That young former cop has no idea what has happened to him.
He was abducted while he was patrolling the underground bunker, but he only realized that he has been abducted much later, when he found himself in the dark, unable to move a muscle.
He is sitting. On a piece of concrete at the foot of a pile of debris, like a prisoner. He just woke up and cannot understand what condition he is in. However, even before his brain wakes up, he is clearly aware of one thing. Pain.
His body is in pain. A heavy, sharp pain is rushing through his whole body like an unpleasant signal, making his skin tingle. But he can't tell where the pain is from. More than half of his brain is still buried in a muddy coma.
This is an abandoned section in the depth of the underground bunker.
About ten years ago, there was an explosion of an oxygen cylinder used for emergency rescue here, and it has been in half-collapsed state ever since.
There are gaps crawling like living creatures on the wall and the ceiling, and countless debris piling up. The debris comes in different sizes, from the size of a fist to the size of a car. And the steel wires used as foundation material are poking out from the gaps like wild plants.
He is sitting at the end of a dimly lit tunnel, in a narrow passage blocked by debris. On top of the debris that is just the height of a chair. Or rather, he has been sat there.
He cannot move on his own.
Because his hands and feet have been fixed. His two hands are sandwiched between large pieces of debris. From the elbows up, they are tightly pinned by the debris that looks like a mouth closing. The debris is not heavy enough to crush his arms right now, but it is not light enough for him pull his arms out by himself.
"This... is..."
His voice is cracking in despair.
Because he saw his feet.
Two big stakes are piercing through the insteps of his feet, into the floor.
They are old construction wooden stakes. They have the thickness of a thumb, old and rusty. They are piercing through his leather shoes, his skin, his flesh, his soles and finally into the floor. Fresh blood is still there, spreading in circle on the ground.
Someone has stitched his feet to the floor with those stakes. For what?
"You are feeling the pain."
A cracked voice comes from the darkness.
The young cop turns to the voice with a frightened face.
"Pain is good. Pain is proof that you are alive. There are even better things. As the pain gets stronger, it can control us, change the way we think, and sometimes even blow away our personality. Do you know why that is a good thing, Toda Akihiko-kun?"
The voice is intimidating, assertive, and filled with raw danger like a bleeding wound. It is high-pitched as that of a young boy, but it lacks the human-like characteristics a young boy should have.
The man in the shadow. That is Dazai.
"It is because it continues to show us that our personality, our soul, is nothing but a convenient and unstable hypothesis based on primitive instincts such as pain and fear."
Dazai smiles thinly. Most of his face is covered in bandages, so that smile can only be seen through his slightly narrowed eyes and his mouth, which is distorted and white like the shape of a shamshir.
"You are... the injured person... at the house..." The cop named Toda speaks in a wheezing tone, as a person with a faint consciousness would do. "How do you... know my name?"
"I know almost everything." Dazai says in a gentle, soothing voice as he approaches Toda. "You are a member of the criminal organization "48". You used to be a local police officer, but you joined the organization after being invited by a former senior at work. You live near the lower reaches of the Tsurumi river, under the overhead lines. Your parents and sister run a brewery in Shinshu. You do not put the money you earn here into a bank account, but hide it inside a safe at a dumping site. That is wise."
"Wha.."
Dazai speaks with cold eyes, looking down at the pale cop.
"No need to worry. I am not interested in hurting you. Now tell me what you know about the "painting", everything."
"What... painting? Who the hell are you? How do you know my nam..."
"Wrong answer."
Dazai interrupts the guy and kicks him the leg, as if he does not give a damn. That is a light movement, like rolling a pebble with your toes, but it makes the cop throw his head backward and scream.
"Gyaaaaaahhhh!"
The stakes piercing through his foot shake his bones and nerves when he is kicked, and send the pain throughout his whole body.
"Honestly speaking, I don't really want to talk to you either. So, I have to ask you to refrain from unnecessary talk. Just talk about the "painting". How do you know that Odasaku has it? How do you even know that the painting is valuable in the first place?"
"I..." the cop's face becomes distorted. That is the face of someone whose pain is accumulating and running all over his body.
"I don't ... know."
"Oh?" Dazai lifts his eyebrows. However, other than that, his expression is completely flat and calm.
"That's the truth! I just joined so I know almost nothing! I only know that the guy named Oda is hiding a painting that's worth hundred millions of yens!"
"Toda-kun." Dazai walks up to the cop then places his hand on a piece of debris. "This is the hideout of your organization. It means that there are many of your "replacements" here. If you think that you can save yourself by convincing me that you know nothing, you have made a mistake. I won't feel, nor care at all if the like of you dies."
The cop can feel cold sweat squirting from his whole body. This young man is not lying. It shows in his eyes. That this young man is only seeing him as a fly in his kitchen.
"I saw you guys' torture earlier. I am a little relieved." Dazai's smile is as thin as a piece of paper. "Cops might be experts in investigation, but not experts in torture. You can't even make anyone tell you the time the clock on the wall says with that child's fight-like torture. How about I tell you the right way to do it?"
Dazai says so as he picks up a piece of debris under his feet. It weights a few kilograms. One can pick it up without much trouble if they use both hands.
"What do you think I'm going to do with this?"
Dazai raises the debris. The cop stiffens. If that thing is swung down on his head, his skull will break. He wants to run away, but he can't because both his arms and legs are locked.
Dazai stares coldly at his opponent for a moment, before his mouth finally twists into a sneer.
"Not this." Dazai shakes his head.
"I am not going to hit you with this. I'm tired and my hands hurt. Pros do not use unnecessary force. The correct answer is this."
Dazai puts the debris down. On top of the huge and flat piece on the cop's arms. The cop frowns from the impact of the large mass.
"And that's it. How is it? Are you disappointed? Torturing always starts with the softer stuff, you know. That way, it will give you more time to imagine. Because the greatest fear of a human being is the fear toward their own imagination."
With that said, Dazai picks up another piece of debris and put it on the same plate.
"It is not a big deal with just one or two, right? But what if there are ten? What if there are twenty? Your arms are locked, while the weight is gradually added to the top. You are only feeling some pressure and pain now, but there will be a limit. Give it some time, and slowly, your bones will break, your hands will be crushed. I will just add it up little by little, so that you have a lot of time to imagine it."
The blood slowly drains from the cop's face. Complex thoughts are gone from his eyes. What's left is only the most primitive and simple feelings.
"That!" Dazai pokes the guy's forehead, entertained. "That is fear. The fear towards one's own imagination. No-one can rob anyone of their imagination. Now, let us continue."
One more piece is picked up and placed on top. The pressure starts from his elbows to the tips. Cold sweats slip down from the cop's cheek.
It is clear to him what is about to happen. His arms will break. The bones bearing the weight of all the debris are mainly the forearm's radius and ulna, the lunate, scaphoid and triquetral bones at the base of the hand. And the finger joints. You put a weight on these bones and they will start breaking in order, from the point where the force is most concentrated.
It is said that compared to the pain of a flesh wound, the pain from a broken bone is way more intense, unpleasant and unbearable to anybody.
Moreover, in a normal fracture, the bone will only break at one most pressured point. In this torture, however, once a bone has broken, the force will concentrate on a new point and have it broken anew. The fracture points will link to one another and ultimately, the bones will be shattered like they have been put through a wood crusher, and his arms will end up becoming a flat mattress mixed of flesh and blood.
And it will take a long, long time till he gets there.
"I beg you. Please stop it!"
The cop screams out, trying to escape. But it is hardly a meaningful movement. He barely lifts his hips. His hands are pinned down, his legs are locked by stakes. He can't even change his position, let alone escape.
"Answer my question then."
Dazai leans against the flat debris board, adding weight to it.
"Gyahhhh!!"
The cop's arms start to crack under the newly added pressure from Dazai's lounging.
"Tell me about the painting. I came here for that. It is so easy to destroy your organization. But I have to take care of that painting first. That is Phase one of the plan."
"Phase one?"
The cop asks with a puzzled voice. He has no idea what his torturer is saying.
There is no-one who can understand it in this world yet.
"I know everything. About you, about your organization, about what happens next." Dazai's voice cracks as if he is subduing something inside. "I just want to know about the painting. Because Odasaku will die at this rate. I have to know the painting's whereabout to change the future."
"I don't know. I don't know. I don't know what you are talking about. I am just an underling here. I really don't know anything."
"Is that so?"
Another piece is loaded. The cop groans. Then, he gathers all the strength he has to pull his arms out. That's the only way to survive.
His two arms tense up, his joints become pale and see-through. The cop holds his breath and exerts an unusual strength one normally can't have. He manages to move his arm slightly outward.
But that is all he can do.
"It's useless." Dazai says with a voice that even exudes tenderness. "If you try with all you've got, you might be able to pull your arms out now. But you won't. The concrete's surface is rough. If you try too hard, your skin will come off somewhere. Plus, the further you pull, the smaller the contact surface will become and the more weight will be put on your skin. In other words, you will have to pull your arms all the way out, while feeing your skin being torn off and your exposed flesh being cut by the concrete. I wonder if you can continue the act of grinding your own body till the end?
Fear runs through the cop's face. His arms loosen. With a ragged breath, he curves his body.
"See?" Dazai smiles. "Your will, your soul is screaming at you to pull your arms out. But your imagination gives birth to your fear, and that fear is stopping you from pulling them out. That's why I told you. Our personality, our soul, is nothing but a convenient and unstable hypothesis based on primitive instincts such as pain and fear. Today, in this moment, your pain is your master and your king. So, you will speak. You will definitely speak."
The cop's body trembles in fear. This is the fear of pain, the fear of his imagination. But the most frightening of all is the young man in front of him, the king of the Pain land, the one who creates pains and controls pains."
"You... who the hell are you? How can you do this?"
"I'm a pain expert." Dazai puts his face closer to the cop's as he says that, as if he is revealing a secret.
"That's right. You want an excuse for yourself. Let me give you one then. I'm a Port Mafia's executive."
Upon hearing that, the cop bounces as if he is having a seizure. The color of regret surfaces to his eyes. The muscles from all over his body stiffen up. For a moment, he forgets everything about the debris on his arms, and the stakes on his feet.
"I get it. I will tell you. I will tell you everything. I didn't know. I didn't know that this is the kind of job that will piss off the Port Mafia!" The guy shakes his hair and screams. "I will pay whatever you want. I will sell out as many of my men as you want. So please help me. I beg you. Please save me!"
The cop has fallen, as easily as that. Dazai smiles thinly.
"How did you know about the painting?" Dazai asks.
"We heard from an art dealer." The blood runs in the cop's eyes, as he is trying his best to trace his memories. He finally realizes that every single word he says will decide his life and his dignity.
"That guy runs a small gallery on the Harbor Street, but he is also involved in forgery trades behind the scenes. People call him the Grey Merchant. That guy was arrested last month because he messed up. He sold a painting to a customer knowing it was a fake."
"It looks like your throat has become a little smoother." Dazai smiles, sitting down on a nearby piece of debris. "So?"
"Then the city police started looking through his other charges. They didn't find any major crimes, but they suspected him of a pretty big incident. Fencing.
"Oh?" Dazai tilts his head. "Keep going."
The cop speaks in a broken voice to endure the pain.
It was that dealer's biggest job ever. He was secretly selling stolen goods from Europe. It was a big painting that has to be carried by two people, showing a farmer couple working diligently in a Medieval European landscape. It was painted by a member of a noble family in Europe in the 14th century, and was called the best work of its time.
That painting was stolen from an international art museum in France, by a group of skilled thieves. The culprits fled to Japan, where they contacted the art dealer to convert that painting into cash. The dealing of stolen goods – fencing - was familiar to that art dealer. However, the scale of the job that time was too large. It was a painting with a historical value. News of the theft had, of course, spread around the world, making it harder to find a buyer.
However, the dealer finally got that job done. The ultimate person who bought the painting was an extremely wealthy Japanese man. A man who made a fortune out of an aircraft importing business, a man who had a love for expensive arts. Or rather, he was in love with himself who owns expensive arts. That wealthy man hung the painting in the basement of his house. He had no intention of showing it to anyone. He was content with just showing it to himself.
That is why after he was arrested, the first thing the dealer thought about was the painting that he sold. The whereabout of that painting has become an international concern. If they found just a hint of it, the Europol would show up. If that happened, the severity of the investigation as well as the charges would be far greater than when the Yokohama City Police was in charge.
Therefore, the dealer came to criminal organization "48" to ask them to erase the evidences of the deal. That was one of the things "48" was good at. Through the help of their collaborators inside the police, they can steal evidences from the evidence storage room, or rewrite them with criminal records. The price varies depending on the severity of the crime to be erased, but "48"'s thorough understanding of the investigation process makes them very popular when it comes to this stuff, and they never run out of requests.
"48"'s movement was fast. They erased the travel records of the thieves and replaced the surveillance videos of the area near the warehouse used for fencing transactions. They had the knowledge they had gained through their career, and a thorough persistence on top of that. Even when they had switched from day to night, from law keepers to outlaws, no one could take that persistence away from them.
However, that was as far as they got. There were two problems.
The wealthy man who bought the painting had been killed.
And the painting had disappeared.
The man was killed in his own house. Together with his family. There was no lead to the killer. In fact, it was unknown how the killer broke in, how he killed him and by what kind of weapon.
The only thing known is that he was instantly killed by a shot in the head at close range. The rifling marks on the bullet didn't match any records in file.
That was clearly done by a professional hitman.
And the painting was missing. So, there is only one possibility.
The killer knew the value of the painting and stole it.
"Impossible." Dazai is stunned. "Are you saying that the hitman was Odasaku, and that he stole the painting?"
"How else could it be?" The cops says as he tries to suppress the pain. "The records show that when the murder scene was inspected, the painting had already been gone. Of course, he might have let go of it himself, right before he was killed, but if he wanted to transfer such a hard-to-sell painting like that, he would have used the same dealer for sure!"
Dazai stays completely still, his eyes looking at the middle of nowhere.
He rests himself on the debris without saying a word. Simply thinking in silence. His eyes are open without looking at anything, as if he has even forgot to breath.
"Got it."
When Dazai finally opens his mouth after a long pause, that voice completely lacks emotions. No mockery, no cruelty, not even a carnivorous smile, nothing. A complete hollow.
Then he pulls out a gun.
He points the muzzle at the cop's head.
"Wa.. wait! Why? I told you everything! I betrayed my organization and told you everything. There is nothing else, I swear!"
"You really don't listen to others." There is nothing left in Dazai's voice, not even the ruthlessness. There is nothing in there. Not even a sign of someone holding a gun, nor talking to a human being.
"I told you. I won't feel, nor care at all if the like of you dies. And there is one more thing I have not told you yet."
Dazai bends his finger.
"I hate your organization."
Gunshot.
...
