Dazai kicked the counter again, but this time, I heard something even worse—the kettle rocking from side to side. The universe had really outdone itself. This was unlike anything I had ever experienced: a kettle overhead, a knife by my face, counterfeit bills somewhere in the house, police at the door, and me choking out a man I’d just happened to have met not too long ago. If the kettle fell, scalding water would spray everywhere. A kitchen knife might give you a little cut, but that kettle was ready to baptize everyone in the room with life-threatening burns. Meanwhile, the officers were starting to kick the door down; they must have heard us grappling inside. “Hee-hee-hee, ha-ha-ha!” Dazai giggled before passing out in my arms. The kettle looked like it was going to fall any second. I grabbed the knife in the floor and threw it upward. It caught the falling kettle in midair right at the handle, and the blade embedded itself into the wooden cabinet. The kettle came to a sudden halt, suspended and swaying wildly until a few drops of boiling water splashed from the spout and landed on the back of my hand. It burned. A lot. The police officers suddenly barged in, looking just as surprised as I was—their eyes were wide, as if they, too, had never encountered anything like this before. After all, they’d just walked in on someone strangling an injured young man who was blissfully unconscious. It didn’t help that a kitchen knife was lodged into the counter, holding up a kettle as if it was about to pour everyone a cup of tea. Silence fell. The officers stared at us, seemingly at a loss for words. Never in my wildest dreams did I think my first time being arrested would go down like this. “Take off your shoes.” Maybe that was why such an idiotic remark had just slipped off my tongue. The officers exchanged glances. One was quite up there in years while the other was relatively young, but both of them wore the same standard uniform and hat. “Oh, right,” the older man said with a vague nod. “This is shaping up to be a pretty strange day of work.” “I know how you feel,” I replied. While a series of bizarre events had unfolded today, the strangest of them all had yet to happen. The real treat was what came next. Though I said that I knew how the officer felt, I was wrong. Very wrong. I didn’t understand a thing about their job or what was about to happen. Out of nowhere, the two officers each took out a gas mask, put them on, and dropped something onto the ground. It was a gas grenade. Only as the white narcotic gas began to leak out did I finally realize what was going on. Police officers would never use knockout gas to question people. In other words, these guys weren’t the police. Although I could see the future, it was already too late. I sprang to my feet and could’ve barreled through the two men to escape, but I didn’t…because I saw one of them draw a gun and point it at Dazai. It was clear that they would shoot without hesitation if I resisted. Even through their gas masks, I could tell that they were serious. I raised my hands, and in my final fading moments of consciousness, it hit me: I should’ve kicked Dazai down the stairs the instant I saw him climbing up my stoop that morning. But then again, regret had always been a part of my life. What harm would a little more do? And just like that, I passed out. Meaningless images flickered and vanished in my mind. A café. Cerulean rain painting patterns on the windows. A trilogy with only the first two volumes. Regret. Bloodstains on the wall. “There is no forgiveness in this world.” The voice of my younger self. He was right. No one would forgive me. I wouldn’t forgive myself, either. The missing last volume. “Writing novels is writing people.” A bearded man, his voice ringing with truth. Or maybe I just needed it to. I was still walking the long rails toward that answer. Someday, at a desk in a room with an ocean view… When I opened my eyes, I had no idea where I was. All I saw in front of me was a wall—bare concrete, dim and damp, stained dark where water had been dripping down it. There was nothing else in sight. Even when I turned my head, all I could see was that wall. I couldn’t move the rest of my body, either, since I was tied to a chair. “There’s something I need to tell you before we start,” a voice began—a familiar one coming from behind me. “I’m not a fan of violence.” It was the older officer who had broken into my house. “I dislike both being subjected to violence and inflicting it myself, so I’d appreciate it if you could view this purely as a business transaction.” There was a sharp whshh. A searing pain immediately tore through my back. My skin split open, and my bones creaked. Something hard had struck me—perhaps a baton, the butt of a gun, or even a blackjack—but I still couldn’t see the attacker. All I knew was that the pain was racing up my spine and shooting through my skull. “Bet you felt that one, huh?” noted the older man. His voice was gentle, almost instructional, like a teacher explaining a lesson to a child. “I held back, though. After all, I’m well acquainted with just how much pain a person can take, and I know when they’ve reached the point of no return. Haven’t been in the business for decades for nothing.” “And yet, you still haven’t figured it out,” I said, forcing the man to pause for a second. “…What do you mean?” he asked stiffly. “You don’t know the first thing about torture. You’re supposed to ask questions first before inflicting pain. What’s the point of hurting someone before they can even give you something? All that does is makes both parties exhausted.” It sounded like the man faintly snorted. Then he hit me again, this time near the base of my neck. I saw a flash of light as the pain ricocheted through every nerve in my body. This pain was sharper, deeper than before, as if someone had yanked out my entire nervous system through my spine. “You’re right, lad. This isn’t textbook torture,” he said from behind me. “There are times where you should strictly do things by the book, but there are also times when you need to deviate from the text. I have a good grasp of which tactic to apply here. What you just experienced was merely a warm-up to loosen your lips, so don’t you worry about a thing.” “I’m relieved,” I replied, staring at the wall. “Let’s get started, then. I don’t know anything about the counterfeit money if that’s what you’re after, though.” The counterfeit bills Dazai had brought—those were the root of it all. A ticking time bomb smuggled in by the harbinger of disaster himself. With forgeries that convincing, it wouldn’t surprise me if foreign intelligence agencies were starting to get involved as well. The man’s reaction, however, caught me completely off guard. “…Counterfeit money?” His puzzled voice drifted aimlessly with an uncertainty that eventually unraveled into nothingness. My gut was telling me that he had no idea what I was talking about. “You don’t know about the money?” I asked. “You didn’t kidnap me to ask about the counterfeit bills and Dazai?” “So Dazai’s your friend’s name? Just who is he?” I almost brought up that he was a member of Port Mafia before I bit my tongue. If these guys weren’t after the counterfeit money, then it was in my best interest to keep Dazai’s profession a secret. “We seem to have ourselves a little misunderstanding. Allow me to clarify something,” the man said. “It’s you we’re after.” “What?” “Where is the painting?” the man demanded in a sharp, commanding tone. I paused to quietly contemplate the question for a moment before answering, “What are you talking about?” “You know what I’m talking about.” His voice was firm and solemn—the kind of voice a person would use before pushing someone off a cliff. “You and your people paid a certain man a visit one night at his home and stole the painting, and now we want that painting.” “I have absolutely no clue what you’re talking about,” I insisted. “Are you sure you’re not mixing me up with someone else?” I was hit with another blow before I even finished my sentence. This time, it was my shoulder. It felt like a blood vessel had snapped, and a sharp numbness jolted from my neck all the way to my fingertips. “Yes, I’m sure. We don’t make those kinds of mistakes,” the man patiently explained. He sounded like he was purposely suppressing his emotions. “You used to work for an organization that would kill for money—a ruthless, heartless bunch. Now, I have no idea what exactly you did for this organization, but seeing that you’re a delivery boy now, I’m guessing that you were an accountant or a messenger at best. But that organization itself was powerful. Legendary even. It used to be synonymous with fear in the underground world, up until it was dissolved seven years ago. But although we thoroughly investigated the organization, we somehow only managed to identify you. It was as if the other members had simply vanished, like they never even existed.” “I don’t want to talk about that organization.” “But you will, lad. You’ll be telling me everything about them soon, whether you want to or not.” I heard him mindlessly tapping his baton against his palm. “That painting is worth five hundred million, and if we play our cards right, we could make a billion off it. I’m willing to give you a cut if you’re up to it. You don’t have the connections to sell it yourself anyway, right?” “You’ve got it all wrong,” I quietly replied. “I know the organization you’re talking about, and I did work for them in the past, but I don’t know a thing about this painting.” “Don’t you think it’s possible that another member in your former organization hid the painting?” “It’s very possible.” The man sighed as if he had instantly aged five years. “Honestly, it’s always like this. We’re like starving stray dogs with our noses to the ground, following the scent of our next potential meal. But just when we think we’re finally there, we find out the food was loaded onto a truck and taken somewhere else a long time ago. And so we sniff the air again, following the truck’s scent across the wilderness. It’s a never-ending cycle.” “I feel for you.” In truth, I did feel kind of sorry for him. The only reason they ended up kidnapping Dazai was because he happened to be there with me. Unfortunately for them, however, Dazai wasn’t a free bonus with purchase—far from it. He was a member of the Port Mafia and most likely one with a lot of influence, too. But now that they had kidnapped him, it was too late. Even if they scrubbed him clean, patched up his clothes, and returned him in mint condition, the Port Mafia wouldn’t let this go. These crooks could get on all fours and beg for forgiveness, and the Port Mafia would flatten the back of their heads with an excavator. In other words, their fates had been sealed. The only question left was whether Dazai and I would meet our ends as well. Still, I couldn’t threaten them with the Port Mafia, no matter what. I was positive that if they found out Dazai was a member, they would be so terrified that they’d try to hide their stupidity with even more stupidity. They’d probably bury Dazai and me under some concrete, then try to run far away to the other side of the globe before our bodies were discovered. They wouldn’t have any other choice. That was why I had to pretend that Dazai was my mysterious friend. Nothing more, nothing less. “At any rate, we have some framework to build off now,” the man said with an icy chill. “All that remains is for you to sing like a bird, and should you need a gentle nudge, I’d be more than glad to help. Sometimes you gotta work your fingers to the bone to get somethin’ done, right?” He sounded giddy. I heard him repeatedly slap his baton against his palm. It was clear that he was going to literally work my fingers to the bone at this rate. “And if I don’t talk?” I asked. “Then you’ll regret it, like a perp wishin’ he started singin’ the moment he got pinched.” But before I could reply, his radio started crackling. “What?” he responded. Although I couldn’t make out what the other person was saying, there was a clear sense of urgency in their tone. “All right. I’ll be there in a second. Cuff him before I get there.” After he cut off the radio, I heard his footsteps fade into the distance until he eventually stopped and left me with a few parting words. “I’m going to give you some time to think. Don’t count on anyone coming to your rescue, either. This is an old wartime bunker. Barely anyone even knows it exists. So you’ve got to make a decision now: become incredibly rich or become rat food. I’m hoping you’ll make the right choice, for everyone’s sake.” I had carefully observed the shape of my fingernails on both handcuffed hands around fifty times when Dazai eventually appeared. “Hey, long time no see,” he said with the exact same ambiguous smirk he was wearing before we’d been kidnapped. “Did they not torture you?” I asked while examining him from head to toe. “Torture? Oh, that? They were supposed to be torturing me?” He seemed, if anything, somewhat more radiant than usual. “I was restrained and surrounded by a couple of guys, but their friends dragged them away before they even started torturing me. After I shared some insightful words, they started hitting each other and crying that they didn’t want to die.” “Really? What did you say to them?” “I could tell you…but are you sure you want to know?” Dazai grinned like a monster from the depths of the underworld’s sea. “On second thought, I think I’m good,” I replied after a moment or two. We were in a makeshift prison cell used to detain captives. It must have originally been a simple nap room within the bunker designed to protect against air raids. The space was about the size of a modest guesthouse room, with nothing more than the rusted frame of a bed bolted to one corner. The door had been replaced with a raw, crudely welded iron one. A thick mooring chain and an enormous padlock hung from the doorknob. Several black power cables ran along hooks lining the walls, leading to a murky cage lamp in the back, which was the only source of light. The lack of ventilation left the air thick and stagnant. “Who do you think these guys are?” I asked. “A crime syndicate,” Dazai casually replied, jangling his handcuffs. “Except they’re not a massive organization like the Port Mafia. They’re more like a tiny storefront that could get blown away by even the slightest breeze. That said, their background is a little intriguing. Have you ever heard of the Forty-Eight?” I pondered for a moment before shaking my head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.” “This is actually the first time I’ve ever encountered them. They’re tougher to find than most other criminal orgs. In fact, it’s practically impossible. Even if there was some sort of great purge and Yokohama became an almost crime-free paradise, the Forty-Eight would still survive and continue to do business as usual here…because they’re all former police officials.” I narrowed my gaze. “Local precinct patrolmen, disgraced Special Forces officers, corrupt cops who did time and got out, detectives from public security foreign affairs who’ve been issued burn notices,” Dazai continued. “Countless former police personnel who fell from grace for different reasons built this small but solid labyrinth of an organization where they utilize their skills, contacts, and knowledge for criminal purposes. There are various theories about the origin of their name, the Forty-Eight, but it most likely refers to the forty-eight-hour window police have to refer someone they arrested to a prosecutor.” “In other words, the fake cops who stopped by my house used to be actual police officers,” I said, thinking back to earlier. “But how did you figure that out?” “You couldn’t tell? Their mannerisms gave subtle hints and their speech was peppered with old cop jargon.” I retraced my memories. Now that he mentioned it, the man who’d tortured me had said a few words that got my attention: “You’re gonna regret this, like a perp wishin’ he started singin’ the moment he got pinched.” Perp—short for perpetrator. Sing—to confess. Pinched—arrested. All old-school police slang. The kind of language that stuck with cops, especially when it had been second nature for decades. “The Forty-Eight specializes in extortion through their former connections, selling off confiscated goods, leaking information from inside the police force—that sort of thing,” Dazai explained. “Think of them as fallen heroes. Their operation might be small, but they have a lot of members with genuine law enforcement training, so you can’t underestimate them. There are tons of criminal organizations in Yokohama, but the Forty-Eight are probably the only ones hated by both police and other criminals.” “You sure know a lot about them.” “I don’t, actually. I have no idea what they’re trying to do,” Dazai replied as he crouched with his back to the wall. “They said they were looking for some sort of painting. Any idea what that’s about?” “No,” I said, looking at him. He fixed his gaze on me. His eyes were like a bottomless sea at midnight—dark, still, merciless. Get too close, and they’d pull you under, never letting you go. Dazai studied my face with unwavering intensity, catching every twitch—every flicker of emotion—like he was dissecting me one layer at a time. It felt as if even the tiniest cells in my body were under his microscope. There was no telling how long that heavy silence hung between us, but eventually, he broke it, his serious voice edged with gravity. “You know what they’re looking for, don’t you?” My gaze drifted into empty space, chasing something that wasn’t there as I peered into the past. I really wanted a smoke for some reason. “Yeah,” I replied. “Why didn’t you say anything?” “Because it’s none of their business,” I said, taking a seat next to him. “They can talk all they want, but they’ll never get their hands on that painting. It’s somewhere they’ll never find it, and as long as I live, that painting isn’t going anywhere.” “Why?” “Because that’s what I decided.” Dazai seemed as if he was going to say something back to me, but he eventually fell silent. His gaze wandered elsewhere, like he was trying to locate an answer hidden somewhere out of reach. “Okay,” he replied, shifting his eyes forward. “Then let’s not talk about it anymore. Let’s discuss what we’re going to do now.” I found it strange that Dazai backed off so easily. He could have walked out of here without a scratch if he had just gotten me to tell him where the painting was. And yet, his eyes remained calm, carrying that quiet, tender indifference unique to someone who had already made up their mind. I couldn’t quite grasp the reason behind it, though. “So… What do you want to do?” Dazai asked me. “Get out of here. There’s no point in staying any longer.” “That’s a brilliant idea.” He raised both his hands in front of him. “But how exactly do you propose we do that?” Both our wrists were bound by handcuffs, and not the toy kind or cheap imitations but the real thing used by actual law enforcement. To make matters worse, the door to our cell was securely locked. “I know how to break out of here,” I said. “But some things are beyond my control. What I need first…is a reason.” “A reason?” “You’re not interested in escaping, are you?” Dazai gave me a puzzled stare. “Do you plan on saving me, too?” “I want to, but you don’t have a reason to come with me and get out of here.” He darted his eyes around. “Good point. I can just kill myself here, so you go on ahead and escape. I’ll—” “I’m bringing you with me, even if I have to tie a rope around your neck and drag you out of this place.” He stared at me with his jaw on the floor. “Were you always this aggressive?” “When I make up my mind to do something, I do it,” I stated, shifting my focus to the sounds beyond the door. I strained my ears, but there didn’t seem to be anyone on the other side. “So if I ask you to come with me, will you?” “I don’t know. I’m not exactly a good person who’ll do something just because someone asks me to. In fact, people usually have a hard time trying to get me to do anything. What’s in it for me?” I was honestly surprised to hear him say that. “Do you really think I have something that you’d want?” I asked. “No clue,” Dazai replied with a resigned smirk. “I really don’t know. You see, I’ve never met anyone like you. That’s why I’m asking.” I thought about it for a moment. I had a vague idea of what he might have been after, but it wasn’t anything that I could offer him. However… “Death is the only thing left that I want.” “Why does everyone die in the end?” “Dazai,” I said. “Let’s go to that place I was telling you about once we get out of here. It’s not that far.” His eyes opened wide. “The place you’d have to be an idiot not to go to at least once before you die?” “Yep.” Dazai’s eyes flickered as I held his gaze steadily. For reasons I couldn’t explain, something in that exchange mysteriously awakened a distant memory, stirring forgotten fragments from my childhood like dust disturbed after years of stillness. “Dazai, you’re right. There’s no good or evil in wanting to die. The world seems full of important things, but in truth, nothing really matters. Life and death—none of it holds meaning. The place where I’m about to take you probably won’t be anything close to what you’re hoping for, either. You’ll likely find little value in it, just like what you’d find in rocks and scraps of paper.” He stared at me, dumbfounded, as if he couldn’t quite believe what was unfolding before his eyes. I dropped my gaze to my palm, pressing my fingertips against its surface to make sure my senses remained intact. After that, I continued feeling a few more spots, buying myself a little more time before eventually voicing what had been waiting at the tip of my tongue. “But what if you find something worthwhile?” Silence settled between us. I had never tried to get this close to someone’s heart before, let alone had any experience in succeeding. But strangely, I didn’t really regret it. Even if I hadn’t said those words here and now, I felt certain that somewhere down the line, in some other place and time, I would have ended up saying them to Dazai all the same. He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he sighed softly, laced his fingers behind his head, and stared off into the distance in thought. The chain between his cuffs rattled faintly. “I can’t believe I’m about to be convinced by someone who would say something so ridiculous,” he scoffed. Then, almost as if trying to hide his expression, he turned his head away, only to glance at me out of the corner of his eye. “A secret place… I mean, I guess I could go with you, since you’re practically begging me.” I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, don’t be shy.” “I’m not! I’m not being shy! And I’m not getting my hopes up, either!” I scratched my head. “Then how about this? If you die here, I’m going to make you a grave, and your tombstone will read: ‘Here lies Dazai, the man who never once beat Sakunosuke Oda at poker.’” Dazai stared at me, briefly dumbfounded. “A-absolutely not! All right, fine. I’ll get us out of here!” he exclaimed. After he stood up, he raised his hands and snapped his fingers. The tightly locked handcuffs smoothly slid off and fell to the floor like a magic trick. “Those handcuffs have been unlocked this entire time, haven’t they?” I said. “I found a piece of wire and picked the locks before I got here.” “Can you do something about the lock on this door, too?” “Of course,” Dazai replied smugly. Then, as if something had just occurred to him, he glanced over at me. “Hold on. When you said that you knew how to break out of here—was the plan to have me pick the lock on the door?” I shrugged. “A few days into your recovery, I noticed that the lock on the chain around your legs had been secretly picked and that you were just piling the chains over each other to make it look like they were still locked.” “Whaaat? You noticed? Lame.” He pouted. Dazai then seized my handcuffs, inserted a wire into the keyhole with practiced ease, and twisted it deftly for a moment until a sharp metallic click announced the internal mechanism had been disengaged. Immediately, the handcuffs slipped off, dropping to my feet. “I don’t remember the last time I was excited to go somewhere,” Dazai said with a smile as he rubbed his wrists. “I’m starting to feel like I won’t even mind if there’s nothing there. Anyway, let’s get out of here and get us some fresh air.” The underground bunker was long and labyrinthine, resembling the inside of some undiscovered subterranean creature’s body. Guided by only a dim light, Dazai and I moved forward with our hands against the damp walls while black insects occasionally darted away from our approaching fingers. The sound of dripping water was echoing in the distance, and a faint breeze flowed by. The wind was cold and humid, carrying a gloomy odor like someone’s breath. Yet we continued advancing toward the source of the draft. “Even if we do get out of here,” Dazai began while he walked behind me, “that doesn’t mean that they’re gonna give up on this painting. You’re going to need to come up with a plan to deal with them…unless you plan on living the rest of your life as a vagabond. Have any thoughts on what you’re going to do?” “Not really. I don’t plan on moving, either,” I replied, facing forward. “I’ve been attacked my fair share due to my past, and I’ve made it out alive every time. I plan on living until I die this time, too.”
Chapter 119
24 min read