d. fyodor x reader x o.dazai | You had been destined to die from the beginning. Through you does she slip, like sunlight through a sieve, settling onto the ruins of future human relationships, thereby destroying any chance of existence. Dead before...
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"I, SANCTIONED IN THIS SLAVERY."
"And how are we planning on getting a page of this Book when we don't even know where it is?"
"We do know," Fyodor says. He's invited you to his room, which was a small, dark enclosure with a multitude of CCTV camera TVs flanking one wall. On the other was a medium sized wooden desk, books piled on the floor, their handsome leather gleaming dully in the dim light that spilled in. There's a certain smell to the room—something sterile, with a twinge of copper. On the table you see a small saucer filled with...
"Is that blood?" You ask, the black pool unmoving despite Fyodor taking a seat on his chair.
"Yes."
You lean against the wall. "Whose?"
"Mine," He says. His voice is as dark and velvety as the thick air; it almost seemed as if the very molecules around him were aligning to create a solid aura, his sinister demeanour almost palpable to your senses. Like the icy chunks and rock composing Saturn's rings. "A small example of what's to come, little mouse."
"I'm to commit mass murder," You lift up your hand and stare at your palm. The very palm your mother had once traced the lines on as Asian horoscopes go, the palm that had once been so capable of gentleness, now subverted into violence, like a fruit peeled off and its flesh toxic. "How?"
He smiles. "Have you ever played tag?"
A pause. You stare at him, your shoulders sagging.
"So your plan is for me to run through the building just touching people as I run past." You deadpan.
"That is correct," He says.
"Is there no other elegant way to go at it?"
"This is the most efficient way."
"But then I'll be recognised as a terrorist. Wasn't the entire point of me being in the Decay of Angels that I was unknown?"
"This will be your debut as a domestic terrorist," Fyodor says. He turns around and you walk closer, peering over his shoulder. He pricks his finger on a hook—you notice that it's a fish hook, fish bait; blood oozes like a growing night on his fingertip, before he raises it over the saucer. Blood drips, surface tension rippling, droplets slowly assimilating with the rest of the thick liquid as a new drop of blood began to sprout in the twig of his finger, blossoming into a red rose with its petals of fantastical elasticity and velvet. Then he wipes his finger with a napkin, blots of blood dotting the fabric like polka dots. "Tell me, (first name)."
