Chapter 123

Naturally, the handgun offered no response; this dense, frigid object existed in silence. And yet it projected an unmistakable aura as I continued talking into it. “The gun is loaded but with blanks, I’m guessing.” I fired a single shot at the ceiling. The echo of gunfire followed, and a flash of light sliced through the darkness, but that was it. There was no bullet hole in the ceiling. “That was quite a performance you pulled off. Was all of this planned from the start? Was collapsing in front of my house part of this scheme, too? Because if so, that’s pretty impressive. Anyway, I’ve told you everything about the painting, so it’s time for you to keep your end of the deal. Take your men and get out of here. Then again, you could still come after me, and we could have a good ole fight to the death if you want. Either works for me.” I carefully inspected the pistol. Although I was no longer in the business, this used to be my tool of the trade. The balance of the gun’s weight was as familiar to me as my own fingers, but the grip was just slightly heavier than I remembered. Therefore, I pressed the release and let the magazine drop into my hand. That’s when I discovered that the polymer material on the side of the magazine near the grip screw had been scraped away in order to embed a small black rectangular device. Put simply, the gun had been bugged. I raised the wiretapped magazine like a microphone and spoke into it. “You’re going to sound three explosions within ten seconds and then disappear immediately afterward. If that doesn’t happen, then I’ll consider our negotiations a failure and go get you myself.” I tossed the listening device aside and started counting to ten in my head. Right as I reached between eight and nine, consecutive impacts shook the underground bunker exactly three times. A moment later, the noise abruptly stopped, and the resulting silence was so profound that it made my ears hurt. “We’re done here,” I said with a sigh as I began to leave. “I’m calling the police once I get out of this bunker—the real police. Every last one of you is going to be arrested, but they’ll at least patch you up and feed you, unlike the Mafia.” “W-wait…,” the officer demanded. “Why did you…? You said it yourself. They weren’t going to kill you. You even knew that the gun I threatened you with wasn’t real. Did you do all that for me? For us? But why?” The answer was simple, although I had no intention of telling him. Because what good would that do? I was empty. I was tired and wounded. I had been betrayed, and I had committed a betrayal. “I’m thirsty,” I quietly muttered. “I’m going home.” The officer said something, but I didn’t listen. I simply turned on my heel and walked away. The soft glow of the gaslights illuminated the faces of the commuters passing through the ticket gates while a handful of city-bound stars flickered faintly in the filmlike veil of night. Around the station, the night sky and city lights mingled as a backdrop to the silent procession of people making their way home. There were no explosions, no gunfire, no life-or-death negotiations. It was the calm, muted conclusion to a day that began and ended mechanically. Osamu Dazai and Sakunosuke Oda were at that same station, albeit in different places. Oda, utterly exhausted and rubbing his aching back, was part of the crowd leaving the station while Dazai stood and watched from the shadows beyond the reach of the streetlights. His gaze was fixed on Oda’s figure as it dissolved into the night. Oda walked along the station platform, exited through the ticket gate, and stepped out into the darkened city. After escaping the underground bunker, Oda had crossed a mountain to reach a nearby village where he negotiated with a farmer for a ride back to the city in the man’s farming vehicle. From there, switching between buses and trains, he had finally made it back to the station closest to his home, just as night fully settled in. Oda walked with a weary expression, kneading his shoulder and rolling his neck with an occasional soft crack. His clothes, wrinkled and smeared with mud, drew the occasional glance from passersby—fleeting, detached looks as if he were some strange foreign object—but no one said a thing. This was simply how people were in the city, after all. As he exited the station and passed beneath the pale glow of the streetlamps, Oda slipped a cigarette between his lips, then patted his coat in search of matches. “Here,” a voice suddenly called out from behind. Oda turned around. Someone was in front of him, holding a match that had a small flickering flame. He blinked, briefly confused, but then he leaned forward, bringing the cigarette in his mouth to the waiting flame. His eyes closed as he inhaled the smoke before slowly exhaling it into the cool night air. Finally, he lifted his gaze to the person before him. “Hey,” the person said. “You look rough. Are you okay?” It was Dazai. He stood there, half melted into the shadows of the night, his face marked by a faint, elusive smile. “…I’m fine,” Oda replied, looking at the man through the smoke. “I tripped. That’s all.” “These are your matches, right? I saw you drop them when you went through the ticket gate.” Oda glanced at the matchbox in Dazai’s hand—white-topped with black sides and printed with a bar’s emblem. There was no doubt about it; this was the matchbox that Oda usually had on him. “Yeah,” Oda murmured, his eyes settling on the matchbox. He then studied the man before him in silence for a few moments. “Have we met somewhere before?” Oda asked, his expression blank. “No, I don’t believe so.” Dazai offered a vague, unfazed smile. The bandages that had been covering his face were gone. Now a low-brimmed hunting cap concealed his eyes while a black inverness coat obscured both his build and any sign of injury. As for his voice, Oda had never heard Dazai speak before. “All right,” Oda replied, taking the matchbox before turning his back to Dazai. “Thanks for the matches. Have a good night.” But right as Oda had walked a few steps, Dazai called out to him from behind. “You seem to have gotten yourself into quite a bit of trouble.” Oda stopped and slowly turned around. “What?” “Oh, it’s just that you seem exhausted, and you’re deathly pale… Plus, even though it’s dark and hard to see, it looks like there’s more than just dirt on your hands and clothes. That’s blood, isn’t it?” Oda glanced at his own hands, realizing that he did still have blood on his wrists and cuffs from when he’d helped that fallen police officer sit up. “Yeah, a lot happened today,” he said while sniffing his hands. “It’s not my blood, but yeah, I guess I got myself into a little trouble. Something important was stolen from me—something I’d been protecting for years.” “In that case,” Dazai began with a weak grin, “then at least you can now stop worrying about it getting stolen.” Oda stared at Dazai for a few moments as if searching for some kind of answer. “I suppose,” Oda replied. “I won’t be able to forgive the man who stole it, though.” Dazai nodded slowly and deeply as if to conceal his expression. Meanwhile, Oda observed his face for a while, but he eventually turned his back to Dazai once more. “Thanks for the matches. Take care.” “If you ever find yourself in trouble…,” Dazai quickly added as Oda retreated, prompting Oda to turn around. “What?” “…then go to the Armed Detective Agency in Yokohama. They solve people’s problems and always get the job done. They’ve helped me out in the past, too.” “Really?” Oda replied after pondering for a moment. “I’ll do that. Thanks for the advice. You’re a good person.” Dazai’s expression shifted. He opened and closed his mouth as if he were struggling to breathe. If he told Oda everything now, things would all go back to how they were. The two of them would head to the bar together and raise a toast, just like they had that one night. “…Odasa—” But just as Dazai was about to unconsciously utter that name, an express train roared past, slicing through the nighttime silence. Alternating streaks of darkness and light flashed across the street as the clattering of iron shattered the tranquility. Oda narrowed his eyes. The train was long, its sound drawing out a feeling of sorrow. Dazai lowered his head, hiding his face, which was contorted in sadness. The prolonged roar of the train seemed to foreshadow how cruel the next six long years were going to be. After the train passed, Oda looked back, intending to ask the young man to repeat what he had just said. But no one was there. A flicker of confusion crossed Oda’s eyes. He blinked and surveyed his surroundings. Then, as if to dismiss the thoughts on his mind, he shook his head and walked away, his expression tinged with resignation. The cold, quiet night wind plunged through the void he had left behind. No words were spoken. The Port Mafia held on to the painting for a year before returning it to the tycoon’s son. He kept it for several seasons more until he anonymously donated it to a certain museum. This was how Dazai realized his goal. He’d managed to learn of the painting’s whereabouts from Oda without Oda ever knowing who he was or what he looked like, and by doing so, Dazai ensured that Oda would never again be targeted by any criminal organization. Dazai’s second goal had been to make Oda despise the Port Mafia so much that he would never join them, thus preventing his eventual death. This objective had also been achieved when Oda ended up getting involved with the Armed Detective Agency instead. Two years later, he became a member. Another two years would pass before Oda would face Dazai one last time—at the bar’s worn counter, accompanied by the sorrowful melody of a song about farewells. There, Oda would point a gun at Dazai, and Dazai would utter his final good-bye. The final good-bye of his life. The Day I Took In Dazai Side Beast – End