illusion || YANDERE!BEAST!DAZAI OSAMU

three: books.

This is how you end up working for the Port Mafia.

After your prompt conversation with the strange man who called himself Dazai Osamu, boss of the Port Mafia, he had shaken your hand.

The image has been driven into your head: his hand shaking yours, firmly so, before coming to a halt still attached by the fingers.

"No contract?" You ask. He smiles.

"Nope," He says. "You can quit whenever you like."

"A shaky premise to work on." You quirk an eyebrow.

"You can quit, but at what price? You'll be labelled with having black blood forever for being associated with the Port Mafia," Dazai says, his voice laced with mirth. "Best if you stay on board."

You put your hand in your pocket and feel for the cigarette box, groping it for comfort. The flavour of this spring is the sickly sweet flavour of nostalgia. As though a defensive retreat into the recent past is the only defence against an ominous tomorrow. For what, you may ask, and it was for a time before you began to grow up, began shedding your childhood carapace into a world of paperwork and endless work. It was exhausting.

Dusk drawls on. Vendors have begun to pack up their stalls, the lamps shining an anti-suicidal blue light abovehead, shop customers becoming more and more sparse in their aisles. The temple virgins have closed the shutters of their talisman booths. What an anti-climatic day, you think to yourself. It is akin to post-coital depression, perhaps.

"Black blood?" You echo.

"Mhm," He hums, and without taking his hand out of yours, steps closer. He smiles, cocking his head to the side. "Black as the night, you'll never escape from it."

"You're not advertising the role of a secretary very well."

"It's a Faustian bargain," He says. "You sell your future for your soul. Isn't that what you want? You want something to fill your soul, to give you a reason to go on. And if that means messing up your future, something that isn't the present, then so be it. Am I correct?"

You sigh, then say, "Yep."

"Great," He then pulls out a card and hands it over. "Tell the boy with white hair that you're the new secretary, then show him this card. He'll take you to your office."

He then leaves. You stare at his retreating back, his black coat like a piece of the night sky tailored to fit his lean body. A charming man, you know; but charm was usually a treacherous disguise for a heart of stone. You knew not to trust that man, who would later become your Boss, handling his paperwork and phone calls.

"Atsushi-kun," You peek your head through your husband's office door and find Chuuya instead. "Oh. I was hoping Atsushi-kun would be here, but I suppose he's not."

"What do you need him for?" Chuuya asks, politely, knowing you were his despicable boss's wife. You smile at him, with the quiet politeness of a cat.

"I wanted to go to the bookstore today," You explain. "And Dazai never lets me out on my own."

"I'll go with you, then," Chuuya offers. "Atsushi's off on a mission with Boss. They won't be back until later. Unless you want to wait."

"I don't. Let's go, then," You say, opening the door wider so that he could exit with you. You descend the staircase with the orange-haired man, who seemed to be at peace with your presence. You were different from Dazai; you were generally likeable, even when you were his previous secretary. He was curious about you–what made you so attractive to his boss enough to put a ring onto your finger? At first glance, you had slightly vacuous eyes, and perhaps he was being crude, reducing you to only a ring and eyes, but it was what stood out the most from just looking at you. But upon closer inspection, it was as if you were a monster, with very tight stitches bringing you together to be (first name). There was no loose seam for him to pry open and expose you for who you were: you were like an oyster, who refused to open to reveal the nacreous, reflective walls.