The morning light of Yokohama was thin and cool, filtering through the curtains of the Agency dorms.
Ryu had woken up twenty minutes before the sun had even properly cleared the horizon. He spent that time in the quiet rhythm of a morning routine—bathing until the chill of the previous night's supernatural exhaustion was washed away.
On the small table, he found a set of clothes the Agency had prepared for him. It was simple, functional, and sharp: a crisp white office shirt, black trousers, and sturdy black boots. Ryu dressed quickly, leaving the top button undone and rolling the sleeves up to his elbows. He preferred the mobility; in this world, being too constricted was a death sentence.
He stepped out of his room—the one closest to the stairs—and immediately stopped.
In the yard below, a large oil drum was positioned perfectly in his line of sight. Propping out of the top were two legs clad in sand-colored trousers, kicking rhythmically at the air with a head looking at him.
At that moment, the door next to his swung open. Atsushi stumbled out, a phone pressed to his ear, looking frantic. "Dazai-san? Dazai-san, please hold on! I'm coming to save—"
Atsushi froze as he turned toward the yard. His gaze traveled from the phone to the barrel, then back again. He scrambled down the stairs and across the yard, his face a mask of utter disbelief.
"What's the meaning of this, Dazai-san?" Atsushi cried, hovering over the barrel.
"Did you get caught in a trap?!"
"I got in myself," a prideful voice echoed from the metal. "Well, you see... I heard there's a way to commit suicide by getting stuck in an oil drum. So I decided to give it a shot."
Ryu, who had followed Atsushi down, couldn't hold it in anymore. He kneeled against the grass, clutching his stomach as he broke into a fit of laughter.
"Hahaha! You're unbelievable, Dazai-san! Of all the ways to go..."
Dazai's legs gave a pathetic little wiggle.
"But now that I have, I'm just suffering without actually being able to die. Not to mention, now that I've wedged myself in this deep, I can't get out on my own. I think I might die..."
He started to slide further down into the drum with a metallic screech.
Atsushi blinked, his worry turning into confusion. "But... if you stay that way, you should be able to kill yourself, right?"
"I like suicide, but not suffering or pain!" Dazai barked from inside. "Why would I want that?!"
Atsushi let out a long, weary sigh. "I see."
"Move aside, Atsushi," Ryu said, wiping a tear from his eye. He stepped up to the barrel and, with a sharp, calculated kick, knocked the drum onto its side.
The barrel hit the ground with a heavy thud, and Dazai rolled out like a human cigar, finally spilling onto the grass. He sat up, grumbling as he massaged his stiff neck. "That was painful. I owe you one, Ryu-kun."
"I've had enough excitement for one morning," Ryu said, waving a hand over his shoulder as he walked toward the gate. "I'm going to clear my head. See you guys later."
...
The Shopping District
Ryu-san disappeared down the street, leaving me alone with the damp, eccentric man who had just escaped a barrel.
Dazai-san stood up and brushed himself off as if nothing had happened.
"Well then, Atsushi-kun! Since you're so worried about employment, let's go," Dazai said cheerfully.
We began walking through a bustling shopping district. The smell of street food and the chatter of the crowd usually would have been nice, but my stomach was in knots.
"Dazai-san, are you sure about this?" I asked nervously.
"Of course! We're going to meet the sponsor who is going to introduce you to a job. I've guaranteed that you'll be fine," Dazai said, puffing out his chest.
"After all, I'm Dazai! The one and only whom the Agency trusts and the populace adores!"
I felt a small spark of hope. If someone as confident as Dazai-san said it, maybe—
"There you are, DAZAI!"
A thunderous voice shattered the atmosphere. I jumped nearly a foot into the air. Coming toward us with the fury of a storm was the blonde man from the night before—Kunikida-san.
"You bandage-squandering machine!"
"Haaa..." Dazai's face instantly paled. He slowly retreated, holding his head as if trying to shield himself from the verbal assault. "N-nice nickname there, Kunikida-kun."
"Who's the 'one and only' the Agency trusts, huh?!" Kunikida screamed, waving his notebook in Dazai's face. "You're the one and only who we get complaints, curses, and grievances about!"
Kunikida flipped his notebook open with a violent snap and began reading from a list. "August 30th: 'One of your people is submerged in the river and causing a disturbance to the fishing!' September 2nd: 'One of your people is buried in the ground and yelling some nonsense!' September 14th: 'A man is asking for a beautiful woman to commit double suicide with him at a bar! Send someone to pay the tab!'"
Dazai whistled idly, looking at the sky.
"Do you have any idea how much you've dragged the Agency's name through the mud?!" Kunikida roared. Then, his expression suddenly shifted from rage to grim professionalism.
He adjusted his glasses. "Enough. We have an emergency. A bomber has taken a hostage and holed himself up in our office."
My blood ran cold. "A... a bomber?"
"Yes," Kunikida said, his eyes sharp. "And he's demanding to see the President. Move! Now!"