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“Salary day!” Kenji yelled, bursting through the door with a grin wide enough to blind someone.
“Indoor voices, country boy,” Tanizaki muttered, nursing his fourth cup of coffee and a fragile will to live.
“KENJI’S RIGHT!” Ranpo shouted, spinning dramatically in his chair. “IT’S THE BEST DAY OF THE MONTH!”
Kunikida looked up from his notebook, adjusting his glasses with the quiet rage of a man who knew nothing good ever followed the words "Ranpo" and "salary" in the same room.
“Alright, everyone,” Kunikida announced. “Form a line. No pushing. No screaming. No threatening to sell each other’s organs.”
Naomi blinked. “...Who did that last time?”
Everyone turned to look at Yosano.
She smiled.
Dazai strolled in, as if he hadn’t been asleep under Kunikida’s desk ten seconds ago. “Ah, the joy of being paid to live. It almost feels immoral.”
“You know what feels immoral?” Kunikida snapped, tossing envelopes out like a disgruntled postman. “You, owing half the agency money and still having the audacity to request a bonus.”
“That bonus was for emotional damages,” Dazai said, placing a hand on his chest. “I suffer daily.”
“You cause the suffering!” Atsushi cried.
“Semantics,” Dazai replied.
As envelopes were passed out and cheers echoed, the atmosphere lightened. Naomi squealed, holding hers like it was sacred. Kenji mumbled something about buying a whole cow. Ranpo had already opened his and was somehow halfway through eating a snack he hadn’t even bought yet.
Then—
“Hey,” Atsushi looked up. “Where’s Dazai?”
The office collectively blinked.
Kunikida froze, scanning the room like he was in a war film. “No. No no no—he didn’t.”
Ranpo casually pointed to the open window. “He totally did.”
They all rushed to the window. A trench coat fluttered two streets down.
“He’s already halfway to nowhere!” Atsushi gasped.
Yosano leaned out the window. “DAZAI! IF YOU BUY ALCOHOL WITH THAT MONEY, I SWEAR I’LL DISSECT YOU!”
“Already gone,” Tanizaki said, checking his phone. “He left a voice message. Listen to this.”
He hit play.
Dazai’s voice came through, melodramatic as always. “Dear friends… If you’re hearing this, I have embarked on a noble journey. A pilgrimage of self-destruction, enlightenment, and—most importantly—discount dumplings. Fear not. I’ll return when I’ve hit rock bottom. Again.”
Ranpo burst out laughing. “That idiot’s going to be broke by sundown.”
“He’s always broke!” Naomi snapped. “Where does it all go?”
“Into the abyss,” Yosano replied. “And women.”
“I’m going after him,” Kunikida declared, grabbing his coat. “This is the fourth time this month. FOUR TIMES.”
“I’m coming too!” Atsushi called. “He borrowed my lunch money last week and promised to ‘invest it in morally questionable stocks!’”
“I’m tagging along,” Ranpo grinned. “This sounds better than the last mystery novel I read.”
“Do we bring weapons?” Yosano asked.
“No,” Kunikida groaned. “Just restraint and patience. Which I don’t have.”
“You know what’s funny?” Kenji said thoughtfully. “He told me last week he was saving up for a ‘surprise for the agency.’”
They all paused.
Naomi narrowed her eyes. “If the surprise is an exploding vending machine again, I’m defecting to Port Mafia.”
Kunikida held the door open. “Let’s move out. Operation Track Down Dazai’s Dumb Purchases is a go.”
Yosano cracked her knuckles. “If we find him drunk in a park again, I’m using my scalpel.”
Atsushi sighed. “Why is he like this?”
Ranpo shoved a cookie in his mouth. “Because fate was bored and thought it’d be hilarious.”
They filed out one by one, the chaotic, dysfunctional, debt-chasing family they were, off to solve the great mystery of the missing salary.
Yokohama’s early afternoon buzzed gently — the smell of takoyaki in the air, bike bells ringing, and schoolgirls chattering as they walked home with their bags swinging at their sides.
And down the street strolled Dazai Osamu — salary in pocket, coat flaring behind him, humming some horribly off-tune Enka song with the confidence of a man who definitely had no plans to budget.
A group of high school girls turned as he passed.
“There he goes again,” one said, waving half-heartedly. “The suicidal detective.”
“Still alive?” another snorted. “Darn. I lost a bet.”
“He owes our school nurse 3,000 yen, you know.”
“Hi, Dazai-san!”
Dazai gave them a cheerful wave — not flirty, not charming, just… weirdly warm.
“Ladies!” he called. “Still full of youth and disappointment, I see!”
“Same to you, old man!”
He smiled like their insults were compliments.
Half a block behind, the entire Agency was trailing after him like a group of barely disguised stalkers.
“Is he seriously getting greeted by people?” Atsushi whispered.
Ranpo popped a lollipop into his mouth. “Yeah. He’s basically a local cryptid.”
“‘Local Cryptid Gets Paid and Immediately Disappears,’” Naomi muttered. “I’d read that article.”
“Why does everyone act like he’s normal?” Kunikida hissed.
“Because,” Yosano said, “he is normal. Just in an abnormal way.”
They ducked behind a vending machine as Dazai stopped in front of a tiny bookstore tucked between a pharmacy and a ramen shop.
An old lady sat on a low stool outside, organizing books into a faded wooden cart. Her hair was silver and pulled into a neat bun, her hands moving slow but steady.
“Obaa-chan!” Dazai exclaimed, twirling before bowing with an absurd flourish. “Your humble disaster has returned!”
The old woman didn’t miss a beat. “Still suicidal, Dazai-kun?”
“Only on weekdays.”
“You’ve missed two Thursdays.”
“I had a cold,” he said solemnly. “It was very tragic.”
They shared a quiet chuckle before he slipped a few bills onto her cart, tucked beneath a book labeled ‘How to Fake a Normal Life.’
“Buy something warm,” he said.
“I’ll buy you a personality instead.”
“Make it two. I’ll lose one.”
He waved and continued on, whistling.
The group watching from behind a stack of recycling bins was silent.
“Did he just—?” Atsushi started.
“Yup,” Yosano said. “Gave her money.”
“Like it was nothing.”
They barely had time to process that before Dazai turned another corner, slowing as he passed a woman sitting by the train station wall. Her long coat was frayed at the sleeves, but clean. Beside her sat a boy, no older than seven, holding a toy car made of bottle caps and duct tape.
“Ah, my favorite nobles,” Dazai greeted, kneeling beside the woman. She looked up — tired, surprised — as he dropped a thick wad of cash into the tin box between her feet.
“Dazai-san…” she murmured, eyes wide. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” he smiled. “But I want to.”
He ruffled the boy’s hair gently, then crouched lower and said something that made the boy giggle.
Seconds later, Dazai had the child on his back in a piggyback ride, arms looped tight around his neck, both of them laughing like they'd rehearsed it.
“Let me borrow him for a little walk, yeah?” Dazai grinned, waving to the mother. “We’ll go look for some clouds shaped like jellyfish!”
The mother hesitated… then nodded.
Behind a lamppost, Kunikida’s mouth opened and closed like a fish.
“Is he… doing charity?”
“Voluntarily?” Atsushi said, eyes wide.
“He carried that kid,” Naomi said slowly, “like he’s done it a hundred times.”
Ranpo smiled, eyes a little softer now. “Of course he has.”
“He spends his salary in a day,” Yosano said. “But I guess not on what we thought.”
Kunikida stared as Dazai crossed the street, the little boy laughing on his back. He wasn't being flirty. Or dramatic. Or annoying.
He was just… walking. Whistling. Talking to a kid like it was the best part of his day.
“…I still want to punch him,” Kunikida muttered.
“Oh, absolutely,” Yosano said. “But maybe after we follow him for just a bit more.”
Ranpo stretched, hands behind his head. “Told you. Watching Dazai is better than a mystery novel.”
“Do you think he’s secretly a good person?” Atsushi asked, half whispering.
“No,” said the entire Agency.
But none of them left.
They just kept watching.
The quiet sound of Dazai’s shoes tapping against the sidewalk echoed softly through a tucked-away part of Yokohama. The piggybacked boy on his shoulders was humming something tuneless, his small arms wrapped lazily around Dazai’s neck.
“Do you think he knows we’re following him?” Atsushi whispered, ducking behind a mailbox.
“Of course he knows,” Yosano muttered, crouched beside a bike rack. “This is Dazai.”
Kenji, pressed flat against a vending machine, tilted his head. “Maybe he doesn’t. He seems really focused on the boy.”
Kunikida sighed heavily, scribbling something in his notebook from behind a tree. “Just stay low and observe. I want solid evidence for why my wallet is always empty at the end of the month.”
Dazai, meanwhile, strolled down the quiet street like he owned it. His expression was bright—calm in a way that didn’t feel like his usual flirty, mischievous self. He glanced sideways at the boy on his back.
“You good up there, soldier?” he asked, voice light.
The boy nodded and giggled, “Yeah!”
Dazai grinned and gave a playful bounce, adjusting the kid’s legs. “Perfect. Because our next stop is very important.”
He turned the corner, stopping in front of a large gate flanked by painted murals—books, sunflowers, cartoon animals, and lots of smiling children. A small metal sign read: Yokohama Children’s Home.
The Agency members peeked from around the corner, heads stacked like some poorly coordinated spy movie.
“This is the orphanage,” Atsushi whispered, eyes wide. “The one with the top education records, art classes, daily meals—”
“And no listed donors,” Kunikida finished, staring hard. “I looked into it once. Everything was anonymous. Even the teachers didn’t know.”
Before anyone could say more, Dazai pushed open the orphanage’s front gate—without knocking—and walked right in like he lived there.
A split second later, the front yard erupted with the sound of children's cheers.
“DAZAI-SAAAAN!”
Kids came sprinting toward him from every corner—some barefoot, some in mismatched clothes, all clearly delighted. The beggar boy slid off his back, immediately taken into the crowd like he’d always belonged there.
Dazai opened his arms wide, laughing as kids wrapped around him like vines.
“Have I been missed?” he asked dramatically, pretending to wipe away a tear. “Truly, your love is the only thing keeping me alive!”
“You said that last time,” one girl huffed, grinning.
“And the time before that!” another piped.
“But it’s true every time!” Dazai declared, ruffling a boy’s hair.
Inside the orphanage, everything felt warm and lived-in. Toys were scattered but tidy. Walls were covered in colorful drawings, some surprisingly well-done. The room smelled faintly of crayons and freshly cleaned floors.
Outside, the Agency members shuffled to a side window, trying to peek through the slightly foggy glass.
“I feel like we shouldn’t be spying on kids,” Yosano muttered, squinting.
“No, no. We’re investigating our irresponsible coworker,” Kunikida insisted, adjusting his glasses furiously. “Totally different.”
“Sure,” Naomi said flatly.
Inside, Dazai clapped his hands. “Alright, everyone! You know what day it is.”
A collective cheer went up.
“Park day!” someone screamed.
“Correct!” Dazai said, pointing at them with two fingers. “Time to gather the troops. Line up, line up!”
Like practiced little soldiers, the kids formed a wobbly but enthusiastic line. The beggar boy, still smiling shyly, hesitated—until Dazai reached back without looking and took his hand.
“You’re part of the train too now,” he said gently.
The boy lit up.
From the window, Atsushi whispered, “He really does this every month?”
“I guess so,” Kenji said, awestruck. “They really love him.”
“Of course they do,” Ranpo said from behind them, holding a lollipop. “Dazai doesn’t flirt here. He doesn’t fake anything. That’s rare.”
They watched as Dazai walked to the front of the “train,” now made up of nearly twenty children of varying ages. He did a little spin, bowed dramatically, and began to march with exaggerated flair toward the gate.
“The Train of Joy is departing!” he cried. “All aboard! First stop: squeaky swings and endless dandelions!”
The kids laughed and followed, waving to the orphanage workers and staff who smiled fondly at the scene.
The detectives flattened against the wall as Dazai and the children marched past, heading toward the nearest park like a pied piper of misfits and miracles.
Kunikida stared down at his notes, baffled. “He… actually gives his money away to them. No schemes. No gambling. No suspicious transactions.”
Yosano raised a brow. “Feeling guilty about calling him a menace every day now?”
“No,” Kunikida said flatly. “But I am rethinking my entire budgeting system.”
Ranpo grinned. “You guys want to follow them to the park or go home and cry in your guilt?”
Atsushi laughed softly. “Let’s follow. I want to see what he does next.”
The park was bathed in amber sunlight, casting long shadows of trees across the grass. The children burst onto the playground with loud whoops and the uncontainable energy only kids could summon after a long walk.
“SWINGS!”
“FLOWERS!”
“I’m gonna climb that tree!”
“No you’re not, last time you got stuck and cried!”
Dazai followed them at a slower pace, the edges of his coat catching the breeze. He looked… peaceful. For once, his smile wasn’t a weapon. It was soft, tired maybe, but real.
He found his favorite spot — the shade beneath the large camphor tree near the center of the park. With a small sigh, he dropped to the ground and leaned against the trunk.
“Phew… marching a train is hard work.”
One of the smaller girls plopped down beside him, legs sprawled. “You didn’t even run.”
“I used up all my energy looking cool,” Dazai replied, resting his head back with a dramatic groan.
Another boy ran over and handed him a battered children's book. “Read!”
Dazai raised an eyebrow. “You’re not even gonna say please?”
“Pleeeeeease!”
“Better.”
He flipped the book open and began reading aloud — voices and all. A few kids started gathering. One rested against his side, clearly too sleepy to care what the story was. Another nestled into the crook of his arm without asking.
A pair of girls skipped over, holding flowers and giggling. “Stay still!”
“Why do I feel like I’m about to be attacked?” Dazai asked.
“You are,” one girl declared, then placed a small crown of daisies and clovers on his head.
He blinked.
“…Am I pretty?”
“Pretty weird,” someone shouted from the swings.
Dazai gasped dramatically, hand on chest. “Betrayal! I raise you like my own and you turn on me.”
The girl on his right yawned. “You’re not that old.”
“Wounds… deep wounds…”
Meanwhile, behind the bush…
“Shhh!! You’re breathing too loud!” Atsushi hissed.
“I AM breathing normally,” Kunikida snapped, flattening himself awkwardly behind a half-dead bush.
“You’re standing like a traffic cone,” whispered Tanizaki. “Blend in better!”
“Oh sure,” Kunikida deadpanned. “Let me just photosynthesize.”
“Someone’s foot is in my mouth,” Naomi said from the bottom of the pile.
“That's me, sorry,” Ranpo whispered cheerfully from where he lay upside down, eating chips. “Carry on.”
Yosano peered over the leaves like a sniper. “He’s not acting like himself.”
“He’s got a flower crown,” Tanizaki pointed out.
“That's how you know it’s serious,” Naomi added.
“WAIT—HE’S READING?” Atsushi gasped too loudly.
“DOWN, DOWN, DOWN!” Kunikida hissed, yanking Atsushi’s head by the collar just as Dazai glanced in their direction.
“Who sneezed?” Tanizaki whispered murderously.
“…Me,” said Ranpo. “It was a stress sneeze.”
“STRESS?! You’re the one who brought snacks!”
“I stress eat too.”
Naomi peeked between the leaves. “He’s not even trying to flirt with anyone.”
Yosano blinked. “Did he just… tie a kid’s shoe?”
Everyone paused.
“…Who is this man,” Kunikida whispered in horror.
From their hiding spot, the detectives watched as Dazai slowly closed the book. The kid in his lap had fallen asleep, drool soaking his shirt. Another was curled up using his thigh as a pillow. The others were playing or still making him bracelets and daisy chains.
“He comes here to rest,” Naomi whispered.
Ranpo nodded. “It’s the only place he doesn’t have to be anything else. Not smart. Not useful. Not entertaining.”
Kunikida’s shoulders dropped. “Not suicidal.”
Dazai looked up toward the leaves. Sunlight streamed through them, painting soft, shifting patterns across his face. He didn’t say anything. Just sat with the children. Holding their quiet.
A little boy tugged at his sleeve. “Do you wanna play tag?”
Dazai smiled. “Only if you promise not to cry when I win.”
“You won’t!”
“We’ll see about that.”
He gently slid the sleeping kids off, stood up — and within seconds, was being chased across the field by five yelling children, flower crown still bouncing on his head.
From the bush, Atsushi said, “I think… I get it now.”
“What?”
“Why he’s always broke.”
They all looked at Dazai, who scooped up a giggling toddler mid-run, spinning him in the air like it was the only thing that mattered.
“He gives everything to everyone else,” Atsushi said. “And he never tells anyone.”
Naomi sniffled.
“Did you just cry?”
“No.”
“You did,” Tanizaki teased. “You totally—ow!” He winced as Naomi jabbed him in the ribs.
Yosano smiled faintly. “Let him have this.”
Ranpo looked thoughtful. “Should we tell him we know?”
“Let’s not ruin it,” Kunikida said quietly. “Not yet.”
The sun had dipped lower in the sky now, casting a golden haze over the park. The sounds of laughter and footsteps had mellowed into softer giggles, yawns, and the occasional sniffle from a kid who didn’t want the day to end.
“Alright, alright…” Dazai stood slowly, brushing grass from his coat and crouching beside the group of now-tired children. “As your most handsome train conductor, I declare it’s time to return to the station.”
Groans echoed around him.
“Nooo…”
“But the swings!”
“Let’s sleep here!”
Dazai chuckled, reaching down to gently pat one on the head. “What if I promised you one more stop before heading home?”
“Another stop?” one girl perked up.
“A flower shop,” he said with a theatrical bow. “Everyone gets to pick one flower. Any one you want.”
Cheers erupted.
As they lined up again, forming the now slightly slower, sleepier human train, Dazai took the beggar boy’s hand — the little one who had spent most of the park time quietly clutching a flower crown he never put on. He looked up at Dazai with wide eyes and didn’t let go.
“Target moving! I repeat: Target is moving!” whispered Tanizaki from the bush, still crouched like a soldier in enemy territory.
“Don’t use that tone, this isn’t a war,” Kunikida muttered, stretching his sore knees.
“You try sitting on a pinecone for an hour,” Ranpo replied. “That was war.”
Yosano sighed. “They’re headed toward the florist.”
Dazai led the train of kids across the quiet sidewalk, pausing at a modest little flower shop nestled between a bakery and a bookstore. It looked like it had been there for decades — its windows fogged with time, a few pots chipped, but the smell of fresh petals drifted onto the street like something magical.
As they approached, the florist, a round-faced woman in her fifties, looked up from trimming stems behind the counter.
“Oh, it's my favorite little sunshine parade,” she smiled, wiping her hands and stepping outside. “Back again?”
“Yes, ma'am!” one boy said with a salute.
“They’ve been very good today,” Dazai said, pretending to sound stern. “Only three acts of chaos.”
“Only three?” she chuckled. “Progress!”
The kids flooded inside — careful, polite chaos as they scattered to find their flower of choice. The florist greeted each one by name, kneeling to help them gently pick their stem.
Dazai stepped to the side and pulled the envelope from his pocket. It was thinner now — noticeably so. He thumbed through what was left. The detectives, watching from across the street behind a stack of old newspapers and a suspiciously convenient vending machine, tensed.
“…That’s barely anything,” Atsushi said.
Yosano folded her arms, lips pressed thin. “He gave most of it away already.”
“Of course he did,” Kunikida muttered, but his voice lacked the usual irritation. He just looked… tired.
They saw Dazai speak softly to the florist, pressing some of the cash into her hand while keeping a small fold back for himself. The florist looked at him, shook her head, and tried to give it back.
He smiled, eyes gentle, and shook his head.
“…He probably does this every month,” Naomi murmured.
“Like clockwork,” Ranpo added, crunching another chip. “Florist knew the kids by name. Bet she even saves flowers she knows they’ll like.”
The youngest girl came out with a sunflower nearly as big as her head, struggling to carry it. Dazai gently took it from her and rested it on his shoulder like a sword.
The rest of the children trickled out, each holding a little piece of color.
The beggar boy still held Dazai’s hand.
As the group walked back in their train formation — this time quieter, heavier with the kind of sleepy sadness that came after a perfect day — Dazai glanced up at the sky. It was just beginning to blush pink at the edges.
His pockets were mostly empty. His coat was slightly stained from sitting under trees. He had one crumpled bill and a handmade bracelet on each wrist.
But the children were smiling. Tired, quiet smiles. And that seemed like enough.
“Next month again?” he asked the train.
“Yes!” they shouted in unison, louder now.
He chuckled.
“Then I’ll see you all next month, my little sunflowers.”
The walk back to the orphanage was slower this time. The sun was beginning to dip behind the rooftops, and the soft orange glow of sunset cast long shadows on the pavement. The train of children followed Dazai, their sunflowers drooping slightly in their small hands. Even their footsteps had lost the earlier bounce. The beggar boy clutched Dazai’s hand silently, occasionally glancing up at him with sleepy eyes.
“Awfully quiet back there,” Dazai called out gently, turning his head just enough to peek at the line of kids behind him. “I hope I wasn’t that boring.”
A few of them giggled weakly, one muttering, “You talk too much…”
“Blasphemy,” Dazai gasped, mock-offended. “That’s the thanks I get for giving you all the best train conductor performance of the century?”
“You forgot the hat!” someone yelled from the back.
“Next time,” he said dramatically, “there will be hats. And tickets. And seatbelts.”
At the entrance of the orphanage, the children began to peel off, waving goodbye with sleepy grins and wrinkled shirts. Some still held their sunflowers; others had tucked them behind ears or into shirt pockets. Dazai crouched down to ruffle a few heads and adjust lopsided flower crowns, his fingers surprisingly gentle. He smiled when one child reached up and fixed the flower he had tucked behind his ear.
“Thank you, Dazai-sensei!” one of the older girls called.
“Can we go again next week?” another asked, tugging lightly at his coat.
“We’ll bring snacks next time!”
“Snacks?” Dazai repeated, standing up straight with a slight stretch. “Only if they’re not made by Ranpo. I’m still recovering from the last mystery meat incident.”
The front door opened, and the orphanage director stepped out—a composed woman in her forties with a soft presence and an air of sharpness in her eyes. She crossed her arms and tilted her head at Dazai.
“Another flower parade?” she asked knowingly.
“I prefer to think of it as spiritual therapy,” he replied, grinning. “Very effective. No side effects—except maybe a pollen allergy.”
She rolled her eyes. “You spoil them.”
“And yet, tragically, they still prefer monkey bars to my riveting storytelling.”
“You’ll have to compete harder next time,” she said with a small smile.
Dazai gave her a lazy salute. “Take care of them, alright?”
“Always.”
As he turned and began walking away, the beggar boy still holding his hand, the rest of the Agency began to slowly emerge from their hiding places—behind the hedges, a tree, a lamppost, and one terribly placed vending machine.
“Did he just…?” Tanizaki whispered, eyes still tracking the kids heading inside.
“Buy an entire orphanage’s happiness?” Yosano finished. “Yeah. Apparently.”
“I didn’t even know he liked kids,” Atsushi said, stepping out cautiously.
“I don’t think it’s about liking,” Kunikida murmured. “It’s… something else.”
Ranpo squatted, brushing leaves off his trench coat. “So this is where his salary goes. I always thought he spent it on rope and horror DVDs.”
They exchanged a look before following him quietly.
It didn’t take long before they reached a small corner supermarket. Dazai stepped inside, grabbed a red basket, and nudged it toward the child.
“Alright, commander. Operation: Dinner. What shall our menu be?”
“…Rice,” the boy said, after a pause.
“Ah, the noble staple.”
“Milk.”
“Truly the drink of champions.”
“Can I get… jelly?”
Dazai gave a dramatic gasp. “A man of taste.”
He added a few cans of curry, some bread, a carton of eggs, and quietly slipped in a packet of jelly snacks with a casual sleight of hand. The cashier rang everything up quietly. Dazai pulled out the remains of his envelope — mostly crumpled, barely enough — and handed it over without flinching.
The detectives watched through the glass window. Naomi clutched Tanizaki’s arm.
“…That’s the last of it,” Kunikida muttered.
“He’s out,” Yosano confirmed, adjusting her glasses. “Completely.”
“He really gave all of it away,” Naomi whispered, her voice tinged with awe.
When Dazai and the boy returned to the street near the bookstore, the beggar woman was still there, seated beneath the faint light of the streetlamp, eyes darting nervously until they found her son. Relief washed over her face.
“Mom!” the boy cried and ran into her arms.
She knelt to hug him tightly, pressing her face into his hair. Dazai set the groceries beside her gently.
“I believe the royal family is well-stocked for the week,” he said with a soft smile.
She blinked, touched. “You didn’t have to do this. Again.”
“I really didn’t,” he agreed. “But unfortunately, I’m cursed with a heart. Somewhere. I think.”
She looked up at him. “You’re a strange man, Dazai-san.”
He chuckled. “Tell me something I don’t know.” He reached down and ruffled the boy’s hair again. “No giving the cat curry this time, alright?”
The boy nodded solemnly, the sunflower behind his ear bobbing with the motion.
As Dazai turned to leave, the Agency was still standing down the street, silent. For a long moment, no one spoke.
“…I don’t get him,” Atsushi said quietly.
“No one does,” Yosano replied, eyes still watching the scene.
“I don’t think he wants us to,” Kunikida added, almost to himself.
Ranpo folded his arms. “And here I thought he just sucked at budgeting.”
Naomi leaned closer to her brother. “What now?”
Kunikida sighed and turned. “We go home.”
Dazai had already vanished again, his coat fluttering briefly before melting into the twilight. Empty pockets. Lighter steps. And not a word said to explain why.
Just the soft kind of peace that came when no one was watching.
Even if — this time — they were.
It was a relatively calm morning at the Agency. The kind of calm that only existed in the brief five minutes before Dazai arrived and ruined it.
With a loud thud, he collapsed onto the Agency couch like a corpse tossed into a dumpster.
“I am perishing,” he announced, one arm slung over his face dramatically. “Starving. Emotionally weathered. Spiritually bankrupt. I shall now begin the slow process of dying.”
“You just walked in,” Kunikida said dryly, flipping through his schedule. “You haven’t even sat upright.”
“I was upright. Until I realized how empty my stomach was.” He flipped onto his stomach like a pancake. “Atsushi-kun, would you do a poor soul a favor and lend me money for a sandwich?”
“No,” Atsushi muttered without looking up from his paperwork.
“Tragic.” Dazai sighed, reaching for the ceiling like a fallen Greek philosopher. “I’ve given this city so much, and now it gives me... starvation.”
“You give this office headaches and nightmares,” Yosano said as she entered with coffee. “Also, get off the couch or I’ll diagnose you with punched-in-the-face-itis.”
Dazai peeked over the couch arm. “Yosano-sensei! I haven’t eaten in a day!”
“You’re thin because you never stop dramatizing. Not because you're poor.”
Naomi flopped into a seat next to Tanizaki, whispering, “Should we say anything? About yesterday?”
“No way,” Tanizaki whispered back. “Just act normal.”
Kunikida was unusually silent. In fact, he had been too quiet since morning. Eyes glued to his notebook, jaw tight, pen furiously scribbling across the page like it personally offended him.
Ranpo popped a candy into his mouth. “Hey, Dazai. You still got that 37 yen in your pocket?”
“Only enough to buy despair-flavored gum,” Dazai sniffled.
“Perfect!” Ranpo grinned. “Buy it, chew it, then choke on it!”
“Ranpo-san,” Atsushi sighed.
Kunikida finally slammed his pen down and stood.
“Dazai! We need to talk about how you manage your finances—”
“I manage them very emotionally,” Dazai cut in, eyes sparkling. “I invest in people.”
Kunikida opened his mouth, about to unload a three-page rant about budgets, savings, and adult responsibility—
And then Kenji skipped in, holding a steaming rice ball.
“Dazai-san!” he grinned. “You must be hungry from yesterday after giving your salary to the florist and the orphanage and the bookstore granny and the street lady!”
Silence.
The kind of silence that sucks the air out of the room and replaces it with pure regret.
“...Kenji,” Naomi whispered in horror.
Atsushi slapped a hand to his forehead.
Tanizaki sank in his chair.
Ranpo let out a wheeeze and dropped his candy.
Yosano sighed into her coffee. “Oh, my God.”
Kenji blinked innocently. “...Did I say something bad?”
Dazai’s gaze slowly turned toward the others, who were all frozen like badly disguised mannequins.
He blinked once. Twice. Then grinned like he’d just caught them red-handed cheating on a test.
“Ohhh,” Dazai said, voice light. “So that was you all behind the bushes yesterday. I was starting to think the local shrubbery had grown extra limbs.”
Atsushi panicked. “We were just—”
“Admiring the park!” Naomi added.
“Practicing... uh... field surveillance!” Tanizaki said, sweating.
“Eating grass,” Ranpo offered with zero shame.
“Training exercise,” Kunikida muttered, staring intensely at the wall.
Dazai flopped back on the couch and cackled. “You’re all terrible spies.”
“You knew?” Atsushi gaped.
“You left your notebook in the dirt, Kunikida-kun,” Dazai said. “Right next to Ranpo’s candy wrappers and Kenji’s rice bowl.”
“Oops,” Kenji said sheepishly.
Yosano smirked. “Honestly, I’m impressed we didn’t get arrested for suspicious loitering.”
Dazai grinned, propping his head on his palm. “So? What did you think of your dear, broke coworker’s little day out?”
“You’re reckless,” Kunikida muttered. “And irresponsible. But... I suppose your heart is in the right place.”
Dazai put a hand on his chest. “Kunikida-kun... was that praise?”
“I regret it immediately.”
Ranpo stretched. “Well, I’m still not lending you any money.”
“Aw,” Dazai whined. “Even after all that touching charity work?”
“Especially because of it. You’ll just do it again.”
Yosano, however, sighed and handed him another bill. “Here. Before you go full ‘Tragic Victorian Orphan’ again.”
“You do love me, Yosano-sensei.”
“I’d love you more six feet under.”
Kenji reached into his bag. “I brought extra miso soup, too!”
“Kenji, you are the sunshine of this earth,” Dazai said, misty-eyed.
“Still,” Atsushi said softly, looking at Dazai, “what you did was... kind.”
“You should’ve told us,” Naomi added. “You didn’t have to hide it.”
Dazai smiled gently, eyes closing. “It wouldn’t be charity if it came with applause, now would it?”
Everyone fell quiet for a moment.
Then Tanizaki broke it: “Wait, does this mean we still have to cover his lunch?”
Yosano groaned. “Unfortunately, yes.”
Dazai gave them a thumbs-up. “I accept your donations, your pity, and your bento boxes with grace.”
Ranpo stood, grabbing his coat. “I’m going to go get a donut before this turns into an after-school special.”
As the rest of the Agency groaned, laughed, and resumed their bickering, Dazai leaned back on the couch. He listened, half-smiling, as life went on around him — warm and chaotic and loud.
It wasn’t money that filled his chest that day. It was this.
Them.
He closed his eyes.
"Still starving, though."
A shoe hit him in the face.
"GET UP AND DO SOME WORK."
𖡼𖤣𖥧𖡼𓋼𖤣𖥧𓋼𓍊