Bound by Obsession

Part 17

When Dazai awoke, it wasn't in the cold, damp dungeon he expected but in an unfamiliar room—luxurious, even more unsettling because of the opulence. The soft velvet beneath him, the heavy curtains framing tall windows, and the faint scent of something rich and perfumed—it didn't match the grim reality of being kidnapped by someone like Fyodor.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, instantly on alert. His wrists were unbound, and the door was slightly ajar, as if mocking him with the illusion of freedom. This was no dungeon. It was... a mansion.

Fyodor has a mansion? Dazai thought, his curiosity piqued. A far cry from the kind of place one would expect from a man as shadowy and ruthless as Fyodor Dostoevsky. Dazai rose from the bed, surveying the room. A few antique books sat on a polished table, a bottle of wine nearby—an invitation, almost.

The silence weighed on him. It felt intentional, orchestrated. Dazai wasn't just being held here—he was being toyed with.

"Ah, Dazai, I see you're awake," Fyodor's voice floated in from the hallway, too casual for the situation. He stepped into the room, a smile playing on his lips as if they were simply old friends meeting again after years apart.

"Kidnapping's an odd way to catch up," Dazai said, masking his discomfort with his usual smirk. He leaned against the bedpost, feigning nonchalance.

Fyodor walked in leisurely, closing the door behind him. "It's not kidnapping if you belong here," he responded, his tone as light as his footsteps as he moved closer. "This place, Dazai... it's your new home."

Dazai scoffed, though his mind raced, calculating every possible exit. "You have an interesting sense of hospitality. I must say, though, I was expecting more of a dark, hidden cave vibe from you."

"Even I need a comfortable place to unwind," Fyodor replied, his smile deepening. "And this... well, it suits you more than you think."

The air between them grew heavier, the conversation less about the room and more about what they were both dancing around. Fyodor had kidnapped him not to imprison him, but to make a point. Dazai belonged with him—or so Fyodor believed.

Dazai's eyes narrowed, his voice laced with his usual sardonic edge. "So, what's next? Tea by the fireplace while you convince me to join your cult?"

Fyodor's gaze softened, but there was an undercurrent of something more—something possessive. "You know it's not a cult. You and I, we share something the others don't. They can't understand the world the way we do."

Dazai crossed his arms, unmoved. "You're getting predictable, Fyodor. I expected more creativity."

Fyodor's smile remained, though his eyes gleamed with something darker. "And yet, you're still here. Despite your protests, you know there's truth in what I'm saying. We're alike. You belong with me."

Dazai let out a soft, humorless laugh. "Is that what this is? A reunion tour? You really think I'd give up everything to join you?"

Fyodor took another step closer, his voice barely above a whisper now. "I don't think it, Dazai. I know it. You've been drifting for so long, pretending to belong with the Armed Detective Agency or even the Port Mafia. But neither of them can hold you. Not like I can."

The weight of Fyodor's words pressed down on Dazai, the lines between threat and promise blurring. But Dazai, ever the master of deflection, tilted his head, the mask of indifference still firmly in place. "Well, I'm flattered. But if this is your way of wooing me, I'm afraid I'll have to pass."

Fyodor chuckled softly, but the intensity in his eyes didn't fade. "You can deny it all you want, but in time, you'll see. You'll realize that this is where you're meant to be."

Dazai's smirk faltered, only for a second, as he felt the undercurrent of Fyodor's words. This wasn't just a game to Fyodor. It wasn't just manipulation—it was obsession.

The next day passed in a blur of silence, with no sign of escape or the Decay of Angels. It became clear that Fyodor had kept Dazai's whereabouts hidden even from his own organization. This mansion—so grand, so isolated—was a secret Fyodor intended to keep between the two of them. The more Dazai explored, the more he realized how tightly Fyodor controlled this environment. There were no guards, no obvious signs of surveillance, but the oppressive feeling that Fyodor was always watching lingered.

Dazai had yet to figure out how to escape. Fyodor, it seemed, wasn't going to force him into submission. No, Fyodor wanted Dazai to choose to stay—and that, in some ways, was more dangerous.

Later, Dazai found himself sitting in one of the mansion's many rooms, the tension palpable. He had just finished his latest round of reconnaissance when the door opened, and Fyodor strolled in once again, this time carrying two glasses of wine.

"I thought we could enjoy a quiet evening," Fyodor said, offering one of the glasses to Dazai.

Dazai didn't reach for it, his eyes focused on Fyodor, trying to read the man's next move. "You've got a twisted idea of 'quiet,'" Dazai muttered.

Fyodor sat down across from him, crossing his legs as if this were the most natural thing in the world. "I think you're starting to understand, though. This isn't about force. It's about what we could achieve together."

Dazai raised an eyebrow. "And you think locking me in here is going to convince me?"

Fyodor's smile widened. "Not locking. Just... keeping you close. Until you realize it yourself."

There was a beat of silence as they locked eyes, and for the first time, Dazai saw something in Fyodor's gaze that made his stomach churn—something dangerously close to desire.

Fyodor leaned forward slightly, his voice soft but firm. "You belong with me, Dazai. You've always known it."

Dazai exhaled, the weight of Fyodor's obsession pressing in on him. But he wasn't going to let Fyodor win—not like this.

"Keep dreaming, Fyodor," Dazai said with a smirk, though his mind was already racing, trying to figure out his next move. "Because that's the only place where you'll have me."

Fyodor's expression didn't change, but his eyes darkened, a silent promise lingering in the air.