twisted devotion || Yandere!DAZAI/READER

[5] The Corpse

You're back in your hotel room, already having paid the reception for more days before you find a more stable place to stay in this strange, strange world. It didn't take long for you to disappear from this second world again, like a shadow gone missing after standing in direct sunlight (or the Zenith of the Sun), like a lipstick mark on a neck after a scandalous affair.

The show must roll on, as shows do.

But what about the aftershow? Its actors, its actresses; its props, the costumes, the lights, the ache in the bones after a particularly hard routine on the stage?

You could join a pilates club, a photography class, a preschool art teacher role. But you hated pilates, you didn't want to take pictures of this world, and you couldn't paint with children without losing your temper.

But did you want to save your life here? And if not, then what then?

You could always hang yourself. You could blow your brains out. You could drown yourself in the port, which was not that far away and always unguarded.

Idle speculation.

You weren't serious.

Therefore?

You're nursing a weak cup of coffee by your hands in your hotel room when there's a knock by the front door.

In the corridor, Dazai stands in the narrow, dingy hallway with Atsushi; young and nervous in his overalls, he looks at his superior with a worried look. The door opens slightly.

"Hi (last name), we're here to a..."

SLAM!

The two stare at each other briefly before knocking again, talking to the door.

"(Last name) this is urgent," Dazai pauses, "There's been a homicide concerning the use of abilities."

A beat. The door opens slightly. You're contemplating the ramifications of his statement, its tone holding a certain sense of authority; it had its own darkness that you didn't want to necessarily rebel against. Yet you bite your lip and think back on the strange Entrance Exam they had put you through without much of a notice; you think about the welt of terror that struck through you at the prospect of seeing Dazai's throat be slit before you: at least, its potential of seeing it unfurl before you. You peer at them through the gap before letting them through.

"There's no way," You start off, breaking the silence once they settle on a chair: Dazai sitting on your bed and Atsushi by the chair of the desk, the latter's fingers nervously fiddling with the fabric that covered his knees, "You gave me a life-threatening 'exam' to do without my consent and now you want my help for some case that I have no experience in?"

"May I finish?" Dazai asks. You sharply turn your head at him.

"No. You already have my answer," You hand each a cup of coffee, "You guys are strange; I'll be fine on my own."

"But how?" Dazai puts his cup down on the nightstand, by the antique lamp, "You have no papers or I.D. pertaining to this world; by all accounts, you're practically a ghost here. How will you get a job?"

"Anywhere will take anyone who's desperate enough."

"There's only one place desperate for folks and that's the Port Mafia," Dazai says, crossing his legs and looking at you square in the eyes. There's a challenge in his gaze; will-o-wisps of warning signs blazing in his eyes as his voice lilts sharply, "You don't want to cross paths with those people; I can guarantee you that."

"The mafia?" You repeat, incredulously. Atsushi nods meekly.

"We had a spat with them a few months ago; Naomi almost died during a fight between one of the members and myself included," He says, his voice unwavering despite the look of pain welling over his face, "They don't show mercy to anyone."