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 DECLARE WAR."
"This is really bad."
Is what Atsushi says as he puts down the newspaper, the soft paper crinkling between his gloved fingers. On his face is a look of consternation and concern, with a twinge of anger.
"How could someone do something like this? Out of anyone, a university dropout?" He asks Dazai, who sighs. Dazai takes the newspaper and sticks it onto the conference room whiteboard, the magnet clicking against the smooth cold surface.
"Her name is (last name) (first name)," The brunette says. "The President and I have met her; last time we saw her, she was skittish and afraid."
"How could she have changed so drastically?" Yosano asks. "From a university drop out to a terrorist?"
"I'm afraid this situation is similar to the cannibalism incident," The president's deep voice sounds out like a church organ, directly speaking to God. "Manipulated by the rats of the underground."
"There's no doubt Fyodor's messing with her head," Dazai agrees, before he puts a hand over his eye. "We tried so hard to get her to our side to avoid this."
Atsushi looks at the newspaper article again. The small photograph of bloodied corpses, mangled and torn apart and shredded, spoke volumes to him: this was someone who was unafraid of blood. Someone unafraid of extreme violence, someone who was unafraid to live regardless if it took lives down with them, like a starved centipede. He feels a cold coming from within, goosebumps razing his arms at the sight of excessive gore—it takes him a while to tear his eyes away from the sight.
"Atsushi?" Dazai's voice breaks him out of his trance. "You have any idea?"
"This person isn't innocent," Atsushi says, firmly. The solidness of his voice surprises his fellow colleagues. "They may have been manipulated, but those are the works of a calculated killer."
Dazai sighs. He tousels his brown hair with his slim fingers, before it drops to his side.
"You're not wrong," Dazai says. With the growing destruction of all that you called your personality, it was rapidly spinning out of control, like a yarn snagged on a moving vehicle. What was caught on the CCTV cameras was a blood-soaked individual with dead, morose eyes, lightless and half-dyed with blood, the other top half being (eye colour); lips pursed into a straight line as they charged towards the crowd of people, red exploding like champagne confetti into the air. "We have to rescue her."
