𝐍𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞. / Dazai Osamu x Reader

6. The Boss

The best way to describe the sound was a buzz. Arguably a ring. Your consciousness swayed like a boat in a storm, the passengers falling and tumbling at each riotous wave as it crashed against the hull. Your vision faded in and out like a lens trying to focus, failing.

Finally, when your eyes adjusted, you groggily examined the room. It was dark, lit by just the eery red light leaking from the top of a staircase. The walls were brick under chipped concrete. They also looked red, but it could have been the lighting, or something else that made figuring out what it's original colour could have been near impossible.

Hearing a rattle, it then struck you; you were cuffed to a piller.

Stupidly, your couldn't help but feel more panicked about the fact that you hadn't eaten your bread, your lunch. In fact, you were more hungry than afraid.

The room was empty, quiet. Unfortunately, you didn't have a hairpin, so pulling a cliché escape move was out of the picture. Say you even did escape, what was beyond the staircase was an enigma, and may just be a shortcut to the afterlife. So, you did nothing.

In that time you concluded that the vampire looking man must have been the culprit to your current dilemma. You began to regret going out. You should have had that rice in your freezer instead. You should have taken the long route. You should have stayed with Dazai. Idiot, idiot, idiot.

Footsteps. Your eyes snapped up at the clack of heels, a bat like shadow snaked against the wall, following in suit, was a lady in traditional garb, her haori hissing as it slithered behind her.

Your gaze met her knife sharp eyes which held no glimmer of mercy.

"You're awake."

You looked back up to the top of the stairs she came from.

"The boss wants to talk you, regarding your work."

Your work?

She reached under her haori, and in one swift motion, your cuffs fell to the floor with a clank. She then silently motioned for you to follow her, glancing sharply at you as a warning not to act out. You did as ordered whilst stretching your stiff arms, as you wondered what the purpose of chaining you to a wall was if they were going to be sliced-what a waste of budget.

As you walked down the hallways, you hoped to retrace your steps, yet all the corridors and staircases seemed the same. Each turn felt repetitive, familiar, and yet unfamiliar, it was disorientating. Quite frankly, keeping track of your steps was futile.

The pair of you, after a short while, arrived before a large mahogany door, where two burly men stood outside. Upon seeing you approach, they moved aside, opened the doors, and allowed passage.

In the centre of the room, was a man sipping a fragrant cup of tea, looking out over the crimson painted city below him. Beside him, on the floor was a young girl in an apple red dress. She had a box of crayons with paper strewn about her, a youthful smile on her face as she raised her magnum Opus to the man, who smiled proudly in response.

He swapped his gaze from the paper to his guests, the endearing smile replaced by one cold, calculative, cajoling. The man gestured for you to hither closer, the lady turning to leave.

You were frozen in place when, suddenly, large blinds came down on the window, blocking the streaming sun.

The man was now behind a desk, at the far end of the room, patiently waiting for you. There was silence, with only the sound of crayon rubbing against paper echoing through the room.

"Do you understand why I called you?" He asked.

You shook your head.

"You have a photo, one you shouldn't." The boss said, leaning his head into his intertwined hands. "I'd like you to hand over the files."

"What?"

"Must I repeat myself? We need that camera."

You were caught of guard. When the red lady said the meeting was to do with your work, you had quickly arrived at the conclusion that the mafia had stolen your card, and that they planned to interrogate you for whatever damn misunderstanding they had came to. "No, I heard you fine well, what would you want to do with my camera, should I hand it over to you?"

"Destroy it."

"Of course", you said pinching your brow, "I'm just confused. What's the need is for the camera, you already have the SD card, the camera itself is of no value to you."

The mans face lifted like an alarmed cat, purple eyes no longer piecing but round like a magnifying glass. "We don't have such a thing."

Now both of you shared the same expression. And again, the room descended into a pregnant silence. The man, however, was the first to collect himself.

"It seems this situation is much more troubling than I had anticipated." He hummed, fingering his stubble. "I have a proposition; you, dear photographer, find that memory card, bring it to me, and you may walk away freely. I will promise the mafia will no longer be affiliated with you."

You took a moment to think, then accepted. "But," you interjected, "I have two conditions."

"Let us hear it."

"One, that card is important to me, you can do whatever you want with the files, so as long as I get the physical card back."

He looked at you quizzically for a moment, thought for a while, then nodded "arranged."

"Secondly, I deserve an explanation."

"Of course, of course," the man chuckled, "I assume you've figured you're in the Port Mafia headquarters." Seeing you nod, he continued, "the photo I speak of, it's of a passageway. Our cameras caught you take a photograph inside our territory. We can't have you publishing that-you understand where I'm coming from-that's why I called for you, because we assumed you had it."

You sighed, this would be a bother. He spoke again, beckoning you forth. He fished through his drawers, pulled out a sheet of paper, scribbled something, then held it out for you too see. He pointed at the glimmering sheet, "this is called a Silver Oracle. It will grant you the ability to go wherever you want, get help from whoever you want in the mafia without question. However, by giving you this, I expect no delay."

You examined the shimmering silver parchment, hesitantly, you took it the paper from the boss's hands, "I look forward to great things, dear photographer."