The Port Mafia didn’t raise children gently.
It sharpened them.
Osamu Dazai, fifteen, was already known for his eerie calm. Smiling while everything burned, thinking three steps ahead of disasters everyone else was still screaming about.
Chuuya Nakahara, fifteen, was the opposite. Loud, volatile, explosive power packed into a short frame and a sharper temper. Where Dazai calculated, Chuuya collided.
Tonight, they were sent on a joint mission.
Retrieve stolen intel. Eliminate witnesses. In and out.
Simple.
It wasn’t.
The building was already rigged.
The doors sealed behind them with a heavy metallic click.
“Trap,” Chuuya snapped immediately.
“I noticed,” Dazai replied, glancing at the exits that were no longer exits.
Gunfire erupted.
Everything became noise and falling dust.
Chuuya moved like a storm, tearing through enemies. Dazai moved like a shadow, redirecting chaos into outcomes no one survived.
Then the floor gave out.
Concrete collapsed. Steel screamed. The world dropped.
Dazai hit the ground hard.
Silence followed.
“Chuuya?” he called.
No answer.
That was the first wrong thing.
He pushed himself up, scanning the wreckage. His coat was torn. His hands were bleeding. He didn’t care.
“Chuuya,” he said again, sharper.
Still nothing.
Then he saw him.
Pinned under rubble.
Not moving.
Dazai froze.
“No.”
He was there in seconds, ripping concrete away with shaking hands. Blood smeared across stone and skin. His breathing stayed too controlled, too wrong.
“Don’t you dare,” he muttered. “Not like this.”
Chuuya didn’t respond.
Dazai pressed two fingers to his neck.
A pulse.
Weak.
But real.
“…Idiot,” Dazai exhaled.
Chuuya’s eyelids twitched.
“…You’re loud…”
Dazai let out a short, broken laugh. “You’re alive. That’s your job.”
“…Hurts…”
“I know. Don’t move.”
Chuuya’s hand barely shifted, grabbing weakly at Dazai’s sleeve.
“…Don’t… die too…”
Dazai paused.
Then looked away.
“I wasn’t planning to,” he said quietly.
But his grip didn’t loosen.
Not even a little.