice emptying over his head:

I'm scared all the time.

It's Stephen King's voice, echoing out from the past. He can hear him clearly, as if he were speaking in his ear:

Focus on what you want and the Overlook will hear you.

What are you most afraid of?

It has everything to do with everything.

Fear , Atsushi thinks, that has to be the key!

If King was always afraid then maybe that was how he could manipulate the Overlook. Maybe he moved from room to room by channeling his fear into a destination rather than letting it flood his senses.

There was only one way to be sure.

Atsushi grits his teeth and pushes himself up, hands braced against the wall. Hot pain rolls across his burnt skin, surging up and down his leg, like a fire ripping him from the inside out.

He’s scared and, for once, he lets the emotion overtake him. His hands are shaking. His lungs burn for more air. His pulse thunders against the pressing silence.

“Well?” He shouts at Akutagawa, “What are you waiting for?” The fur on his tiger paws stands on end. The animal within him wants to run and he feels it clawing behind his ribs, searching for a way out. There’s no holding back. He feels it all.

“Eager to die, hm?” Akutagawa is swathed in white light as static fills the air, “Let me assist you.”

Ranpo presses his back to the wall. Logically, there are only a few ways out of this situation and, unless Harris has a sudden and significant change of heart, none of his options are looking particularly good. However, there is still one card Ranpo has left to play; an appeal to Harris’ vanity.

He raises his arms in surrender, “Fine, fine, I admit it.” He says, removing his glasses and tucking them into his pocket, “I wouldn’t kill you, I couldn’t hope to kill you - a fine deduction indeed.”

Harris pauses mid-step, his eyebrows knitted, "So, you're giving up?"

"You said it yourself," Ranpo nods. His eyes are lidded as he tries to keep his racing heart steady. Don't feel fear , he thinks, don't let it in . "I couldn't kill you even if I wanted to. Though, there is one thing I was hoping to ask."

The light catches on Harris' knife as he squeezes the handle tight. "A question?" He smiles, "Who would I be to deny a dying man his final wish?"

Ranpo's breath hitches in his throat but he balls up his fist and catches himself before he chokes.

Concentrate!

"I uh," Ranpo hesitates, wracking his brain, "I just wanted to ask, how did you get through to Dazai? He isn't the kind of person most people can read or even stand to talk to for much longer than is necessary."  The words sound genuine in his ears and Ranpo hopes he isn't overplaying it. Dazai's transformation had truly been surprising to say the least.

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere.” 

“It’s not flattery.” Ranpo replies, keeping his voice steady, “I’m curious. If I were to die, I would at least want to know how you did it.”

The heat of Harris’ intense glare passes from eye to eye, watching the placid expression on Ranpo’s face for any deviations. He looks over at the knife in his hand, “You want to know how I did it?"

"Yes."

"Then, why don't I show you?" Harris reaches behind Ranpo and snatches up his collar. With his other hand he drives his knife hard into the wall, pinning Ranpo’s shirt in place. “Now, in this scenario,” Harris states, reaching for the dagger in Ranpo’s waistband, “You’ll play Dazai and I’ll be myself.”

Ranpo could hardly hear what he was saying; the room was flashing in and out of focus, tilting dizzyingly backwards as he reached for the handle of the knife.

“You will have noticed, since you are such an astute detective, Ranpo,” Harris continues, turning over Kyoka’s dagger in his hand. A brightly coloured string of beads is wrapped around the end and it clicks softly against his palm. He smiles, “You will have noticed that Dazai was injured, hm? During our time together he was quite uncooperative. He told me a few lies and that’s something I can’t stand. Do you know why?”

Ranpo tries to pull on the handle of the knife pinning him to the wall; there’s no use hiding his fear anymore and it explodes across his chest like a wildfire. He can’t move. No matter how much he twists and turns, he just can’t break free. 

Suddenly, his breath halts as he feels the sting of cold steel against his neck.

“I said, ‘Do you know why?’” 

Ranpo’s green eyes roll over to meet Harris’; the answer is written all over his face. “It’s rude.” He whispers.

“Exactly. I'm glad you understand that. Oftentimes, I think that people have forgotten the value of common courtesy." He removes the blade from Ranpo's neck and steps back, "It’s such a simple thing; to be polite, to be honest.”

“And Dazai is neither of those.” 

“He wasn’t, no, but that was before he broke open. Like a teacup shattered into pieces.”

“Eloquent.”

“Hardly.” Harris grins. Blood trickles down his cheeks where his pallid skin is splitting under the pressure of his mask. “Let me show you something eloquent.”

Harris raises the blade and it sparkles dangerously in the light above Ranpo’s head. 

His green eyes go wide. 

His mouth falls open. 

And as he raises his arms against the falling dagger, he feels himself being swept backwards. The walls of the room open up behind him, divided suddenly and inexplicably in two where Harris’ knife had pinned him to the wall. An arm hooks around Ranpo’s throat, furry and white in between his fingers.

“Atsushi!”

“I’ve got you.” Atsushi says as they fall into the next room. They land in a heap on the floor, arms tangled together and hearts racing in tandem.

“Ranpo!” Harris cries from the other side of the gap in the wall. His figure obliterates the light, his blue eyes as sharp as knife points, his teeth grinding against each other like a ravenous predator. But the gap is already closing. The gritty sound of wood against wood fills the air as the walls shift back into place. Harris clutches Kyoka’s dagger and - with an animalistic growl - he hurls it through the shrinking gap. 

Ranpo grabs Atsushi by the shoulder and rolls him to the left as the knife buries itself in the carpet.

Atsushi and Ranpo look at each other in the ensuing silence. The walls have knitted themselves back together and the gap may as well have been a figment of their collective imagination. There’s no trace at all that it was ever there.

When Ranpo is finally able to catch his breath, he manages to say: “You took your time.”

Atsushi grins awkwardly, “Yeah, sorry about that.”

“How did you do… whatever you just did?”

“It’s something I figured out.” Atsushi gets to his feet and offers his hand to Ranpo. His trousers are covered in a thin layer of white powder; most likely dust or plaster from between the walls. “Come on, Kunikida has a plan.”

“Should I be worried?”

Atsushi cocks an eyebrow at Ranpo, “Remind me, what was Harris about to do to you?”

“I had him right where I wanted him.” Ranpo scoffs, batting away Atsushi’s hand as he gets to his feet. Despite his hammering heartbeat, a small smile appears on his face. “What kind of plan did you have in mind?”

Harris pounds his fist furiously against the wall. “Ranpo!” He cries, “Sheridan! I swear I’ll pull your intestines out through your throat if you cost me my greatest work. I’ve had enough of all of you.” He winds back and hits the wall with both fists, throwing the entirety of his body weight into the action. The wall shrugs him off with a dull thud.

From behind him, Harris hears the door open and then close softly. From the assertive, cocksure footsteps Harris knows it isn’t King, Atsushi or Ranpo. No clicking heels like Sheridan and no flat-footed boots like Shelley.   

“Dazai?”

“Guess again.”

Harris chuckles, “Kunikida, you came here by choice. How interesting.”

Kunikida watches Harris turn around; his eyes are wild, his face coated in a film of sweat. “My demands are twofold.” Kunikida states, “I want you to tell me where Kyoka is being kept and I want you to return Dazai to his former self.”

“Demands?” Harris lets out another laugh, “I must have missed something. What are you bartering with?” 

“Nothing.” Kunikida shrugs. “Consider this a warning. You might think you’ve changed Dazai, but he won’t work for you. He embodies chaos - the definition of an unpredictable variable.” Kunikida closes his eyes and puts a finger to his glasses. “That’s what makes Dazai so dangerous. I am almost certain his allegiance to the Armed Detective Agency is due to convenience or spite rather than a conscious decision based on morals; he doesn’t have morals. There is no line he will not cross.” 

“You underestimate me.”

“No, you underestimate Dazai.” Kunikida reiterates, “This is not a game that you want to play, Harris. When Dazai eventually snaps out of this, and he will, there will be no one higher on his hitlist than you. ”

Harris seems to take in everything Kunikida is saying, but his grin never falters and never fades. He tips his head to the side, “What would you say if I told you I already had a failsafe?” 

Kunikida’s heart drops. “What?”

“I have thought about nothing else but this day for months . What might happen if things went well and what might happen if they didn’t. What could happen and what wouldn’t. I foresaw some level of betrayal, of course.” Harris shrugs, “It’s only natural - it’s very human. And so, I have thought out this very scenario: if things were not to go to plan. I have thought about what I might do to break Dazai beyond recognition if I could not return within a set time frame. He’s in a very fragile state right now and if something were to shake him - truly and terribly - he might never recover.” Harris makes a mock gesture to his wrist as if checking a watch, “And would you look at the time, Kunikida? It might already be too late.”

Kunikida grits his teeth, “What did you do?”

“It’s not me.” Harris smiles, wider and wider, madder and madder. “It’s what Dazai will do to himself.”  

Chapter Text

Dazai pushes himself backwards as both he and his mirror image climb to their feet. Every detail about the other Dazai is exactly the same, from his relaxed pose and thin frame to his dark eyes and fading smile. Even his hair, the way it twists right and left about the point of his nose, has been perfectly copied. The only difference between them is King's orange, fur-trimmed coat, which now looks a size too small on the tall man.

The mirror image grins at Dazai, "Impressed?"

"That's one word for this."

“You can say you’re speechless.” Dazai’s copy flexes his fingers, examining the tightly wrapped bandages that begin at the base of his wrist. “I don’t mind; I’m flattered, actually.”
Dazai snorts, “You would be, wouldn’t you? Just stay out of my way, I’ve got something to do.”

“I-”

“It doesn’t involve you.” Dazai warns, crossing his arms over his chest. He relinquishes the pose almost immediately; it feels too much like something Kunikida would do. “Your tricks are very fancy, but I’m not scared by you and I’m not scared by this.” Dazai says, gesturing up and down, “I wouldn’t wear something so garish anyway.”

His mirror image pulls at the coat, “I don’t know, I think it would suit you.”

Dazai grimaces and decides to change tact. “It’s not an ability, hm?” He ponders openly, “What are you? A shapeshifter? A monster? Are you a ghost maybe?” Dazai rests his chin on his fist. None of this is making any sense. King seems to lack any kind of ability yet is capable of manipulating both the Overlook and his physical appearance at will. Not only that, but hadn’t harming King, harmed Dazai in turn? Dazai narrows his eyes, “Clearly, it’s not an ability.”

“Clearly?”

“Yes. Did you skip the required reading associated with me, or are you being deliberately stupid?”

“No Longer Human.” The other Dazai rocks on his heels. With his newfound physicality, King appears to have inherited Dazai’s annoying sense of self-confidence. It grates on Dazai; a poor impersonation indeed. “Oh yes, I am aware. It’s funny, isn’t it?” King continues, “You must be so used to being indestructible. Totally infallible. It’s made you soft. ” He says pointedly, “In every suit of armour, no matter how strong, there is always a way in.” 

“Soft? Ha .” Dazai blows a strand of hair out of his eyes, “What are you getting at?”

King gestures to himself - to Dazai’s own body and it’s undeniable and impossible existence in the space opposite him. “I’m still here, aren’t I? And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

King’s words settle heavily on Dazai’s shoulders. It's akin to the feeling he'd get arguing with Chuuya and the result is pretty much the same.

He’s right, Dazai thinks, That’s annoying .

“Fine.” Dazai relents, “You stay here and do whatever it is you usually do. I’m too busy to entertain this stupidity.”

“Where were you intending to go?” His mirror image indicates the bare walls - the door had been expunged without a trace at some point during their conversation and the white tiles glare back at them, blank and empty. “I know you aren’t fond of me, but it seems as though we’re going to be spending some time together.”

“Uh-huh.” Dazai murmurs. He shifts his weight onto his other foot and thrusts his hands into his pockets. “This is all a little tedious, isn’t it? The shapeshifting, the monologuing, the door disappearing.” His eyes harden suddenly in realisation.

It’s almost like he’s buying time .

Dazai allows himself a small smile, “Oh, I see.”

“You do?”

"Mm. You may be a loose cannon, but you're not an idiot."

"I'm touched."

"Don't be. When did we leave the room?"

The other Dazai blinks and the silence between them stretches out a moment too long. 

Bingo .

King clears his throat, "I don't know what you mean."

"Let’s not play these games. I’m starting to find you less interesting.” Dazai says, rolling his eyes, “It was when I hit you, wasn’t it?”

Silence.

“I hit you,” Dazai reiterates, “But I got hit at the same time.” 

In his mind, he pictures the moment as his knuckles connect with the skin of King’s face. His fist is almost white with pressure and splattered with dry blood. Despite this, King isn’t looking at Dazai or his fist or even squeezing his eyes shut in anticipation of being hit. His eyes are focused on a small spot just above Dazai’s left shoulder - right where the door would have been.

Dazai’s eyes glimmer, “The door.” He says, “Someone came in through the door, didn’t they?”

Another beat of silence.

“Come on~” Dazai teases, “You at least need to let me know if I’m getting warm.”

“I’ll give you that much,” King finally pipes up. His smile is thin and hateful under unruly brown bangs. “But can you guess who came in?”

“Harris?”

“No.”

“Shelley?”

“No.”

“Kuni-”

“Dazai.” King interrupts finally, shaking his head. He lets out a sigh, “Don’t you notice anything unusual?”

A small pause. “Well,” Dazai hums, “There’s a lot to choose from…”

“Then allow me to give you a clue.”

Suddenly, the room turns upside down, throwing Dazai violently into the ceiling. He crashes into the roof with a thud and a mournful groan. Pain reignites across his body from wounds old and new, like a bolt of lightning tearing across his pale skin. There’s fresh blood pressing into his coat as he blinks his eyes open. 

Beneath his fingers is a thick patterned carpet in a brown and orange geometric print. It is objectively the worst thing he’s ever seen before, made even worse by the fact that it doesn’t belong on the ceiling. Slowly, he raises his head. There’s a small assortment of drab furniture which might allow this room to be defined as a bedroom, yet - in all his years of life - Dazai couldn’t recall a more desolate feeling arising from looking at these things together. The dead mahogany drawers, the dead flowers pasted to the wall, the unused bedding neatly tucked under the mattress. Dead, dead, dead. Nobody lives here.

Dazai lets out another groan as he rolls over to the side. King isn’t waiting to mock him on the ceiling; neither is he standing over him like a ghoul, waiting to rip his heart free from his chest. His head is still spinning as he pulls himself up. 

Had it all been a dream?

The room leers at Dazai in all it’s gratuitous realism. 

No, not all of it , He concludes, It couldn’t be .

When Dazai feels he’s able to get to his feet without tipping over, he puts a hand to the floor and forces himself to his feet. His chest aches in protest and he clutches his knife wound protectively.

“Ugh, I hate this place.” He mutters. Then, remembering King’s soliloquy from earlier about hearing everything, Dazai adds, “Can you hear that, Mr King? I hate this place and I hate you. I hate you most of all.” 

Dazai pulls his hand away from his chest and inspects it. His palm is wet with fresh blood. Internally he curses; not only is the injury an annoying hurdle on top of this whole annoying situation, he is still losing a fair amount of blood. First it would make him delirious and then it would almost certainly kill him. He presses his hand tightly to the wound, feeling the dull pressure splinter into painful shards across his ribs.

He grunts, “Damn it.”

From behind him, Dazai hears the squeak of a floorboard. The sound is almost imperceptible to the untrained ear, but to Dazai, the person behind him may as well be announcing their arrival. With no weapon and no means of resistance, Dazai falls back on his usual tactics; annoy, distract, destroy.

“No need to knock.” Dazai says, his voice slightly strained, “I was just getting up.”

The person behind him doesn’t respond, but they have stopped moving. Without turning around, Dazai estimates they might be about a meter or a meter and a half away. Not quite breathing down his neck. He still had some wiggle room to catch them off guard if he played his cards right. 

He presses his hand against his chest as another wave of pain rolls across his shoulders, trickling into his lungs. The corners of his vision are beginning to blur. 

“Who is that?” He asks, “Don’t be coy - I don’t know how much time I have left.”

After a resounding response of silence, Dazai turns on his heel. His eyes drunkenly sweep across the floor, catching a pair of smart shoes against the orange carpet and a pair of green slacks. Then the corner of a blazer: cream, ironed. Dazai’s brows knit together; he knows this person. As he pulls his gaze upwards, he catches a few more details: a black shirt, untucked and open at the neck; a black shiny button on both cuffs. Then, finally, a blaze of short red hair and muted but unwavering green eyes.

His skin had been a little darker, his eyes a little warmer, his stance a little looser, but there was no denying who it was. 

“Odasaku?” Dazai’s mouth hangs agape, his wounds suddenly forgotten in the moment. He reaches forward, almost unable to stop himself. “Is that you?”

Chapter Text

Atsushi pushes open another door as Ranpo follows behind him. It's empty and silent and just as bleak as the last three rooms they had entered.

"This is hopeless," Atsushi complains, "We'll never find Kyoka like this."

"Well, that's four rooms out of four-hundred." Ranpo rests his chin on his fist, "If we continue at this pace, it will take us about an hour to visit every room - thirty minutes if we split up and a bit less than that if Kunikida can join us."

"That's still too long," Atsushi copies Ranpo's pose, his hand tucked under his chin, his expression pensive, "And what if she's not in one of the bedrooms? Then it's going to take us even longer."

"Hm, statistically speaking , we should find her before searching every bedroom, unless we are particularly unlucky."

"You spent some time with Harris - did he talk about Kyoka at all?"

"No." Ranpo answers, "Though, I suspect he may have planned for this; she won't be easy to find." His green eyes open a fraction, fixing Atsushi with a severe glare, "We need to split up."

"But I-"

"There isn't time to argue." Ranpo snaps.

"But what if Harris finds you? Or Shelley? Or even Dazai?"

"I'll handle it."

There's a finality to Ranpo's words that causes Atsushi's stomach to roll over. He was intending to go up against four ability users, completely unarmed, save for his wit. Had the roles been reversed, Atsushi couldn't imagine doing what he was about to do.

"I'll search the top floor and you search the bottom." Ranpo begins. His torn cape sits a little lopsided across his blood-smeared shirt, his green eyes as hard as emeralds. "Search the rooms from the corridors if you can; we'll cover the rooms faster and won't be caught out by a sudden shift."

"Ranpo,"

"What?"

"Take this." Atsushi hands over a dagger with a string of brightly coloured beads tied to the hilt. "It's Kyoka's." He says, "You should take something to protect you - you know, just in case…" He doesn't finish the thought. Instead, Atsushi forces the handle into Ranpo's palm, "Just be careful."

"I can't decide if you're stupid or heroic." Harris chuckles, "You must be a little bit of both to come looking for me with such a nasty injury."

Kunikida clutches his broken arm to his chest. Now that he knew Dazai was in danger, he really had to get a move on. Staying here a moment longer than was necessary could throw his whole plan into jeopardy. He eyes the door at his back.

"So eager to leave?" Harris hums. There's dried blood up and down the arms of his jumpsuit; it's most likely Dazai's and the thought makes Kunikida's heart clench. "I thought we might talk things over for a while."

"Why would I want to talk to you?"

"I have some very pertinent information," He says, "Regarding Dazai."

Kunikida narrows his eyes."And you’d offer it up freely?"

“Well, not freely - though they do say talk comes cheap. Play a little game with me,” Harris says, “An answer for an answer. A question for a question.”

Kunikida instinctively feels something is very off with the proposal. He had asked for Kyoka and Dazai’s location when he had entered the room, but if he could buy Atsushi and Ranpo enough time to search the premises, there would be no need to engage with Harris past the point of distraction.

“Come on~” Harris taunts, “I’d like to know what’s going on in that brain of yours.”
“I’ll pass.” 

"Oh really?" There's that glimmer of genuine surprise in Harris' eyes again. He looks like he's been stung. "Four-hundred rooms!" He cries, "All of them perfectly identical - just how will you search them all? How will you keep track?" Harris' voice is tight and strained. A bulging vein on his temple threatens to burst. “You continue to surprise me, Kunikida. De facto parent to your staff, you’re the ever logical one, aren’t you? Only able to think in straight lines and rational motions. A compulsive planner, rigidly fixed within the realms of reality. Antithesis of Dazai Osamu. Tell me something:” He seethes, “Did you dispatch Rokuzou in the same ruthless application of reason?”

Kunikida’s heart skips a beat, “How did you…”

“It made it easier, didn’t it?” Harris’ words are sharp and probing; he knows exactly where to aim to cut into Kunikida and he wastes no time in opening up a wound. “It must be hard to always have your head rule over your heart, to never leave anything to chance - like a story that has already been written. Even I can’t devote myself to such a cold world view. I prefer the heat of emotions.” Harris drawls, “They’re fickle and unpredictable, yet true to the self.”

Kunikida tries to keep a handle on whatever feeling is bubbling up inside his chest. Harris is burrowing under his skin - as much as he wants to deny it - and even his innermost thoughts feel as though they’re at risk of being cast into the light. He tightens his hand into a fist but keeps his mouth firmly closed. 

Harris smiles, “Do you notice the way you tense when I say something you agree with? It’s a type of cognitive dissonance, Kunikida. You hate me but you know there is truth in what I am saying and your body reacts in the most primal way. A burst of anger or discomfort. A knot in your stomach. A beat of your heart.” Harris puts a hand over his own heart and pounds along to the rhythmic pulse beneath his ribcage. “You feel it don’t you? Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum.”

Kunikida grits his teeth - he can feel it - but he doesn’t have time for this. He needs to break free. In his closed fist, he runs his fingers along the edge of a slip of paper. In a moment , he tells himself, I need to give them more time .

“Where are your charges now, hm?” Ponders Harris, as if he were able to hear Kunikida’s thoughts, “Off searching the rooms for that little black-haired girl no doubt. I just hope they’re able to keep their heads on straight. This is certainly no place to lose yourself.”

“Your concern isn’t necessary.”

“Oh? But haven’t you considered what might happen if they find Dazai in a particularly high-strung state?” Harris poses. The lingering threat in his flat voice hangs in the air. “I don’t think I need to remind you of what he’s capable of.”

Kunikida growls, “He wouldn’t do that.”

“There it is.” Harris’ eyes twinkle. He leans forward, examining every little detail on Kunikida’s face as if he had found a diamond in the dirt. “There’s the anger, the fire . Of course he would, Kunikida.” Harris doubles down, “He broke your arm without a second thought.”

“That was your doing!” Kunikida roars. It’s too late to reign in his emotions now - the floodgates are open and the anger breaks loose like a crashing tide.

“You said it best yourself: ‘Dazai has no morals’. I didn’t do a thing. If anything, I just allowed Dazai to be his most authentic self.” Harris rakes a hand through his hair, pulling the flyaways out of his blue eyes. “Once a killer, always a killer and I should know.” He smiles, “I wonder which of them will stumble upon him first.”

Kunikida squeezes his hand into a fist so hard that his hand turns white. The paper between his fingers cumples noiselessly, almost forgotten in the heat of the moment, but Kunikida had been holding onto a thread of himself. Even in the swell of overwhelming emotions he could feel the pull of his routine, his Ideals. He had given Atsushi and Ranpo a headstart and that was the best he could do.

He couldn’t risk losing himself.

He holds his hand up to the sky, the twisted strip of paper pinned between his fingers, “Doppo Poet: Molotov Cocktail!”

Harris’ eyes widen as a flash of light fills the space above their heads and a lit Molotov appears in Kunikida’s hand. The glass is already in motion, arching towards the ground at Harris’ feet.

“Don’t!” He cries.

But it’s too late.

The glass smashes across the floor, unleashing a wave of red and orange flames that burst into the air and send sparks floating towards the ceiling. Black smoke curls between the two men as they lock eyes for the last time.

“You fool!” Harris explodes, “What is this going to achieve? You’ll never find them both. You’ll kill us all!”

Kunikida turns around wordlessly and heads for the door. On the other side, he finds a familiar face staring back at him beneath cropped black bangs. She flashes a white, fanged smile, "Excellent, now allow me to return the favour.” Sheridan says with a wink.

Dazai's hands find the lapels of Odasaku's cream blazer. He can't quite believe his eyes, but the material is soft and warm under his fingertips; unbelievably real. 

"Odasaku," Dazai manages to say, his words little more than a whisper, "Is that you?"

"It's me, Dazai." Odasaku answers without further explanation, as if he had always been there. The familiar gravel in his voice transports Dazai back to a different time; he can almost feel the bandages pressed against his eye and the heavy black jacket on his shoulders.

And the blood on his hands.

He swallows, "You're alive?"

"For now." 

"What do you mean?"

Dazai feels a light pressure on either wrist; it's Oda's hands, carefully prying his fingers away from his blazer. He lets go, leaving little red fingerprints in his wake, and allows his hands to go slack in Oda’s grip. There’s no need for resistance; he trusts Oda implicitly. 

“There are conditions.” Oda says, picking his words carefully, “And there are things that I have been promised - things that I thought were impossible. You have to understand.”

Dazai nods, not quite sure what to make of what Oda is trying to say, but he just wants him to keep talking. He has missed the sound of his voice.

The pressure on his wrists increases.

“A woman called Shelley brought me back to life. She promised me that she could save the children - all five of them returned to the world as if nothing had happened.” Oda continues, “She asked me what I would do for them. ‘Anything’ I said, ‘I would give my life for them’. Then she asked me if I would take one-”

“Oda-”

“I said that I could never take a life.” Odasaku grips Dazai so hard that he lets out a yelp. His green eyes fix on Dazai’s own. “I had taken one before: an assassination borne from revenge. I never want to feel that way again.”

Dazai tries to twist away from him, but his fingers are digging in deep enough to draw blood. He grunts with effort, “You’re hurting me-”

“But then a man asked me,” Oda cuts in. There’s an urgent tone to his voice but his expression is calm and collected; he has a purpose to fulfill. “‘What about someone who wants to die? Would you kill him?’” 

For a moment, Dazai stops struggling.

A long silence draws out between them as Oda’s gaze meets his own. 

A wave of dreadful realisation washes over him.

“Dazai,” Odasaku says, “I’m sorry.”

There’s not enough time to react. Odasaku pulls his wrists to his chest and fires his foot into Dazai’s stomach. The kick is hard enough to lift Dazai’s feet off the ground and it leaves him totally breathless. He reels backwards as Oda releases him and he clutches sides. It feels like his lungs are going to explode.

He looks up, grimacing with pain. A small part of him - the true Dazai, hidden away where Harris’ influence couldn’t hope to touch - wants to give up and allow Oda to win. He would get his life back and the five children who were so dear to his heart. A shining beam of light that had once been extinguished would be reignited and Dazai could slip peacefully from this mortal coil with no regrets. Hadn’t that been what he had wanted all along?

Yet Dazai is overwhelmed by a new, perverse urge: to live no matter what.

“Don’t fight it,” Odasaku says, “I’ll make it quick.”

He throws his foot into the air, aiming for Dazai’s head, but Dazai sidesteps him just in time. He sees an opening as Oda balances on one foot, but he freezes in place, unable to commit to either winning or losing. With a frustrated growl, he presses his fists against his temples. 

Do it. Harris’ voice echoes, Kill him before he kills you .  

Think about this . Dazai’s own voice breaks in. Would it be so bad to lose?

Dazai jumps backwards as Odasaku swings for him again.

“Don’t you see what this means?” Odasaku cries, “We can both get what we want.”

“I don’t want to fight you, but I cannot allow you to stand in my way.”

“I have no other choice.”

“Neither do I.” Dazai draws in a deep breath and straightens his shoulders. Despite the burning pain fanning out across his abdomen, he stands tall with a severe look in his eyes. “I don’t want to die anymore. I’ve moved past that.”

“These are children!” Odasaku implores, “Children I couldn’t protect, but now, I can change that!”

“That was your mistake.” Dazai spits and the words are filled with such venom that he immediately regrets letting them fall from his mouth. 

He drops to the floor, avoiding a right hook from Odasaku, and instinctively fires his legs out. He hits  Odasaku’s ankle and knocks him off balance. 

“How could you say that?” Says Odasaku, his voice strained as he stumbles backwards. “There was nothing I could do!”

Dazai feels the darkness shrouding his brain, blocking out the last true remnants of himself until nothing but a husk of himself remains. He feels surprisingly warm. There are no more doubts about who he is or who he used to be. There is just a man with a single purpose; to find and protect Dr. Harris at all costs.

“If you want to fix your mistakes,” Dazai reiterates firmly, “Then you had better kill me before I kill you.”

Odasaku’s mouth pulls into a grimace, “You haven’t changed a bit, have you? Even after what I said, you’re still the Demon Prodigy.”

“What does it matter to you?” 

“It doesn’t,” Odasaku intones, “But it’s going to make saying goodbye much easier.”

Ranpo’s feet hit the carpet. He is channeling his fear just like Atsushi told him to, thinking of nothing else but losing his ability and a pit of writhing snakes and what might happen if they were trapped here forever in an infinite loop of rooms and corridors. Every time he opens a door, his heart skips a beat. They’re empty. They’re all empty, but he embraces the fear every time. Kyoka’s fate depends on it.

On the floor above him, Atsushi is doing the exact same thing. His heart is in his throat and that’s just fine. As he opens a door to his right and then one to his left, he keeps the thought of Akutagawa in the back of his mind where it is overshadowed almost completely by the uncertainty of Kyoka’s fate. He can’t afford to lose her. It was his fault that she was in the Agency in the first place and, if anything were to happen to her, he could never forgive himself.

He pushes on down the hall.

Meanwhile, a small fire that Kunikida had started in the basement is beginning to burn out of control. In the lower levels of the Overlook, a thin layer of smoke is rising to the ceiling. There’s the acrid smell of burnt cotton and singed wood lingering in the air and in a few of the rooms, a flicker of orange flame is licking at the corners of the doors. The Overlook creaks mournfully and King feels something is dreadfully, dreadfully wrong. 

No pain has ever felt like this. 

He pads around the bar area nervously. It was selfish of him to try and keep Dazai’s fear for himself and he was bound to pay the price at the hands of Harris. Was that what this pain was? Was it guilt? Was the Overlook punishing him? He knots his fingers together and chews on his knuckles. He doesn’t know what to think and that paralyses him with fear.

The clock is ticking.

Dazai throws his fist into Odasaku, catching him under the ribs. 

He’s slower than Dazai remembers. In all their time sparring together, Dazai had only ever landed two hits on Odasaku; once when he had been distracted and another when he had thought the sparring session had ended. His ability to see into the future had always put his opponents at a significant disadvantage, until now.

Odasaku lands a blow on Dazai’s shoulder, right above the still-healing knife wound. 

Dazai gasps in pain, pitching forward uncontrollably. In the heat of the moment, Odasaku wraps his arm around his neck and locks Dazai against his body.

Dazai wheezes, “That… was cheap.”

“Just relax.” Oda holds his arm in place and pulls back, increasing the pressure on Dazai’s windpipe. 

Dazai hooks his hands around Oda’s forearm, but it’s no use. He’s standing on his tiptoes, cheeks tinted scarlet and puffed out, searching for a breath of oxygen. Black spots swim in front of his eyes. His lungs burn for air. 

“That’s it.” Oda whispers, “Don’t struggle.”

With the last of his strength, Dazai winds back and kicks Oda in the shin. There’s no reaction from Oda, not even a sound. He kicks him again and again, but the world is starting to spin into black. In a final act of desperation, he lets go of Oda's arm and sends his elbow rocketing into his side. That earns him a howl and enough room to wiggle free. Dazai turns on his heel, gulping in the air, his neck a mottled combination of pinks and reds. But there's no time to assess his injuries.

Odasaku kicks him square in the gut with enough force to send him flying into the opposite wall. The plaster fractures under his back, knocking a framed landscape painting to the floor. He lurches forwards. There's blood on his tongue. If Odasaku isn't as fast as he remembered, he is certainly making up for it with sheer brute force.

Dazai looks up as something twinkles in the corner of his vision. On the other side of the room, a small, yellow flame creeps across the ground. It dances in the air, gliding over the carpet and exploring the slight imperfections in the wallpaper.

Odasaku moves forward, blotting out the fire. "What changed, Dazai? Did you find a purpose while I was gone?" With one hand, he massages the sore spot at his waist. The way he holds himself is just the same as Dazai remembers. Effortlessly cool in the face of danger, like a man who has seen all there is to see. 

"You could say that." Dazai answers.

"Then I'm happy for you. Truly." 

Dazai blinks at Odasaku. Despite his injuries, he feels something cold spear his chest. 

A knife of empathy. The wounds of caring. 

He grits his teeth, "Stop talking like that."

"But it's not untrue." 

Behind Odasaku's set shoulders, the small flame has grown into a blaze. Red tendrils rise and fall. Yellow sparks flicker and die in the air. Ashen curls of wallpaper crumble from the walls.

"I don't care what you think." Dazai snaps, "I'm not going to give up."

He pushes off of the wall and charges at Odasaku.

Ranpo opens the last door on his left. 

Nothing. 

That was the whole top floor of the east wing covered and, as long as there were no sudden shifts, he just had to cross the hall and do the same in the west wing. He will find her. He just has to keep going.

He crosses the top of the grand staircase, but before he reaches the other side, he hears someone calling to him from below. 

"Ranpo! Come here!"

As Ranpo leans over the bannister, he spots Atsushi beaming brightly. Kyoka’s head and arms are hanging limp over his shoulders, her knees in Atsushi’s arms. 

“Ah, is she okay?” Ranpo asks, pushing his hat out of his eyes, “Where did you find her?”

“She’s fine, she’s fine, she’s just unconscious. Don’t worry.” Atsushi adjusts her position slightly on his back as he motions towards the east wing. “She was just down there. Look, we’ve got a bit of a problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“Can’t you smell that?” Atsushi cocks an eyebrow at Ranpo, “I think Kunikida went to plan B.”

“The fire.”

“Exactly.”

“Then we don’t have much time.” Ranpo looks left and then right, scanning the upstairs hallway. “Have you seen him anywhere?”

“No, but he must be looking for Dazai. He could be anywhere.”

Ranpo grimaces, “Okay, nevermind that. He’ll have to find his own way out.” He waves a hand at Atsushi, “Hurry up and bring Kyoka up here. We should still be able to get out the same way I got in.”  

“Do you think he’ll be okay?”

“He’ll be fine. After all,” Ranpo reminds him, “He’s not alone.”

Dazai wraps his arms around Odasaku's waist, forcing them both to hit the ground. 

The air is becoming thick with smoke as orange light flickers across the walls. The fire is out of control now; an inferno, a death sentence. Heat pours out from every corner and it feels as though they're dueling in the depths of hell.

Dazai throws a punch, but he's too slow and Oda easily catches him by the wrist. Before he knows how to react, he's on his back, staring up at the encroaching veil of smoke. 

Odasaku straddles his chest, his hands around Dazai's neck, digging into his flesh and crushing his windpipe. There's anger in his green eyes and tears on the ends of his eyelashes, "I have to do this, Dazai."

A gutteral sound rips from Dazai's lungs as he fights for air. Fingernails bite into Oda's wrists. Legs kick out into the empty air. He bucks his hips, trying to throw Odasaku loose, but it's hopeless. 

The air is running out.

Dazai throws his hands to the carpet, his fingertips groping for anything within reach; a table leg, a piece of wood, anything at all. Suddenly, something cuts into his palm - a shard of glass from the shattered frame of a painting. It'll have to do. He tightens his grip around it and swings his arm forward. The glass drives itself into Odasaku's neck and he falls backwards, blood spurting across the carpet and onto Dazai's skin. 

Dazai gasps for air as he pushes himself backwards. His neck is almost black with Oda's handprints, yet Oda is eerily silent as he presses his palm to his neck. There's blood everywhere, rolling across his fingers and into the collar of his shirt in thick, black waves. The tears in his eyes shine in the light of the fire.

"Bastard." 

He grits his teeth and lunges for Dazai, who isn't fast enough to pull away, and drags him backwards by the ankles. Dazai lashes out in a fit of wild distress. Scarlet prints on his trouser legs and fresh blood on his hands.

"Get away from me!" 

"So selfish…"

Oda let's go of his legs, delivering a fast, hard kick to his ribs. Dazai curls up with a groan, feeling the stab wound in his shoulder protest against every movement. Stars seep into the edges of his vision and the world tilts dangerously out of focus. He blinks at the shadow looming over him, black on orange, dark and unflinching. 

Dazai swallows, tightening his fist around the glass shard, "I don't want to die."

"And I don't want to kill you." Odasaku whispers. 

Crackling fingers of fire surge up and down the wall. Flakes of ash and sizzling embers fall around Dazai's face.

"But I will if I have to." Odasaku plants his foot on Dazai's chest and presses down. The air rushes out of Dazai's lungs, but he's quick to react. He stabs the glass shard into Oda's legs so hard that it lodges there. Odasaku lurches backwards and Dazai pulls himself to his feet. There's so much blood on their clothes, it's a wonder how either of them are able to stand. They both pant for breath but the air is becoming thin. The smoke is so dark and dense that it's hard to see.

Dazai grabs a handful of his own coat, willing the pain out of his chest. "You don't really believe that they'll come back, do you?" He mutters. His energy is almost completely depleted - just standing here with his knees threatening to buckle is almost too much to bear. There are spots of black blood under his eyes, his hair matted with sweat and ash. He straightens his shoulders and stands up tall with a groan. "We buried them." He says, "Me and you - we did it together."

"If it can work for me, then why can't it work for them?" Oda reaches down and pulls the glass shard out of his leg - he doesn't even flinch as it comes out.

"Don't you remember?" Dazai breathes, "We buried the ashes - that's all that was there."

"But-"

"There was nothing left, Odasaku! She lied to you!"

"Shut up!" Oda cries.

He swings the glass shard at Dazai’s face where it slices into the skin of his cheek, but Dazai is ready. He puts his palm on Oda’s elbow and forces his arm away. The movement leaves his ribcage exposed and Dazai is quick to move in, kicking him in the side and knocking him to the floor. The glass shard spins across the carpet, landing at Dazai’s shoes. He reaches down and closes his fingers around it. 

The fire rages on, splitting the supporting beams in the walls. A piece of the ceiling crashes to the floor, sending hot sparks rolling across the carpet.

He towers over Oda, the glass cutting deeply into his palm, and breathes in the smoke.

This is fate.

This is destiny.

And he slashes down.

Blood on his face. Blood on his hands. Oda’s neck splits open wide like a menacing smile. He reaches for Dazai’s collar and drags him down with the last of his strength. Eye to eye. Nose to nose. Two unfeeling brown eyes gaze back at him, the light of the fire completely lost in their depths. There isn’t a soul behind those eyes. They’re black - mafia black.

The eyes of a Demon Prodigy.

“Dazai!” 

Faintly, somewhere in the space behind him, Dazai hears his name. 

He doesn’t move. 

There’s still light in Oda’s eyes and strength in his dying hands. He needs to know something. 

“Why did you have to stand in my way?” Dazai whispers.

He puts a hand under Oda’s head, supporting the weight of the friend he never thought he’d lay eyes on again. On those days when he'd sat beside Oda's grave and allowed himself a moment of reflection, Dazai had often wondered what Oda would make of his life at the agency. Would he be proud? Would he approve of his antics? Would he see that the wounds were still fresh, despite the years that had passed?

A hot tear slides down Dazai's cheek and drifts along the line of his chin. 

He doesn't feel anything at all as Oda slips away, but deep inside a part of him burns in agony. 

"Dazai!" 

It's Kunikida - his voice unmistakable above the din of fire ripping through the hotel. His hand slips under Dazai's shoulder and yanks him backwards. Dazai doesn't resist. Even if he had the energy to move, he wouldn't want to leave. Another part of the ceiling comes loose and smashes into the floor. Bits of wood skitter towards Dazai's feet, casting sparks and flames in all directions.

"We need to get out of here." Kunikida says, turning to Sheridan. "This whole place is about to come down."

Over his shoulder, Sheridan reaches forward, placing her hand on Kunikida's wrist. Her white skin glows in the light of the fire. "Let me do that." She says, "You lead the way."

Kunikida casts his eyes over Dazai - he doesn't move, even as the fire bellows around them. He's near catatonic, but he's alive. 

"Alright." Kunikida agrees.

As Sheridan effortlessly lifts Dazai into her arms, he remains limp like a ragdoll, his dead, black eyes seeing nothing but the body of his dearest friend as he's consumed by the raging fire.

Ranpo reaches up, his fingers grazing the latch for the skylight. He grits his teeth and strains the muscles in his arm, but it remains just out of range.

"Keep trying!" Atsushi says, "You've nearly got it!"

"I know, I know." Ranpo sticks his tongue out in an effort to concentrate, willing his arms to be longer or his body to be taller, as he stretches out once more. The chair under him is unsteady and there's smoke filling the air, but he pushes those thoughts from his mind. 

Just a little further.

A little more.

"Got it!" Ranpo exclaims. He hits the latch and the window swings open. Sunlight and fresh air streams in; a welcome release from this living nightmare.

Atsushi goes up first, using his ability to easily propel himself and Kyoka onto the roof. With her arms around his neck, Atsushi reaches back through the window for Ranpo.

"Grab my hand." He says, "I'll pull you up."

"Gladly." Ranpo reaches for Atsushi, but as their fingers touch, Ranpo falls sideways, his legs swept suddenly away from under him. The chair topples over with such force that one of the legs breaks off.

"Ranpo!" Atsushi yells.

"I'm fine." Ranpo groans as he brushes himself off, "What a way to say goodbye, Mr. King."

He looks up at Stephen King - an apparition in orange. His face is drawn, his eyes older, his skin a mere suggestion of the colour it had been. He looks at Ranpo, eyes wide. "The Overlook! It's dying!"

Setting his jaw, Ranpo's eyes meet King's own, "It's too late for us to do anything about that."

"You don't understand! The residents," King wheezes, "They're trapped and they can't get out. Can't you hear them? The screams. All those poor souls-"

"There's no one else here!" Ranpo cuts in, his tone sharp and commanding, "We've searched almost every room of this hotel and found no one. There are no residents."

King's mouth hangs open, his silver eyes shining behind his spectacles. "What did you say?"

"There's no one here - no one to save but ourselves." Slowly, Ranpo gets to his feet and looks up at King. The tone of his voice is softer but just as certain. "Please, we must leave before it's too late."

For a moment, King hesitates. There is a thin film of sweat on his forehead as if the fire in the hotel is burning within him. He whispers, "The residents… they're not here?"

Ranpo shakes his head.

"Mr. King," Atsushi calls from the window, "Come with us. We'll get out of here together."

"But this is all I know." King says, "The Overlook is… it's me. It's part of me. I feel every beam breaking, I hear every voice against the walls. What will I do without it?"

"You'll live!" Ranpo snaps, grabbing him by the coat collar, "There will be life after this, but only if we leave now." His eyes bore into King with such determination that it arrests his full attention. King hears nothing else, not even the pleas of the Hotel. "Take action." Ranpo implores, "Don't let this hotel destroy you."

Kunikida throws open the front door to the Overlook. Behind him, fire rages all around destroying anything and everything in its path. Sheridan follows hesitantly behind him, straying a little into the sunlight before retreating; it burns her skin like acid.

"Ah, Kunikida,"

"What is it?"

"The sunlight." She says, "Have you got what I asked for?"

"Of course." Kunikida digs into his pocket for a loose scrap of paper from his book of Ideals. In a flash of light, the paper turns to a long cloak of opaque cotton. "I hadn't forgotten." He says.

He hangs the cloak on her shoulders, pulling the hood up over her raven hair. In her arms, Dazai's body is completely motionless, but she holds him as if he weighs nothing at all.

"The final step," Sheridan continues, looking at Kunikida, "Is an invitation."

Dutifully, Kunikida pushes open the door, his arm waving her through, "After you, Sheridan." 

"Thank you." She smiles and steps into the open air. It's the first time she has seen the outside world in a number of years and, even in the heat and the smoke, every lungful of air is to be savoured.

"No, thank you." Kunikida presses his hand to her shoulder as they walk away from the Overlook, "This wouldn't have been possible without you."

Meanwhile, on the roof of the Overlook, Atsushi helps Ranpo and King to the roof.

There are tears in King's eyes as he watches the smoke sail into the clouds above. "I don't think anything will ever be the same." He whispers, "I gave my life to this hotel. Nowhere will feel like this - like home."

"Home isn't a place." Atsushi responds, edging himself carefully towards the edge of the roof. He looks over his shoulder, a small smile on his face, "It's wherever you can be true to yourself. You'll find it again."

Ranpo nods, "That's right. Now, let's get the hell off of this roof."

Chapter Text

"So that's how it happened, huh?" Yosano drawls, looking between Kunikida, Atsushi and Ranpo. She can't remember a time when it wasn't one of these three (or Dazai) causing her a medical headache - literally or metaphorically. However, the call to come to the Agency couldn't have happened at a better time. She couldn't sleep and relished the opportunity to get her hands a little dirty. "Well," She sighs, "I've treated Dazai as best as I can. He'll need painkillers and plenty of sleep but, the wounds I'm most concerned about, are up here." She taps a black gloved finger against her temple, "He's been through a lot, clearly."

"How is he?" Kunikida asks. He rolls his head to the side, still a little sore from the Doctor's treatment.

"To put it simply: not good. I've never known Dazai to be so withdrawn. When he's been injured, I've cleaned his wounds with antiseptic before and he usually acts, well- he acts like Dazai. He'll make a big show of just how much pain he's in and how cruel I'm being, but now…" Yosano shakes her head, "Nothing. Not even an 'ow'."

"Sheesh." Ranpo mutters.

"What do you think Harris said to him?" Asks Atsushi, looking between Kunikida and Ranpo.

"Nothing good." Kunikida answers.

"Agreed." Says Ranpo, "How long do you think he'll be like this?"

"Who knows? In the face of extreme trauma, people can act very differently." Yosano brushes her hair behind her ear, her gold butterfly clip glittering in the light. "It's not going to be an instant fix, you know that, right?"

On the other side of Yosano's desk, Atsushi, Ranpo and Kunikida remain silent. Moonlight drifts across the edges of the chairs and the corners of books and files, illuminating everything in a ghostly hue. It's getting late.

She steeples her fingers under her lips, "On the other hand, Kyoka is doing very well, but she appears to have been exposed to a strong sedative. We likely won't know the extent of any psychological damage until the morning. I'll be keeping tabs on both of them overnight to monitor their progress so I suggest you all go home and get some rest in the meantime."

"But-"

"I won't hear another word." Yosano cuts in, looking between the three of them, "Rest. Now. Doctor's orders."

In the darkness of the medical bay, Dazai touches the bandages on his right hand, poking at the thick, tightly-wrapped layers. Thanks to the painkillers, he can barely feel the wound underneath - or much of anything else - but there are hints of crimson seeping into the ivory. The cold sting of mortality.

He folds his fingers over his palm and looks around the room. There's a bed beside him where Kyoka lies: fast asleep and dreaming. He's desperately envious of her.

After everything that had happened tonight, he couldn't imagine sleep would ever come easily again. No matter what, his restless mind always returned to the fire where Odasaku lay dying. The heat of the flames warms his skin. The smoke fills his lungs. In his mind's eye, he sees Oda's face rolled to the side, his neck slit open and blood pooling on the carpet. Orange light dances on the skin of his cheeks as he opens his mouth.

"You killed me." He whispers, "You really did it."

Dazai gasps, fighting for air as he jumps up in bed. Drops of sweat roll off of his forehead and across the tip of his nose. He must have drifted off, if only for a few seconds.

As he unfurls the fingers of his bandaged hand, he realises just how hard he has been squeezing. Bright red rivulets seep between the cotton layers, blotting the bedsheets in his lap. 

A knot is forming in his throat and tears edge his bloodshot eyes. He had failed to protect Harris and he had killed his dearest friend. He didn't know where his loyalties lay. 

In shock and deeply wounded, he had allowed himself to be carried to the Agency and treated by Yosano, but he felt no affinity with any of them. 

Kunikida, Atsushi, Ranpo, Yosano.

Who were these people? Were they friends? Were they enemies? 

Truthfully, he didn't know.

"Dazai?" He hears the soft voice beside him, thick with sleep. Kyoka rolls over to face him, "Is that you?"

Her eyes glitter back at him in the darkness. He remembers looking at those same big eyes as Harris injected her with a sedative; watching her fight against the inevitable. Did she remember him holding her in place as she slipped into a dream?

Dazai chews on his lip, "It's me." He says.

"Where are we?"

"The Agency."

"Hm," She murmurs, allowing her eyes to close once more, "I'm glad you're okay."

Dazai feels the blood from his hand dribbling down his wrist, hot and red, like a fire from within.

He isn't okay. He is far from it.

A tear slides down his cheek in the following silence, but Kyoka doesn't hear him as he gets up; she's already fast asleep.

Yosano knocks on the President's door.

"President Fukuzawa?" She says, leaning in, "I've sent them home."

"Come in, Yosano-san." 

Yosano opens the door, observing Fukazawa at his desk, his eyes heavy with sleep. He had also dragged himself into work at this ungodly hour but, unlike Yosano, he wasn't really a night owl. She sighs, "You can leave this to me; I prefer late nights anyway."

"Nonsense." Fukuzawa responds, attempting to inject some life into his sleepy tone, "You have performed some excellent work today and the Agency, as always, is thankful for your service. It is only right that I remain to see the three of you through the night."

Yosano smiles and leans against the door frame. "You're going to stay up all night, Sensei?"

"If that is what the agency demands." Fukuzawa rubs his eyes. He gropes blindly for some loose papers on his desk. "There's plenty of legal documents here for the both of us. It seems Dazai-san has been somewhat neglecting his official duties."

"Typical~"

"How is he?"

"Physically? He'll recover with a few new scars and a sore shoulder. Nothing major."

"Mm, and mentally?"

Yosano tips her head to the side and puts a finger to her chin, " He's acting… differently."

"In what way?"

Yosano opens her mouth but doesn't get a chance to respond. The sound of glass shattering in the medical bay rips into the silence as she looks at Fukuzawa. They exchange a knowing look.

"Dazai." She whispers.

Fukuzawa jumps up, his sleep-deprived body suddenly pulsing with adrenaline as Yosano pivots on her heel. She’s already running through the office, skidding past Kunikida’s desk and out into the darkened halls. The medical bay is the first door on her right and she charges through it without a second thought.

“Dazai!” She calls out into the blackness. There’s no response and barely enough light seeping through the doorway to illuminate the room. Her fingers fumble for the light switch and the fluorescent lights buzz to life, flickering on and off.

Darkness crawls away from the centre of the room, leaving a single shadow suspended in the whiteness. 

It’s Dazai.

His feet kick out a few inches from the ground as a noose of bedsheets tightens around his neck. He’s hanging from the windowed cabinet; smashed glass glittering across his twitching shoulders. His eyes are white. A last trembling breath on his lips. 

“Dazai!” Yosano cries. She runs to his limp body and drags his legs over her shoulders, “You’re not dying here!”   

As she stands up, the noose goes slack, but it’s not enough; he’s completely limp in her arms. She tries to reach up and unhook the noose from under his chin but he’s pushed firmly against the medicine cabinet and just out of reach.

“Hold on, Dazai.”   

“Yosano!”

“Here!” Yosano’s voice is desperate as Fukazawa bursts into the room, “Cut him down now! Do it now!”

Fukuzawa draws his katana with such speed that she barely has time to flinch. The sword flies through the air, precisely severing the noose with a single strike and lodging in the back of the cabinet. He rushes forward to catch Dazai as his dead weight slumps on Yosano’s shoulders. Between the two of them, they ease him to the ground.

“He’s not breathing.” Yosano holds her palm above his mouth for a moment longer, but the heat of his breath never comes. She swallows her anxiety - there’s no time to panic. Her vision tunnels and all she sees is Dazai. Interlocking her fingers, one fist over the other, Yosano begins administering CPR. 

“Is there anything I can do?” Asks Fukuzawa.

“Check on Kyoka for me.” Yosano says between compressions and then she pinches Dazai’s nose and breathes into his lungs. His chest rises and falls. There’s a flicker of life in his eyes but still no movement. “Come on!” She growls, “Breathe, you idiot!” 

She restarts her compressions, digging in deep and giving it everything she has. 

Fukuzawa watches on from Kyoka’s bedside. Despite the commotion, she has barely been able to open her eyes and her head rests gently against the sleeve of his haori.

Yosano pushes on until her head is spinning but, after one more round of compressions and a final rescue breath, Dazai lets out a spluttering cough.

"Dazai?" Yosano whispers. She leans over, her eyes scanning his face. The washed out skin of his cheeks is cold to the touch under her fingertips, but she can feel his pulse faintly at the corner of his jaw. The methodical rhythm of his heart settles her own. She lets out a breath, "You had me scared there." 

After a few seconds, his brown eyes flutter open; blank and unseeing, wide and unfocused. His hands feel out the violent purple bruises that go back and forth along his Adam's apple. Once again, he had been snatched from the precipice. He closes his eyes.

Damn it.

Yosano looks up at Fukuzawa. He's wearing a subdued expression as he glances at his katana sticking out of the wall.

"It would appear the Agency is in your debt - again ." Fukuzawa sighs, brushing a loose strand of hair from Kyoka's face. She's fast asleep at his side; likely still recovering from the residual effects of the sedative. He frowns, "This cannot be allowed to happen again or I fear we might be too late next time."

"What do you suggest?" Yosano still has her finger pressed to Dazai's jaw as she monitors the beat of his heart. It's a little fast but steady and strong.

"A constant watch."

"In shifts?"

Fukuzawa nods solemnly, "I don't see another way forward at this moment in time."

From the floor, Dazai grunts in reply, but the noise barely carries from his throat. 

"Don't try to speak." Yosano squeezes his shoulder, "Just focus on breathing."

He shakes his head and tries again but, everytime he opens his mouth, a knot of pain tightens around his neck and steals away his words. He grimaces and shuts his mouth. Every breath is agony.

Yosano threads her fingers through his hair, brushing the unruly locks back into place. "I don't think we have much choice." She says.

"Then we will stay here tonight and discuss the plan with the others in the morning."

"Don't you need to sleep, Sensei?"

"I'm quite alright." He answers with a small, bittersweet smile, "When duty calls, it is my responsibility to answer. Now, let's get Dazai back into bed and make a plan for tomorrow." With that said, he slowly extracts himself from Kyoka's side and drops down opposite Yosano. Between them, they lift Dazai's limp body onto the mattress behind them.

"What kind of plan were you thinking of?" Yosano says.

"A plan of recovery." Fukuzawa answers. He regards Dazai with a slight frown - even when his eyes are closed, the young man does not look at peace. "I understand that it will be a long journey, but we must work together as an Agency - and as a family - to see each other through our darkest times. When someone falls, it is paramount that we work together to pick them back up."

There's a hint of doubt in Yosano's purple eyes, but she sets her jaw and nods. Dazai doesn't need doubts right now; he needs hope.

"Of course, Sensei." She says, "I will do whatever is necessary."

Chapter Text

As the morning sunlight streams through the Agency's windows, the hallways and offices begin to awaken, buzzing with new life. It's the day after the Overlook's destruction but it has already made the front page on a number of newspapers; everyone is talking about it, even the interns. 

Yokohama Today (a popular tabloid) is calling it: "A Flaming Fiasco" and with only two out of four suspects in custody, Ranpo feels it is an apt assessment. He drops the newspaper on his face and lets out a sigh, "What a disaster."

"I mean, it could have been worse." Atsushi shrugs from the other side of the desk.

With his thumb, Ranpo lifts up a corner of the paper and fixes Atsushi with a quizzical glare, "In what way could it possibly be worse?"

"Well, we could have died." Atsushi answers almost immediately, "We ended up cutting it pretty fine in the end, so it's lucky that we escaped at all."

"Luck has nothing to do with it." Ranpo drops the corner of the newspaper and stares deeply into the newsprint, "Our escape was the culmination of some brilliant deductions - all of which were made by yours truly."

"I think you're forgetting the part where I saved your life."

"Oh please ! I would have been fine . I told you that back at the hotel-"

"And I'm telling you that Harris had you pinned to the wall like an insect."

There's a slight pause as Ranpo considers his response. "Maybe I was appealing to his sense of vanity." He sniffs.

"Is that why you let him rip a new hole in your cape?"

"I have extras!" Ranpo snaps. He picks the newspaper up and throws it at Atsushi who catches it with one hand. "Besides, it was already ruined - Sheridan tore it right down the middle."

"She did offer to fix it-"

"Oh no, no, no. She's done quite enough already. I'll be glad to see the back of her."

"I don't know if you will," Atsushi smiles, "She seems to be quite taken with Kunikida."

Ranpo's eyes open a fraction, "You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

“I wish that were the case.” Kunikida mutters as he appears behind Atsushi. He pulls the newspaper from Atsushi's fingers and unfolds it. The burnt out remains of the Overlook stare back at him in striking full colour from the front page. “Look at this! We’re all over the news.” He growls, “The last thing we need is bad PR right now-”

“Forget the news.” Atsushi says, “Have you seen Yosano? How are Kyoka and Dazai?”

"Calm down, Atsushi. The three of them are with President Fukuzawa in the medical bay. Yosano told me to bring you two with me when I was on my way back." Kunikida says. Despite Yosano's treatment last night, he still cradles one arm to his chest as if nursing old wounds. He hesitates momentarily before adding, "There was… an incident yesterday - with Dazai. I think it's best if I let Yosano fill in the details, but, from what I understand, it was quite serious." Kunikida drops the newspaper on the corner of the desk and taps it with his finger, "And let's try not to mention this , if we can help it, alright? I fear it's a little too early to start talking about what happened."

Atsushi stares blankly at Kunikida, his mind spinning with questions.

Beside him, Ranpo dons a serious expression, accentuated by two flinty green eyes, "After what happened yesterday, don't you think we should be honest with each other? Dazai was left alone with Harris for hours and he completely warped his sense of reality - he'll be expecting dishonesty from us." Ranpo shakes his head, "Like it or not, Harris changed Dazai. We owe it to him to try our hardest to undo whatever was done. We need to be truthful."

"I don't disagree with you." Kunikida admits, choosing his words carefully, "But the last thing I want us to do is cause any undue stress. He's been through a lot, as have we all."

"Well, we can't just avoid the subject; it's bound to come up sooner or later."

"Then why don't we let Dazai decide?" Atsushi pipes up suddenly. The suggestion catches Kunikida off guard but Ranpo simply looks over with a raised eyebrow. Atsushi adds, "We won't mention the Overlook unless Dazai asks about it. That way, we only bring it up when he's ready."

"What if he asks right away?"

"And what if he never asks?" Ranpo adds, "Surely that's worse."

"Then it'll be his choice." Atsushi says simply. He shrugs his shoulders; it's not an unkind gesture, but one full of the utmost respect for his mentor. "When the time is right, Dazai will talk. I'm sure of it."

Ranpo looks at Kunikida, "Do you have a better idea?"

"I think it's an excellent suggestion, Atsushi."

"Really?"

"I do. As long as we're compassionate with the truth, I see no issue in waiting for Dazai to be ready." Kunikida says, ushering the two of them towards the hallway, "Now come along, we've kept Yosano waiting long enough."

Meanwhile, in the medical bay, Yosano and President Fukuzawa are sitting on either side of Dazai's bed with a small pile of coloured cards lying between them. Dazai is hunched over the pile with one hand tangled in his mop of brown hair. The vivid bruises on his neck are all that's left of his failed suicide attempt last night - without them, he just looks like Dazai: albeit mute and painfully bored. 

"I'm not sure I like this game." The president murmurs, placing a brightly coloured green eight on top of the pile.

"It's a favourite in the office." Yosano smiles, "So you have to learn how to play."

"It's a game of chance."

"Not true," Yosano holds a card between her index and middle finger, waving it in the air pointedly, "There's plenty of strategy to this game. Observe."

She places the card down: on the face is a picture of a green cross in a circle - skip a go.

"Mm." Fukuzawa hums.

Yosano places another card on top: a yellow version of the card below. Then another card: two arrows in yellow - reverse play. Another and another.

Yosano smiles, "See?"

Fukuzawa's expression is soft, his eyes pleasant and meditative. "I see." He nods, "Though this method seems quite ruthless.”

“It is, but that’s the only way to win.”

The door to the medical bay opens and Kunikida walks in followed by Ranpo and Atsushi.

“Ah,” Fukuzawa smiles warmly, “I am glad to see the three of you are alright. I see the good Doctor was able to heal your wounds, Kunikida.”

Dazai glances up at Kunikida when he hears his name in the air. Something dull and tuneless resonates within his ribcage - a spark of recognition, perhaps - but he struggles to identify it. His gloomy brown eyes are half-closed and barely focused on the three people on the other side of the room. They’re strangers - not worth an ounce of his dwindling energy.

Kunikida bows slightly to Fukuzawa, his ponytail hanging loose over one shoulder, “Yes, Sensei. Her work is invaluable.”
“Indeed it is. She was just teaching me how to play this card game everyone seems to be so interested in.”

From the adjacent bed, Kyoka pokes her head out from under the duvet, dark eyes shining curiously. “He’s not very good.” She says flatly.

“Kyoka!” Atsushi beams, “Are you okay? I was so worried about you.” He hurries over, planting himself at the end of her bed.

“I’m fine.” She says then, after a slight pause, she adds, “I heard what you did. You saved my life.”

“Oh that’s-”

Atsushi is cut off by Kyoka wrapping her arms around his neck. The colourful sleeves of her kimono hang across his shoulders as she squeezes him tight.

“Thank you.” She whispers.

From the other side of Dazai’s bed, Yosano looks at Fukuzawa. They exchange a look, after which Yosano turns to Kunikida and Ranpo. “Can I borrow you two for a second?”

Dazai watches them turn and leave together with Yosano in tow. He’s not sure if the secrecy is for his benefit or Kyoka’s, but he knows exactly what the three of them will be talking about. After all, Yosano and Fukuzawa can’t be with him twenty four hours a day and he has already made his intentions very clear. Killing Odasaku has extinguished the last light left inside him. All he can think about is the fire and his failure.

Like a rudderless boat, he’s cast adrift in a black torrent of despair with no hope of escape. He can still feel Odasaku’s blood under his fingernails and on the skin of his cheeks, permanently stained, no matter how hard he tries to scratch it off.

If only he could bring Odasaku back - he would kill everyone in this room.

Without hesitation.

Without remorse.

He closes his eyes and buries both hands in his unruly mop of hair. 

Maybe Harris was right; maybe he was an unfeeling monster. 

As the thought of Harris’ unyielding blue eyes surface in his mind, he feels a light pressure on his knee - it’s Fukuzawa. The president doesn’t say a word but the gesture speaks for itself.

I’m here , it says. 

Dazai doesn’t look up.

Chapter Text

The next few days pass slowly; a painful exercise in patience.

Fukuzawa and Yosano have both taken to sleeping in the office when they’re not watching Dazai - with Yosano awake during the night hours and Fukuzawa watching over the Agency during the day. Tanizaki and Kenji have taken over most of the heavy lifting when it comes to the daily duties of the ADA and, thankfully, nothing out of the ordinary has happened. The Port Mafia are either blissfully unaware of the ADA's weakened state or are taking advantage of the Guild's sudden destruction to reaffirm their supply lines in the city. Either way, it allows everyone to breathe a little easier.

Kunikida, Atsushi, Ranpo, Kyoka, Yosano and Fukuzawa all take turns watching Dazai. They sit together in pairs in shifts of eight hours each, rotating in with fresh files of paperwork or a few games to play whenever they have time to spare. Fukuzawa is initially resistant to the idea of Kyoka joining in, but she's quite persistent and seems to have fully recovered from the sedative Harris had administered.

From 6am to 2pm, Atsushi and Kyoka read stories together in the medical bay. There are quite a few books that Kyoka has never read and Atsushi takes pleasure in doing the voices of all the characters. When there's a female character, he hands the book over to Kyoka who reads all the lines with absolutely no inflection.

"You're supposed to sound scared." Atsushi chastises her playfully, "Look, she's about to be eaten by a dragon."

"This is my scared voice." Kyoka says. She peeks over the top of the book, her eyes void of expression. "Listen: 'Oh. I'm so scared.'"

Despite the stifled laughter and whispered words, Dazai doesn't usually wake up until midday, so the shift passes without incident.

From 2pm to 10pm, Ranpo and Fukuzawa pair together in a silence so peaceful that Dazai usually forgets they're even there. Ranpo will bring snacks and the President will bring a book and sometimes they'll discuss the events of the day but, for the most part, the evenings are spent in a meditative atmosphere.

From 10pm to 4am, Kunikida and Yosano follow up in the night shift. Kunikida uses the shift to stay in contact with Sheridan - who doesn't seem to sleep at all - while Yosano sets up in a corner with her laptop and headphones. She usually ends up watching a romance drama named Winter Sun and - if Kunikida is feeling particularly bored - he'll take up the seat next to her and she'll hand over one of her earbuds.

Interviews with King are not yielding any answers about the construction and contents of the Overlook so Kunikida, Sheridan and Ranpo are left to fill in most of the gaps themselves. 

However, separating fact from fiction is no easy task.

Ranpo wonders if the whole thing could have been a shared hallucination - triggered by a psychedelic element in the air - while Sheridan is adamant that the Overlook could create animals and objects to feed off of the fear of its residents; each creation an extension of itself.

Kunikida prefers not to guess. He simply opens his notebook and takes an inventory of all the evidence. The list is sparse, but at least it's concrete. Once he has finished that, he begins chronicling everyone's experience within the Overlook. The stories are almost identical between himself, Kyoka and Atsushi - all that's left is whatever happened to Dazai.

"Thank you for your company tonight." Kunikida says to Yosano as he picks up the last of his things from a desk by the door, "The night certainly passes quickly with you."

"Ah, the benefits of watching trash television together."

"Mm-hm."

Kunikida holds open the door for Yosano who steps into the darkness of the hall.

"Is it really okay to leave Dazai alone like this?"

"It's only for two hours while he's sleeping." Yosano says, "Besides I'll be just next door if anything happens. Now go on, you should get home before the sun starts to rise."

Kunikida's mouth pulls to the side as he closes the door behind him. "I'm worried about Dazai - he hasn't said a word to anyone since we got back."

"Everyone has their own way of working through these kinds of things." Yosano squeezes his shoulder. There's a sad knowing smile on her lips and a glimmer of sympathy in her eyes. "Trust me, you're doing the right thing by just being there for him."

"I wish I could do more." Kunikida sighs.

"We all do. Try and get some sleep." 

With those words left hanging between them, Kunikida finally turns to leave, disappearing into the inky shadows of the night. Meanwhile, Yosano retreats into a room next door to the medical bay. She's been carefully documenting Dazai's progress, sharing notes with Fukuzawa as the night shifts into the day. Once again, there isn't much to note down but she dutifully sets to work anyway.

The Agency sinks into a deathly silence.

The first tinges of sunlight are beginning to stain the sky violet. It's a beautiful sunrise, stretching out over the Yokohama skyline for miles. The glossy skyscrapers are illuminated in yellow and lilac as the darkness creeps away from the dawn. 

Dazai breathes in deeply as a cool breeze passes over the roof.

The brickwork is cold to the touch under his palms and rough too, like the skin of an old tree. His legs hang freely beneath him over dark streets and warm orange lamplight. 

If he jumped, he’d certainly break his legs. 

When Yosano wasn’t looking, he had been re-reading his well-thumbed copy of  ‘The Complete Suicide’ and had recently uncovered a new passage about falling. It was generally considered that falls from 100 feet or more (around eight stories) were impossible to survive. Yet people had survived. And they had survived from much higher heights, falling at incredible speed from an airplane or a high rise into the unyielding ground.

The highest point of the Agency stood at five stories tall - so, not a guaranteed death by the book’s standards. Although, if he were able to guide his fall and dive head first into the earth, a broken neck was sure to follow.

The wind brushes through his hair.

“Dazai.”

Dazai peers over the edge one last time. He thinks about letting go. Fingers slipping easily from the brickwork as the natural momentum of his body pulls him to the ground. Tumbling into the sunrise. Into the dark.

He holds on.

“Kunikida.” He mutters, “I thought you’d already left.”

As he casts his dark eyes over his shoulder, Dazai meets Kunikida’s cold gaze. His hands are in his trouser pockets, his posture calm and collected. It looks as though he’s rooted to the spot just a few meters away and - even if Dazai lets go - he wouldn’t be able to stop him. A fact that surely Kunikida knows as well as him.

“I knew you were awake.” Kunikida responds flatly.

Dazai blinks; it’s unusual to see Kunikida so composed, especially considering the circumstances. 

He hated to leave things to chance.

“You’ve been awake all day.” Kunikida adds, “Ranpo was the first to notice. He saw the book under your pillow and noticed the bookmark had moved. We weren’t going to pry at first, seeing as it’s your favourite book, so we didn’t ask you about it. I suppose my suspicions got the better of me though.” With a sigh, Kunikida’s expression softens, “I swore I wouldn’t ask until you were ready, but I need to know, Dazai. What did Harris say to you?” 

Dazai turns back to the pavement below. 

Every breath of wind feels as if it is urging him towards the edge and into the abyss. The ends of his trousers flutter about his ankles. Wouldn’t it be so easy to end it all now? 

He tightens his grip on the wall.

"Hm, well, I guess it doesn't matter anymore.” Dazai says, “He abandoned me to the fire and I let him fall - we’re both traitors.” He turns around, but Kunikida has kept his distance. 

Good. He wouldn’t want to make this any messier than it needed to be. 

Dazai swallows, “Harris asked me if anyone had ever seen me - really seen me. He told me how wonderful it was to truly be understood by someone. It was hard to believe at first, but you should have heard the way he told the story - like he was opening up his soul. It was like nothing else in the world mattered. This woman - Clarice - was capable of completely unravelling him, right down to the core, until he was nothing more than a mess of vulnerabilities and weaknesses. She could have burned him - that was being seen.

“That’s when I realised I had been seen.” Dazai’s chest feels tight and his voice takes on a strained quality. “He was the only person who understood me. And I killed him.” The tears fall before he can catch them and Dazai spins around so quickly that Kunikida’s heart drops.

“Dazai.” Kunikida forces himself to keep his tone level. He clears his throat and balls his hands up even tighter in his pockets.

Hold on. Steady yourself.

He breathes in deeply. 

“The person you killed was not your friend.”

Dazai palms the tears away from his cheeks. He doesn’t look back at Kunikida - he doesn’t want anyone to see him like this. “What do you mean?” He manages to say.

“It was part of Shelley’s power - manipulating the dead - it’s how she kept us away from you for so long. Myself and Kyoka have both seen ghosts from the past.” He explains with a frown. “I don’t mind telling her that what she saw was an illusion, but I can’t lie to you, Dazai. Not only because you would know right away, but because I have too much respect for you to continue hiding the truth.” A knot is slowly tightening in his throat, but he tries to ignore it as best as he can. “I killed Rokuzou.” Kunikida continues, “He tried to kill me and I shot him. That is something I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life, but I know the real Rokuzou died a long time before that.”

Dazai’s arms are stretched out on either side of him, gripping onto the wall so tightly that his knuckles are white. Tears stain his trouser legs and cloud his vision. The pavement wobbles in and out of focus.

“It hurts.” Dazai admits in a voice barely louder than a whisper, “It hurts so much.”

“Look, Dazai.” Kunikida feels himself being drawn towards the edge. He wants to sit with Dazai and pull him back from the precipice one last time, but he can’t risk moving. If he scares him into jumping, that would hang heavy around his neck for the rest of his life. “I know you’re in a lot of pain, but you didn't do anything wrong. Your friend…"

"Odasaku."

"Odasaku wouldn't have wanted to hurt you. That was what Harris wanted.” Kunikida’s hair whips across his shoulders in the breeze. “When we all got separated, he told me that he’d planned for every possible scenario, including what would happen if it appeared things weren’t going to plan. He told me he was going to break you beyond recognition-”

“Then he succeeded.”
“I don’t think so.” Kunikida snaps. The severity of his tone makes Dazai jump. “There’s still a lot I don’t know about you.” He admits, the lilac sunlight catching on the rim of his glasses, “Part of that is because I never asked and part of that is because that's just who you are, but the Dazai I knew is still in there. I know it is. I saw it in you when you broke my arm and in the medical bay."

"You're imagining things." Dazai says offhandedly, despite the flutter in his chest and the sweat on his palms. His heart squeezes painfully against his ribs.

He looks down as the wind whistles upwards, feathering his hair.

Kunikida is moving before he can stop himself and in a few short paces he finds himself beside Dazai. He can't bear standing alone anymore.

If he's going to jump, it's now or never.

But Dazai hesitates.

His dark eyes are red-rimmed and glossy with tears and the skin of his face is so pale it's almost translucent. He looks like a ghost.

He hasn't slept in all this time , Kunikida thinks.

"You can't pull me off of here." Dazai sniffs, "We'll both end up going over."

"I'm not going to stop you." Kunikida replies. He kicks his feet over the wall and perches next to Dazai; two dark shadows set against the orange sky. "I just want you to know I'm here, that's all."

"And what if I fall?"

"Is that what you want?"

Dazai looks over at Kunikida. The question is genuine and infused with earnest concern; he could almost picture the same words coming from Odasaku.

A small, thin smile forms on Dazai's lips. "You're a little bit like him, you know."

Kunikida smiles back. His whole body is tense with the fear of falling and seeing Dazai fall, but he pushes those thoughts from his mind. "Hm, and why’s that?”

“He made me question myself too.”

“A wise man.”

“He was.” Dazai sighs. As he looks over the skyline, he can see the sun rising up above the clouds, higher and brighter, warming his aching bones. “He asked me to be good before he died and, for the longest time, I thought I could become someone else and leave the past behind. It wasn’t easy - it was like starting my whole life over, but I knew it would have meant the world to Odasaku, even if it meant changing who I was. I just wanted to make him proud.”

“You’ve changed a lot of lives.” Kunikida says, “I mean that, Dazai. If it weren’t for you, the Armed Detective Agency might not be standing here today. Atsushi and Kyoka certainly wouldn’t be here and, without them, I don’t know how we would have survived the war with the Guild.” 

Dazai looks over at Kunikida. His body looks rigid and uncomfortable on the ledge. Despite his best efforts, he can’t keep the tremor out of his shoulders. “You’re scared.” Dazai says.

“I hadn’t noticed.” Kunikida replies. His glasses slip forward on his nose as he peers over his knees, “Though, now that you mention it, I think I would rather have this conversation anywhere else.”

He smiles and Dazai smiles in return.

“Do you think I’m a good man, Kunikida?” 

“I think there’s no else I would rather fight beside.” He answers without hesitation, “People will always have different ideas of what makes someone a good person or a bad person, but I know that you will always have your heart in the right place, and that's good enough for me."

Dazai feels his pulse settle somewhat as a peaceful silence hangs between them. 

If Kunikida believed in him, then hadn't it all been worth it? Hadn’t he become a good man?

And hadn’t he fulfilled his promise?

He knows the answer when he looks over at Kunikida, the two of them hanging side by side at the edge of the world, that this is what Odasaku wanted for him. A purpose. A friend. The candlelight by which he could guide himself from the darkness.

Kunikida was everything he wasn’t. 

A perfect mirror image.

And wasn’t that why they worked so well together?

On the street below, two figures move towards the agency; one with platinum blonde hair and the other in a kimono.

"Is it six already?" Dazai mutters, rubbing his eyes.

"It's ten to."

"Do you think they'll notice we're gone?"

"Probably," Kunikida nods. He plants one foot back on the roof and rolls his head to the side, cracking the stiff bones in his neck. With a sigh, he looks back at Dazai, "Although, I think another five minutes wouldn't hurt."

Dazai smiles and swings his legs back onto the roof,  "Alright, but let's sit somewhere else. You're shaking so much you're going to make me nauseous."

"This roof is six stories off the ground."

"Five." Dazai corrects, offering a hand to Kunikida, "I counted."

Kunikida puts his hand in Dazai's and gratefully sets both feet back on solid ground. "Of course you did." He sighs.

Chapter Text

"You know what I think?" Ranpo says, pulling a lolly from the corner of his mouth. "I think it doesn’t matter anymore.”

He wheels his desk chair over to the window and kicks up his heels onto the sill. The sunlight is pouring in, warming up the office and coating everything in a gorgeous honey glaze. If he wanted to, he could close his eyes and slip away into a dream.

“How can you say that?” Atsushi slaps a newspaper on Ranpo’s desk. Today’s headline reads: ‘Suspects still at large!’ And underneath are two grainy CCTV photos. One of Harris and one of Shelley. “What if they try to attack us again?”

“They won’t.” Ranpo says without turning around, “Since the Overlook can no longer act as a base, their abilities will be harder to focus and therefore weaker. Besides, the two of them will be long gone by now.” He reaches backwards and taps Harris’ picture, “He will have escaped to Italy; the height of class and sophistication for someone like him. The FBI have already been in contact, specifically a special agent by the name of Clarice Starling, and we seem to share the same deductions on that fact.” A smile touches the corners of his lips; he had enjoyed talking to her. She was just like him. “As for Shelley,” He picks up the paper and studies it under the sunlight. Her picture is quite distorted but he can make out the pensive expression on her face as she looks behind her. The colour of the photo doesn’t quite do justice when it comes to her bright amber eyes and the twist of dark hair against her cheek, caught in a passing breeze. Ranpo frowns, “I’m not so sure, but she will have gone somewhere isolated; the authorities in Geneva have been looking for her ever since her husband passed.” 

Atsushi raises an eyebrow, his irritation somewhat abated, “Why? What happened to him?”

“Strangled to death about a year ago. From the medical report, it doesn’t appear that Shelley could have caused the bruising herself, but she may have created someone who did.” He drops the newspaper back on the desk and crosses his arms behind his head, “A huge dead man, hm? He’d probably go somewhere cold. You know, decomposition and so forth.”

Atsushi’s mouth hangs open; even after all this time, he was still in awe of Ranpo’s deductive ability - and he always made it look so easy .

"Does that answer your question?" 

“Well… I guess so.” Atsushi mutters.

Meanwhile, Kunikida and Sheridan sit on opposite sides of his desk, sifting through a heap of manilla folders. 

“What is all this?” Sheridan says, taking up one of the folders in her hand. She’s dressed in black silk evening gloves and a red velvet dress, her dark hair pulled back into a severe ponytail. With a huff she flips it open, “I didn’t think there’d be so much reading~”

“Well, you don’t have to read them all.” Kunikida says, “I’ve already categorized all the evidence based on relevance and to whom or what it refers to." He moves a few of the files out of the way and pulls out a red spiral-bound folder, thick with papers, "For instance, this is your file."

"I have my own file?" Sheridan swoons.

"Yes. As you can see, we have already accumulated quite a lot of data." Kunikida adjusts his glasses and clears his throat, "Your records go all the way back to 1872; the year of the first census."

"Oh, yes, well I'm much older than the jinshin koseki*. Say, you didn't find any pictures, did you? I didn't really develop any fashion sense until the early 1900's..." Sheridan rattles off, flicking through the pages, "I was in America at the time; fifty or sixty years on the California coast. Such beautiful music. Such wonderful clothes." She sighs.

"That would explain the gap in these records…"

"Well, it looks like you’ve been very thorough.” 

“I take my detective work very seriously.” Kunikida says.

“Mm, clearly.” Sheridan flutters her long eyelashes - her big blue eyes glowing mischievously beneath her bangs, “Now, who else do you have dirt on?”

On the desk opposite Kunikida’s, Dazai pulls his headphones off of his head, “Kyoka!” He beams, “Kyoka, come sit down.”

Kyoka stops and looks over at him curiously. In her arms, she’s carrying a couple of crepes and a cardboard tray of milkshakes. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She says flatly, “Did you want something to eat?”  

“No, that’s okay.” He smiles, indicating the chair on the other side of the desk, “Please, sit down, just for a moment.” 

Kyoka looks at the chair, then at Dazai, before sitting down. “I’m not in any trouble, am I?”

“Hm? No, of course not, of course not.” Dazai rubs his neck where the interlaced black and blue bruises still peek out behind his bandages. It’s difficult to look her in the eye, but he forces himself to say his next words without looking away, “I just wanted to apologise for what happened at the Overlook.” He says, “I wasn’t… myself and I’m sorry for what I did. I didn’t mean to scare you or hurt you and there’s no excuse for-”

“Um, Dazai-sensei?”

Dazai blinks, “Yes?”

“You don’t have to apologise.” She says, “You weren’t yourself - we all know that.”

Dazai purses his lips before letting out a heavy sigh, “Yes, well, it still doesn’t excuse-”

“Dazai-sensei.” Kyoka interrupts, a little more firmly this time. There’s a small smile on her lips and in her voice as she adds, “Everybody makes mistakes. Everybody has regrets. ‘All that matters is what we do next’.” She turns around, spotting Atsushi on the far side of the office. He’s still bickering with Ranpo about something and seems to be getting nowhere fast. “That’s what Atsushi told me.” She says, setting her blue eyes on Dazai once more. “He’s good at finding the bright side like that.”

Dazai rests his chin in his hands as a faint smile returns to his face, “He is, isn’t he? I suppose we could both learn from him.”

Yosano smiles as she watches Dazai from the door frame of the President’s office. She can’t help it. She’s so glad to see everything falling back into place after a tumultuous couple of days - it makes all of the sleepless nights worth it.

“I do like to see this office so full of life.” Fukuzawa is saying as he comes to stand beside her, “And on such a wonderful day too.”

Yosano looks over with a raised eyebrow, “Have you slept at all, Sensei?”

Fukuzawa shrugs, “Perhaps. Though I will be glad to be sleeping in a real bed tonight.”

“Me too.”

“You could take this afternoon off if you’d like?” Fukuzawa’s sleepy eyes settle on Yosano’s golden butterfly clip, shimmering in the sunlight. With every slight movement, it comes alive. He smiles softly, “I doubt we will run into too much trouble without you, and you have already done so much for us.”

“I’m not tired.” She replies easily, “Why don’t you get some rest?”

“Nonsense - I’m not tired either.”

Yosano blinks twice and then grins, “How about another game of Uno, then?”

“Oh… Well…”

“Unless you are tired?”

“No, no.” Fukuzawa says, rubbing his eyes, “I just have some very important presidential… things to attend to.”

“Such as?”

“Ah, that would be top secret.” Fukuzawa turns around and heads further into his office, “And I would appreciate it if you would not pry any further.”

“Uh-huh.” Yosano smiles. She breathes in deeply; for now, everything is just as it should be.

And she plans on savouring every second.