The cold concrete of the alleyway pressed against his cheek, damp with dirty rain and smelling faintly of cheap whiskey and rusted iron.
Osamu Dazai opened his left eye.
Above him was not the grey, silent sky of Yokohama, nor the dizzying drop from the Agency tower. Instead, looming black fire escapes crisscrossed against a neon-soaked skyline. Sirens wailed in the distance—louder, harsher, and far less refined than the sirens he was used to.
He sat up slowly, feeling the heavy drape of his black coat. He ran a gloved hand down his chest, feeling the smooth fabric of his black blazer, white shirt, and trousers. Everything was immaculate. The bandages remained neatly wrapped around his neck, both hands, and over his right eye, sealing away his past.
"How tragic," Dazai murmured, his voice smooth and laced with dramatic disappointment. "I finally managed a successful jump, and the universe hands me a second shift."
He dusted off his coat and stepped out toward the street, greeted by a rusted sign reading Hell's Kitchen. The city was alive with a chaotic, unpolished energy. Before he could fully appreciate the absolute failure of his demise, a muffled crash echoed from the dark alley behind him.
Three men stepped out of the shadows, one brandishing a switchblade and the other two holding heavy iron pipes.
"Hand over the coat, rich boy," the lead thug barked. "And whatever's in your pockets."
Dazai turned, his visible eye lightless and devoid of fear. A faint, dark smile touched his lips. In Yokohama, he had been the absolute ruler of the Port Mafia, a man who had orchestrated entire wars from behind a desk. Here, he was just a stranger in a fine suit.
"You know," Dazai said lightly, taking a step forward, "I was actually hoping for a quiet afternoon. But if you're offering a quick end, I'm all ears. Though, I must warn you... your form is terrible."
The lead thug lunged. Dazai didn't even bother to dodge with purpose; he simply tilted his head, letting the blade brush past his cheek. With a fluid, almost lazy twist of his wrist, he redirected the man's momentum, driving him headfirst into the brick wall.
Before the second thug could swing his pipe, a red baton cut through the night air, striking the man square in the chest.
A figure in dark crimson armor dropped from the fire escape, landing silently between Dazai and the remaining attacker.
Daredevil lowered his stance, his sensory perception flaring. But as he turned his attention toward the man in the black coat, the vigilante froze. To Daredevil's heightened senses, every human had a heartbeat, a rhythm of breathing, a faint hum of nervous energy.
"You should get out of here," Daredevil said, his voice low, keeping his eyes on the last thug, though his mind was entirely focused on the strange man in bandages. "This neighborhood isn't safe."
Dazai tilted his head, watching the red-suited vigilante with mild amusement. "Oh? But it was just getting interesting. Tell me, red ghost... do people die easily around here, or do I have to do all the work myself?"
Dazai as much want's stay and talk to this mysterious men in red suit with devil horn he have to leave he have to figure it out where in the name of God he is so he left the Ally and walk towards the street of New York, hell kitchen. The crisp autumn air carried the smell of burnt engine oil and cheap hot dogs as Dazai strolled down the sidewalks of Hell's Kitchen. Hands shoved deep into the pockets of his black coat, he moved with the relaxed, predatory grace of a man taking a casual evening walk—ignoring the bewildered stares his heavily bandaged face and pristine Port Mafia attire drew from the locals.
Leaving the red-suited "devil" to handle the alleyway thugs had been a minor disappointment, but survival in an unknown territory required information first. And getting the currency to acquire that information had taken less than three seconds. A gentle bump against an overly aggressive businessman on 42nd Street, a quick slip of the wrist, and Dazai was suddenly a few hundred dollars richer. Standard operating procedure.
He paused in front of a brightly lit newsstand, its metal racks overflowing with magazines and daily papers.
"Just the paper, please," Dazai said, pitching his voice with a polite, innocent warmth that completely belied his dark past.
He slid a stolen twenty-dollar bill across the counter. The old vendor grunted, barely looking up as he slapped a fresh edition of the The Daily Bugle onto the rack and shoved the change back.
Dazai picked up the paper, his single uncovered eye scanning the front page.
STARK INDUSTRIES UNVEILS NEW TECH IN MANHATTAN
IT HAS BEEN ONLY A YEAR SINCE ALIENS INVADED EARTH AND AVENGERS, X-MEN AND FANTASTIC FOUR SAVE EARTH.
Dazai's eyebrows rose slightly beneath his dark bangs. He flipped to the inner pages, his sharp mind processing the names, dates, and locations at frightening speed. New York City. The United States. Avengers. X-Men. Fantastic Four. None of these names existed in his world. There was no mention of the Armed Detective Agency, no Port Mafia, and certainly no record of a city named Yokohama operating under Special Ability permits.
Only something about Mutants and how majority of humans hate them even those X-Men are Mutants. Dazai pounder 'Those Mutants there not like the Ability user from my world they gain power through Genetic modification but ability user gain power through there Soul '.
He had not just survived his fall from the tower; he had dropped out of his universe entirely.
"Fascinating," Dazai hummed to himself, folding the newspaper under his arm. A low, dark chuckle escaped his lips as he looked up at the towering skyscrapers gleaming in the distance. "A world packed with self-proclaimed heroes, gods, and monsters... and yet, not a single one of them looks like they know how to grant a peaceful death."
With that Dazai Walk towards a Park and sit on the bench and look at the sky as noon is approaching.