Surprise Night Visit

Visit

Nakahara Chuuya had been part of the Port Mafia for three years now, a young member who'd seen more bloodshed than most could stomach at his age. At just eight and ten years old, he was already a seasoned veteran in the underworld, though his appearance didn't quite match his experience. A small, ginger-haired figure barely topping five feet, Chuuya looked more like a mischievous sprite than a ruthless mafia enforcer. His sharp blue eyes (which occasionally looked like they could turn brown depending on the light) gleamed with a quiet intensity, the kind that betrayed his youthful face and belied his true power.

Chuuya was a paradox. On the outside, he was the most laid-back guy you could meet, often seeming like the chillest guy in the room. But behind that calm facade was a quiet storm, always ready to snap. His personality—fiery and unpredictable—was just like his hair, constantly a wild mess of energy. In fact, if you wanted a simple way to picture him, Chuuya was basically a leprechaun: small, fiery, and fiercely protective of what was his.

Inside his penthouse, however, he was neither awake nor asleep. Chuuya's insomnia had become a constant companion, and sleep, when it did come, offered no solace. He rarely dreamed, and when he did, it was always more of a distant blur. On nights like this, when the world outside was still, the only thing that kept him company was the quiet ticking of the clock. That was, until a loud THUD shattered the silence, making Chuuya's eyes snap open.

"Dammit," he muttered, barely opening his eyes before letting out an exaggerated groan. He didn't bother checking the clock—time was irrelevant to him right now. He grabbed his jacket, tossing it over his shoulders like it was an afterthought, and headed for the door, half-expecting to find another one of his underlings causing trouble.

What he found outside, however, was... unexpected.

A boy stood there, looking like he'd just stepped out of a scene from a gothic novel. His black eyes were dull, like someone had hollowed them out of him, and one of them was covered in a makeshift bandage. The rest of his body was wrapped in bandages, making him look like he'd been put back together after some kind of violent encounter. His dark brown hair, once probably well-groomed, now looked damp and unruly under the penthouse's bright lights.

For a moment, Chuuya just stared at him, his mind trying to process the image.

If Chuuya had to sum him up in one quick mental snapshot, he'd describe him as "a Hot Topic worker." Dark and brooding with an aura of detached cynicism that screamed I don't care. And yet, there was something intriguing about the stranger.

The boy wasn't just some random thug off the street; he was *Dazai Osamu*, the Port Mafia's youngest executive and Mori Ougai's right-hand man. Dazai had been in the Mafia for four years, even though he and Chuuya were only fifty-one days apart in age. Still, Dazai towered over him by a solid head, his gangly figure almost impossibly lanky compared to Chuuya's small, fiery frame. He was the brains of the operation, the one everyone secretly feared and respected—yet Dazai chose to live in an abandoned shipping container, an oddity even by Port Mafia standards.

Their relationship was strange, to say the least. They bickered constantly, the kind of bickering that made them the talk of the Mafia—like an old married couple who couldn't stand each other but somehow still worked together. In the field, they were invincible, the duo that could take down an entire agency in one night without breaking a sweat. They were Soukoku, or Double Black, but to everyone else in the Mafia, they were the owner and the dog.

"Well, well," Chuuya said, breaking the silence as he took in Dazai's appearance. He stood there, hands on his hips, giving Dazai a skeptical once-over. "Dazai? You come here to annoy me to death again?"

Dazai didn't reply with one of his usual biting remarks. Instead, he just... shook his head. Chuuya blinked, taken aback. He stared at him, confusion lining his features. "Huh?" The surprise was so obvious it bordered on comical.

Dazai, in all his usual, nonchalant glory, simply stood there with an expression that could only be described as deadpan. His hair was damp, hanging loosely around his face, and he looked... almost tired.

With a scoff, Chuuya rolled his eyes. "God, you're such a mess. C'mon, ya waste of bandages." Before Dazai could even protest, Chuuya gripped his wrist and yanked him inside the penthouse, dragging him along like some kind of lost puppy.

Dazai's face remained mostly unreadable—though it was hard to tell if he was actually surprised or if his constant apathy made it impossible to read him. Either way, Chuuya could almost feel the shift in the air between them. Dazai, the smug, sardonic genius who was known for his snark, had come here for something. But for the first time in what felt like ages, he wasn't acting like the usual mysterious, aloof Dazai. Instead, he allowed himself to be pulled inside like he had nowhere else to go. The slug was supposed to beat me up. Not take me in like I'm a dog, Dazai thought, but even then, there was a flicker of amusement behind his tired eyes. Chuuya is the dog.

As Chuuya led Dazai into the penthouse, he couldn't help but glance over at the executive, who was still smiling, albeit softly, almost to himself. It was a genuine smile—a rare thing for someone as jaded as Dazai. And Chuuya... Chuuya, for once, didn't have an answer to that.

The last thing he expected tonight was a soft smile from him. But here it was.

And for a moment, Chuuya found himself silently wondering if this was what it meant to trust someone.