Bungo Stray Dogs - Volume 8 Chapter 2 Part 4

It was a dumping ground—a place long forgotten by all. Beneath the stormy sky lay haphazard piles of shipping containers, one on top of the other like dead bodies. Toxic substances illegally dumped in the area seeped into the open soil. Even field mice knew to stay away.
Not located on any map, this was the loneliest place in Yokohama. And near its center lived Dazai.
Dazai didn’t live in a house, though. He lived inside one of the thrown- away shipping containers originally used for exporting cars to foreign countries. Inside the large container was a refrigerator, an exhaust fan, a desk and chair, a bed, and a small, naked light bulb.
Those who knew Dazai didn’t dare come near his home—not even his Port Mafia subordinates—and not because of how eerie the area was. Rather, nobody knew how Dazai would react when someone invaded his private space. Perhaps he would tear off their limbs and kill them, or perhaps he would welcome them with open arms and a cup of tea. Nobody could understand how Dazai worked.
The black wraith of the Port Mafia: That was what people called him.
One year had gone by since he joined the Mafia. He was now in charge of the boss’s personal covert ops unit and was producing staggering results. They had already eliminated numerous organizations and opened new distribution channels. The speed of his achievements was extraordinary, even when compared to past Mafia executives. Even the achievements of Piano Man—the Flags’ founder—were child’s play compared to what Dazai had done.
And yet no one trusted him. Because the darkness lurking within his eyes was deeper than the ink black nights that hung over the dumping ground he inhabited.
The longer he worked for the Mafia, the darker and more unfathomable he became. Nobody knew exactly why, either. Nevertheless, Dazai continued to slaughter his enemies and serve the Port Mafia in order to force himself into an even darker place. His achievements were outstanding. But there was one person who did not take delight in his glory: Dazai himself.
Dazai was alone, seated in a chair in his container, quietly staring into the darkness. His phone on the nearby table suddenly began ringing. It was Chuuya, but Dazai didn’t answer his call. He didn’t even look in the phone’s direction. He simply sat in silence, interlacing his fingers and gazing into the darkness and the door beyond it.
His eyes were exceedingly still; his black pupils were absorbing all sound and light. Nothing could escape his gaze—not even his own emotions.
The phone eventually acquiesced and stopped ringing. A deep silence once again reigned over the room—much deeper and heavier than before the phone had begun ringing.
All of a sudden, Dazai’s eyes faintly moved as he gazed into the abyss. The metal door slowly started to open until the outline of a man emerged from the dim light.
“Charming place you have here, Dazai,” came a lighthearted voice. “What frightens you so much that you choose to live in such a dreary place? Real estate tax?”
Dazai’s expression didn’t change as he replied coarsely, emotionlessly: “It’s you I’m frightened of, Verlaine.”
The shadowy figure entered the container: a tall man wearing a black hat and a suit the color of the midnight sea. Judging from his playful gaze, he appeared to be enjoying what he saw.
Paul Verlaine—the king of assassins.
“You’re lying,” Verlaine said as he approached. “You fear nothing. I can tell by the look in your eyes. You hardly felt a thing when I tried to kill you just two days ago.”
“I guess you could say I have a slightly unconventional approach to my own death.”
Only the corners of Dazai’s eyes faintly lifted into a smile, but his dark pupils remained utterly still.
“I’d be out of a job if everyone was like you.” Verlaine shrugged. His leather shoes lightly tapped against the floor as he walked to the desk and grabbed the documents lying on top of it. “So these are the Port Mafia’s internal files, yes?”
It was a stack of a few dozen sheets of paper. Selling them to another organization would undoubtedly net a person enough money to fool around and live comfortably for three lifetimes. That was just how valuable these secret documents were.
Verlaine shook the stack of papers by the side of his head. “Two days ago, you told me you would give me these files, which is why I didn’t kill you. I need them for my work, after all. But why’d you do it? What do you want in return? And I don’t want to hear any jokes like, “Please don’t kill me.’”
“The reason is simple,” Dazai answered with a faint smirk. Then, in a deep voice—in a nightmarish growl, he added:
“I want to see the Port Mafia burn.”
Verlaine suddenly straightened his face. He then looked at Dazai as one would if they had just realized someone had been there the entire time.
“Didn’t the Port Mafia take you in and care for you?” Verlaine carefully asked after a few moments went by.
“They did.”
“Then why do you want to see it burn?”
Dazai surely heard his question, yet he did not reply. His eyes wandered in silence as if he were searching for some far-off place until his lips eventually curled into a smile—a grievous smirk that would make anyone shriek at the sight of it.
“I’m bored of it already.”
Verlaine’s eyes narrowed. He stared intently at Dazai, seemingly in search of his true intentions.
Dazai glanced back at him, perhaps amused by this, then he muttered as if he was talking to himself, “I couldn’t find anything in the end.”
“Is that so?” Verlaine closed his eyes. “Well, I understand where you’re coming from. You went on a journey with the expectation that you might find something to change you, but all you found was a kingdom of garbage and despair. I’ve been through something similar. Simply breathing, eating, and relieving yourself isn’t living. That’s why we make the journey.”
Verlaine picked up a silver coin off the ground. There was nothing special about it. You could find another like it just about anywhere.
“I appreciate your help, Dazai.”
He then flicked the coin with his fingers.
There was a deafening roar as the coin flew right by Dazai’s face before shooting through the wall behind him. The air wavered, and a thunderous boom rang out when the coin shattered other metallic materials outside, flying in a straight line until it eventually disappeared into the horizon to the west. All that remained was the rising steam left from the melted metal and the vain echoes of freshly torn metal.
“As someone who shares your despair, allow me to give you the honor of being the last one killed.”
Verlaine smiled, still in the same position he’d been in when he flicked the coin.
Dazai didn’t move. He didn’t even blink, even though the coin had just shot right by his head like a bullet.
“I can’t wait,” he replied with a soul-shattering smirk.
Verlaine turned his back to Dazai, then started heading for the door. But the moment he placed a hand on the knob, Dazai asked, “Where do you plan on going now?”
Verlaine turned around, smiling like a magician at the end of a magic trick, and replied:
“To the police station, of course.”
The door to the interrogation room opened 1,448 seconds after Master Chuuya and I were led inside.
“Hey.”
It was the woolly haired detective who had been present when Shirase was arrested. He was holding a ceramic bowl containing some sort of liquid. He then sat on the other side of the desk and began pulling out a solid from said liquid with a pair of chopsticks. It was a shoestring-shaped substance mainly made from starch, gliadin, and glutenin. He promptly began to eat said substance.
The detective noticed me staring and lifted his head back up. “What’s the matter, foreigner? Never seen udon before?”
He smirked, then continued to eat as steam brushed against his face. “Where’s ours?” Master Chuuya bluntly asked.
“What, you wanted some? I figured with all that money you’re making in the gemstone black market you wouldn’t care for peasant food like this anymore.”
Master Chuuya crossed his arms and glared at the man. “”Black market’? Hold up. True, I work at a small jewelry store, but we’re licensed. You wanna see my employee ID?”
“I’m not interested in your fake ID.” The detective cocked his head and chuckled. “So who’s this foreigner with you anyway?” he asked, pointing his chopsticks at me.
Master Chuuya simply shrugged without giving an answer. The detective looked back at me and said, “Hey, Chuuya. I’m saying this for your own good. The fewer outsiders who hear what we’re about to discuss, the better.”
“Nice to meet you. I am a computer from—”
“Oh, c’mon, detective. Don’t be like that,” Master Chuuya demanded, cutting me off. “He’s new. Just started working today. He once got in a fight and took a bat to the head, and now he thinks he’s a robot. The guy’s a real riot, too, so I’ve been taking him wherever I go. Is that gonna be a problem?”

“No, I really am a computer.”
“He’s one of yours? Then it’s still too soon for him to be in a place like this. Come on, I’ll show you out,” said the detective as he stood up and knocked on the door. “Get him outta here.”
A large man in a police uniform entered the room without making a sound and grabbed my arm. I was right about to protest when I saw, out of the corner of my eye, Master Chuuya giving me a signal. He was bending his index finger toward the door from under the desk. Then he looked at me and faintly pointed his chin at the door.
It was clearly a nonverbal signal. He was trying to tell me something that he did not want the others to hear. Perhaps that was why he made up that story to get me to leave.
Hmm… Then there was only one thing for me to do. “Very well. I will be waiting outside.”
I respectfully bowed before retiring from the interrogation room with the uniformed officer. Once the door closed behind me, the officer and I started walking.
“Excuse me, officer,” I began after we’d taken around ten steps. “What do you think it means when someone bends their finger toward the door twice?”
“…What?” The officer cocked his head curiously.
“I mean a gesture where you bend your finger like this while pointing at the door,” I repeated as I pondered the situation.
Master Chuuya was indirectly telling me to leave because there was something he wanted me to do out here as he himself was unable to leave the interrogation room. What we needed to do first and foremost was get Shirase out of this station, since he might be assassinated before we even got a chance to move him somewhere safely and set up the trap. However, the city police already knew we were trying to take him somewhere. That was why they were keeping Master Chuuya in the interrogation room, and
—
…Well, well.
“I understand now.”
The officer glared suspiciously at me after my sudden announcement. “And what exactly do you understand?”
“That gesture was an order. Master Chuuya was trying to tell me to sneak into Shirase’s cell and save him while he distracted the other officers.”
“Oh, sneak into his cell, huh?” The officer nodded. “…Hmm? “Sneak into his cell’?”
Oops. It appeared that he was on to me. This was not ideal. “Officer, look over there.”
I pointed toward the area behind the officer, and he instinctively looked in that direction. He was good at following orders.
I then took my already pointed index finger and placed it right where his cheek was a moment ago.
“I don’t see anyth—”
He turned his head back around and was about to finish his sentence when his cheek squished right into my finger. A direct hit.
My fingertips contained microscopic needles coated with a sedative. They pierced his skin and caused him to lose consciousness. I caught him with both arms before he collapsed to the floor, then scanned my surroundings. It appeared no one saw or heard a thing.
“We must remain quiet. This is a police station.” I smiled as I held him up.