Bungo Stray Dogs - Volume 8 Chapter 1 Part 1

Nothing more than 2,383 lines of code some researchers wrote off the top of their heads

Chuuya Nakahara didn’t dream. For him, waking up was like a bubble emerging from within mud.
Chuuya awoke in his bedroom. It was a dreary room: just four walls, a floor, and ceiling all drenched in bluish darkness. The furnishings were extremely sparse: a bed with some sheets, a small bookshelf, a tiny safe built into the wall, a desk at the center, and a book about precious stones tossed atop it opened to a random page. That was everything.
The morning sun peeked in through a slit in the curtains like a membrane splitting the dreary room in half. Chuuya sat up, his chest coated in a faint sheen of sweat. Swirling within his chest were the remnants of some intense emotion, although he couldn’t remember what emotion, exactly. He’d been like this every day as of late.
Chuuya gave up trying to remember and left his bedroom to take a shower. He thought about who he was while the hot water poured down his body.
Chuuya Nakahara. Sixteen years old.
After joining the Port Mafia a year ago, he made a name for himself with unprecedented speed. The organization recognized this young man’s talents and thereby granted him this apartment. And yet Chuuya had no interest in money or power. They brought him no happiness because he was missing something far more important: a past.
He didn’t know who he was.
Chuuya’s earliest memories were of when he was abducted from the military research facility nine years ago. His life before that was just a curtain of darkness—pitch-black emptiness darker than the darkest night.
After drying off, Chuuya went to change. He placed a hand on the wall, and it opened without making a sound, revealing a clothing rack. Every article of clothing was high-end without a wrinkle in sight. He picked a shirt at random, slipped his arms through the sleeves, then fastened them with emerald cuff links. Once dressed, Chuuya looked at himself in the mirror and lightly clicked his tongue before leaving the room.
When he left the building, a car instantly pulled up as if it knew he was coming. A man from the Port Mafia dressed in a black suit and sunglasses was driving the black luxury car. He stopped by Chuuya’s side and opened the rear door for him without saying a word.
“The usual place.”
That was all Chuuya said to the driver before getting in the car, sitting down, and closing his eyes.
The black luxury vehicle drove smoothly through the heart of the city using the main thoroughfare. Every street and intersection was packed with commuters driving to work, but the Port Mafia car slipped past the traffic via side roads. It was as if they’d cast a spell that kept the other cars out of their way.
“Where are yesterday’s transaction records?” “Right here.”
Chuuya skimmed the documents the driver handed him. They were printed using a special ink that made them impossible to copy or reproduce, plus they were written in code to prevent the police from using them as evidence if they ever got their hands on them.
“Looks like we’re having another good week,” Chuuya said apathetically. “What a drag.”
His job in the Port Mafia was to monitor the circulation of smuggled jewels. Per unit weight, jewels were some of the most valuable goods in the world. Amethysts, rubies, jade, diamonds: Expose a few elements to heat and pressure, and the resulting stones possess an incredible kind of magic the moment they begin changing hands. Smuggled jewels simply possessed a condensed version of said magic. They were like the shadows created by the brilliant glitter of gemstones. As long as there were jewels to be sold, stolen ones would follow. And there were countless shadowy places where contraband gemstones sprang to life.
A poverty-stricken miner in a gem-mining district would steal precious stones for a little extra cash. A burglar would break a jewelry store display with his gunstock before leaving with the goods. Then there were pirates who’d sink merchant boats carrying precious stones and loot them. Sometimes criminals would even mug celebrities and rip the necklaces right off their necks. In gem-mining districts run by anti-government forces, precious stones could even be used to purchase weapons or drugs.
Precious stones born from such darkness could not live in the world of light. That was where the Port Mafia came in and bent a few rules. First, they would shed light on all the shadowy stones that arrived at port in Yokohama; a smuggler would then bring the gems into Yokohama proper where a pawnshop would buy them before passing them over to a professional who cut them so nobody could verify where they came from. Necklaces became bracelets, bracelets became earrings, and earrings became rings, giving the gemstones a second life. The new stones were then appraised by a Mafia-backed appraiser who would make an official certificate of authenticity for each one before they were circulated to the wholesalers and sold at high-end jewelry shops.
The smuggling of precious stones was an extremely lucrative business and important source of income for the Mafia. Bypassing customs and intermediaries within mainstream distribution channels resulted in massive profits. Nevertheless, these magical stones always led to violence and bloodshed, and the only thing that could stop this violence and maintain a stable system was even more violence.
Chuuya had been filling this role perfectly as of late—almost too perfectly. Even many old-timers in the Mafia were impressed, since there wasn’t a single soul who thought a sixteen-year-old kid could manage a black market for gemstones with such ease. Yet others—although few in number—weren’t surprised in the least: those who had fought the Sheep when Chuuya was their leader. Chuuya, the Sheep King, had crushed any Mafia member who’d gotten in his way; there was nothing strange about him mastering a couple of jewelry markets. But he didn’t care about anyone’s surprise, or praise, or even envy. The one thing he wanted was something they could never give him.
Chuuya half-heartedly tossed the documents onto the seat next to him as if he were throwing a pebble.
“Who knows how many more years it’s gonna take at this rate,” he griped somewhat bitterly.
The driver pretended not to hear.

The luxury car arrived at the tranquil residential area right on time. Other than the cawing greenfinch flying low, the area was utterly silent—no trains or cars within earshot. The Mafia car quietly drove down the street until it stopped in front of one particular establishment. This brick building housed an old pool hall, and the sign outside read OLD WORLD in faded letters. The neon lights weren’t turned on, since the place wasn’t open yet.
Chuuya got out of the car, and the car left just as quietly so as not to disturb the peaceful location. He opened the door to the pool hall…
…and was met with five guns.

“We ain’t open yet,” a man growled as he pressed a handgun to Chuuya’s head.
“We’ll let corpses inside, though,” said another man. He had a sawed-off shotgun at Chuuya’s chest.
“Pretty careless to come alone, Jewel King. Wouldn’t you say?” sneered yet another man, his gun aimed at Chuuya’s side.
“Not even you would be able to block every single one of our attacks in this position,” commented another man with his pocket pistol pressed up against the back of Chuuya’s neck.
“So what’s it gonna be, Gravity Boy? I promise I’ll make it quick and painless if you start crying and apologize now,” taunted the last of the five men. This one was standing right in front of Chuuya with a long-barreled gun pointed right between his eyes.
Chuuya was deadlocked. If he attacked any one of them, the others would immediately open fire. If he tried to retreat back out the door, he would be shot from the front. If he took a step forward, he would be shot from behind.
Chuuya didn’t react. His expression didn’t even change. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife as five index fingers tightened around their triggers.
Bang!
A hollow blast echoed through the street.

Chuuya stood stock-still as numerous bloodlike streams slid down his head—from multicolored party streamers.
“Happy one-year Port Mafia anniversary, Chuuya!”
The pool hall rang with the five men’s cheerful shouts. Chuuya looked around the room with an annoyed glare.
“…What is wrong with you people?”
White smoke was still coming out of their guns. Chuuya’s head was covered in colorful streamers, and confetti was still raining from above. The men grinned at the sight of Chuuya decked out in party goods.
The five of them were members of a peer support group within the Port Mafia. And not just any ordinary support group—they were the future of the organization, all either the same rank as Chuuya or higher. Every member was under twenty-five years old, which was why they were referred to as the Young Bloods—the young wolves of the Port Mafia.
After heaving a deep sigh, Chuuya walked toward the back of the pool hall with a distant expression, not even greeting any of the attendees.
“What’s wrong, Chuuya? Aren’t you happy?” asked the tall man behind him. “We did all this for you, y’know.”
“Who celebrates one-year anniversaries? Ridiculous,” Chuuya scoffed. “I’m not not happy. I’m indifferent.”
“C’mon, don’t be like that. You’re gonna like it. I guarantee it,” the tall man assured Chuuya as he followed him. “We’ll even be presenting you with a little anniversary gift or two later. Isn’t that exciting? Feels just like being in school again, right?”
Chuuya suddenly stopped, looked back, and glared at the man. “So you’re the one behind all this, Piano Man? You have the lamest sense of humor.”
“What can I say? I live for moments like this. Annoying people with my lame sense of humor is what gets me out of bed every morning.”

The mafioso, wearing a formal black coat and white slacks, beamed at Chuuya’s bitter remark.
Known within the Port Mafia as Piano Man, he dressed in black and white without exception. He was tall with slender fingers and always wore an amused smile. Piano Man was the Young Bloods’ founder and essentially served as its leader; plus, he’d originally invited Chuuya to join the group.
Piano Man was more of a craftsman than a mafioso, and he was most likely the only person in Yokohama who could create counterfeit money— known as supernotes—indistinguishable from the real thing. However, he could also be quite fickle, missing deadlines by months if the counterfeit notes didn’t meet his standards, even if doing so went against the boss’s orders.
Incidentally, he wasn’t nicknamed Piano Man because of his black-and- white attire. His weapon of choice was an automatic winding machine fitted with carbon steel piano wire. Once the wire was around his enemy’s neck, they were decapitated within seconds. No amount of brute strength could save them. All that would be left was a perfectly flat surface between their shoulders, copious amounts of blood, and the echoes of the victim’s final scream. This was a man of whimsy, delicacy, and cruelty, said to be the youngest mafioso closest to becoming a Port Mafia executive.
Just when Chuuya started walking into the back of the pool hall once more, another man called out to him.
“Ha-ha-ha! Chuuya, you shoulda seen your face! I was all for this little act, too, just in case you were curious! The star of the Young Bloods and former Mafia enemy: Chuuya Nakahara, the Sheep King! Just seeing that pissed-off look on your face made joining this group worth it!” said a blond young man with a vibrant laugh as he twirled his shotgun.
Chuuya glared at him. “Hmph. You’re lucky I realized it was all an act, Albatross. ’Cause if I didn’t, you’d have been the first one to die.”
“Whoa there. Sorry, but you wouldn’t be able to kill me. I’d slice off your hand with this here blade before you’d even manage to land a hit.”
Then the blond youth soundlessly pulled a kukri machete out of his coat. He cut through the air a few times with weightless speed before simply letting it go. The blade immediately pierced the floor with a heavy thud, leaving radial cracks where it landed.

The blond youth laughed. He often laughed with a cheerful look on his face, which was where he got the nickname Albatross. A talkative individual, Albatross was prone to getting carried away. Even in the middle of battle with blood and guts flying through the air, his subordinates never lost sight of him because all they ever had to do was follow his voice and laughter.
Albatross was said to have complete control over “anything that’s faster than walking.” Put simply, vehicles were his game. Whether it was trucks for transporting goods or a cargo ship that could slip past the coast guard’s radar, he was your man. He could even have a getaway car with a fake license plate ready if the situation called for it. Albatross was originally the Mafia’s wheelman, capable of piloting anything with a steering wheel more quickly and with greater precision than anyone else. There were even rumors that he once got away from the coast guard’s high-speed attack helicopter in an old, beat-up fishing boat, and not a single person in the Mafia doubted those rumors. Anyone who made him mad wouldn’t survive three days in the Port Mafia because he controlled the vehicles—in other words, he controlled the cash flow. If he hated someone, he could shut down their business and leave them with nothing in the blink of an eye.
“Hey, Chuuya, let’s make a toast!”
Albatross caught up with Chuuya and held out a champagne glass, but Chuuya only gave him a brief glance before continuing to walk away.
“Yikes, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today,” said Albatross. He held the champagne glass up in an exaggerated motion as if to prevent it from spilling. “We’re used to you randomly being in a bad mood once every month or so, but I gotta ask: Did something happen? A bad dream, maybe?”
A bad dream.
The instant he heard those words, Chuuya turned around, furious. “Nothing happened!”
His rage violently shook the glasses in the pool hall. “Sheesh, don’t scare me like that… So? What’s going on?”
After a brief moment of hesitation, Chuuya’s eyes wandered around the room until he lowered his voice slightly and said, “Day after day, you’ve been goin’ on night-long benders right above me, Albatross. That’s what’s going on. How many times do I have to tell you that your floor is my ceiling?”
“Aw, c’mon, I haven’t forgotten. I make sure to be extra noisy because I know you’re down there, neighbor.” Albatross smiled innocently.
He lived in the same high-end apartment building as Chuuya but on the next floor up. As far as Chuuya was concerned, putting Albatross on the floor above him was one of the biggest mistakes the Port Mafia had ever made. Albatross would sometimes invite himself into Chuuya’s apartment on a whim and drag him along somewhere, saying he needed help with a job. Then they would take a car, boat, or even a helicopter to some ridiculously faraway war zone. Chuuya became a really good swimmer thanks to this, since Albatross wouldn’t always have a vehicle ready to take them back home.
Chuuya ignored Albatross and continued toward the back of the pool hall. He was about to hang up his coat when a man with a champagne glass suddenly appeared by his side.
“Heh-heh… Happy one-year anniversary, Chuuya…,” the man said, chuckling. His bangs, cut in a perfectly straight line, concealed his dark gaze upon Chuuya. “I never expected you to last this long… Heh-heh.”
He was unusually skinny. His thin wrists seemed to hover between the cuffs of his collared shirt; the hand not holding a champagne glass was clutching onto a drip stand with an IV bag whose tube disappeared into his clothing. He looked extremely unwell, to put it lightly.
“Doc.”
Chuuya accepted the champagne glass handed to him, then peered inside it.

“You didn’t poison this, did you?”
“Not at all.” The man called Doc smirked grimly. “Poison wouldn’t be enough to kill you.”
“How do you know that?”
“From experience.” His eyes glowed eerily. “I’ve killed many with poison.”
Doc, the personification of unhealthy, was the Mafia’s medical supervisor. There were a lot of unlicensed quacks in the criminal underworld, but Doc was different. He was an actual doctor who got his MD in North America.
So-called back-alley doctors were highly sought after in underground society, since legitimate hospitals reported anyone who came in with wounds from torture or gunshots to the authorities. That was where these underground doctors came in, and the Port Mafia was no different.
But the similarities with other criminal organizations ended there. Doctors were highly valued in the Port Mafia and given preferential treatment. Ougai Mori, the Mafia boss, was a former back-alley doctor himself, after all. Furthermore, Doc was a top-class physician even among his extraordinary peers in the organization’s medical division. He had already saved around eight hundred lives, despite his youth. And he had purposely robbed about that many lives, too.
Doc’s goal was to bring himself one step closer to God. He personally believed that every life saved brought him that much closer to his goal. He aimed to save around two million people—the same number of people that God killed in the Bible. That was why he joined the Mafia, where he calmly waited for a massive war that would see countless people die like insects.
“What a lineup. Honestly wasn’t expecting to see you here, too, Doc,” Chuuya admitted as he looked around the hall. “Why the hell was everyone invited here just for a one-year anniversary, though?”
“Allow me to explain.”
A young man with a kind voice slowly approached him. “It’s because the first year in the Mafia is the hardest.” “What?”
The man smiled. It was a very sweet, attractive smile, perhaps thanks to his unusually handsome face. His captivating beauty was unparalleled. If he dressed in men’s clothing and smiled, women would be swept off their feet; the same would happen to men if he dressed in women’s clothes.
“That first year after joining the Mafia is the harshest period. It’s a dead man’s curve, so to speak. Within the first year, most people either run away, get killed on the job, or get snuffed out by the organization for causing problems. That’s why today is a day to celebrate your survival.”
“Heh. What? Didn’t think I was gonna make it, Lippmann?” asked Chuuya as he glared at him.
“Oh, no. I knew you could do it,” replied the man called Lippmann as he flashed Chuuya a captivating grin.
Lippmann’s job was extremely peculiar, even compared to the others here. He was the Mafia’s negotiator with the outside world. In other words, he met with people in the “real” world. He negotiated with front companies, met and talked with political figures, and even dealt with the press if push came to shove. If the Port Mafia had a stage face, it would be him.
Killing Lippmann would be an extremely difficult task. In a way, he’d be even harder to kill than the boss himself…because Lippmann was a movie star. He had countless passionate fans abroad. If he was murdered or went missing, all the top news agencies worldwide would rush to cover it. A news story that massive would immediately have people everywhere searching for his killer, and that was something a criminal enterprise wanted to avoid at all costs.