He was just a boy searching for a reason to go through the darkest night. And she was a girl trying to light up other people's lives. Yet, in each other, they found a home to watch the sunrise in the morning sky.
[bungo stray dogs ── dazai osamu]
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THE SOUND OFFOOTSTEPS was all that could be heard down the long corridor that led the tall, slender boy to the large wooden doors.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see the suspicious and frightened looks that were thrown in his direction, while a bittersweet smirk played on his lips. Honestly, he was already familiar with that kind of reaction.
Osamu Dazai, sixteen years old. The youngest executive in Port Mafia history, who paved his way in a sea of blood and bodies, sinking his soul into violence, malice, and extortion.
With every pace forward, more feared, volatile, and unreadable he became. The higher he got in the mafia standards, the more lost he came to be, swallowed by the dusk that ate any trace of light from his brown eyes, emptying him of any hope or desire to live.
What made that boy powerful was the same thing that made people not trust him — his brilliant mind was the epitome of loneliness, allowing him to acknowledge the broken parts of the world that no one else would like to see.
After all, living without the gift of ignorance was a solitary task.
Nobody cared enough to try and understand him; no one wanted to uncover his sins and see his perturbed mind, scared to cross that tiny line that let them shut the world down just to keep going, pretending they were in a fairytale.
Meanwhile, that boy was fated to wander with the burden of his life. The burden of knowing more than he asked for. His tragedy dictating his ways.
Maybe that was the reason why his calculated and incomprehensible actions carried so much agony, an implicit cry for help written all over it. Yet, no one cared enough to notice.
At the end of the day, he was just it: The Demon Prodigy of the Port Mafia. The one that nobody wanted to cross paths with.
So, Osamu Dazai kept walking, one foot after the other, in that long corridor that led him to the large wooden doors, his true self lost in a life that he never had. After a few more steps, he reached the entrance to Ougai Mori's office.
On the opposite side of that entryway, the most important figure of the organization was waiting — a slender man in his 30s, with his black hair always swept back, letting only two bangs on each side of his face, accentuating his pointed chin. His red eyes were accompanied by long bags underneath them, intensifying the ferocity in his gaze.
Mori carried himself as a madman, with calculated actions and a false sense of humor and innocence that was repulsive, dreadful in a way capable of bringing terror. He was the kind of man who could torture and kill with a sweet voice and an innocent smile, some sort of calculated catastrophe that, once finding you, there was no route of escape.
The only way to continue was to let yourself be dragged by the dangerous air around him, as an irrelevant piece in a chess game, without any control over their actions.
