smoke and mirrors | akutagawa r. × reader ▪ dazai o. × reader

chapter V.

chapter iv. remains of humanity lingered in their tainted hearts

It was a tranquil night, liquid darkness pouring over the buildings in a gentle caress. In its depths, neon lights flickered, sending distorted silhouettes dancing across the tainted walls of the city — and no one would dare to come closer, no one but them.

Passer-by came and went, an endless tide regressing slowly in the familiar confines of lodgings devoid of warmth. Oh, do not be mistaken. They may be fools, all of them — just who would willingly choose to remain in such a twisted city? — but they knew better than to linger in those stained streets.

At last, you have learned, haven't you my darling one?

Who, just who could ignore them?

Who could ignore their name, the growing influence they held on this city? Murmurs, frightened by a fate who would surely be theirs in the end, on everyone's lips, and yet, no one dared to pronounce it.

Wardens of the Night.

An infamous title, really, known by most and feared by all, and oh, oh so terribly fitting. One of many, many names they were known by, those who operated in the quintet of towers looming over the city, omnipresent and omniscient. And had the great old ones still been in this world, they would have written and written and written. Unshed tears and silent cries for help lost in the dark turned in verses and dark, twisted poems in the snap of ink-stained fingers.

Yes, they roamed the streets and murder was written across their pale features in blood soon to be shed.

Why, yes why would Fate, God, whoever Humanity decided was in charge of ruling this perverted world decide to crush their hopes and shatter what forlorn dreams they had?

That somehow, no one would have to die in the end — not because of them and their failure, not this time — and they could just try and live—

The world, Destiny, God, in their immense munificence had laughed and laughed and laughed and held them by the throat and they, those forced to endlessly roam in the dark, had watched. And blood stained their hands, and no matter how much they tried to scrub it off, their fingertips remained of a dark crimson — not that it mattered anymore for they had long ago stopped seeing death as nefarious.

It was not fair, it was not, why them—

Foolish, foolish ones. It never was fair.

Truly, they out of all people should know better.

The only fair thing about life is that it is unfair to everyone.

And they had all but forgotten how to live. Such is the extent of the proximity they shared with the Reaper, wielding her scythe with such an efficiency they were mistaken for her, thus claiming the title of Thanatos' children as their own.