Chapter Text
Reddish brown water stained the bottom of the faux-marble sink of the hotel bathroom. Chuuya’s nails chipped away at the blood crusted to his fingers, still tacky from the fight the secretary from London had given him. Brits usually never tried to survive, he hadn’t expected it.
The man had coughed blood all over him, grabbing at Chuuya and smearing it further. The sheer amount had soaked through Chuuya’s gloves. Now, he was dead around the corner in his overpriced hotel bed. The TV droned on through an old Hallmark rerun, loud enough that Chuuya hadn’t had to be quiet.
It was taking too long. Chuuya gave up with blood still sticking to him. He’d finish cleaning up later, but he needed to get out of the room now. He had been ordered very specifically to be gone by the time the man’s mistress traipsed down the hall.
He trusted Ryuu to have backdated the clocks on the hotel camera system, getting rid of the woman’s alibi in seconds with fake footage. Chuuya glanced at the man lying in the bed and almost felt bad.
This job had specific orders, and that meant his signature didn’t make an appearance. The man’s wife had paid for the best, but demanded he didn’t take credit. Chuuya shrugged off his stolen staff vest as he slipped onto the balcony beside his hotel room. The cameras were disabled, made to look like the dark shadows of a Washington night veiled all movement. Chuuya held the vest in his teeth as he climbed onto the stone railing of the balcony.
“Shit.” He spat out the vest. In seconds he had rushed back into the hotel room, snatched his abandoned gloves from the bathroom and sprinted back outside as heels clicked against the tile hallway floor. Gloves shoved deep into his pockets, Chuuya shimmied back up onto the balcony and forced his feet to find holds on the side of the building. A thin strip of stone had been carved as decoration, and he slid across it. Toe to heel, dress shoes scuffing across.
Chuuya looked down, because he was intrigued. Four stories up, but he suspected he’d survive the fall. The tall trees and shrubbery offered at least a few ways to break his fall.
Chuuya didn’t fall. His hands found their way across the small stretch between the secretary’s balcony and the one for the empty room beside him. Chuuya hadn’t even been surprised to find them all booked under the man’s name, in a futile attempt to hide his affair with an American mistress.
Chuuya jumped the last meter. His feet landed on the railing of the balcony and he crouched to regain his balance before he slipped down onto the platform. The balcony door was unlocked, just as he’d left it.
On the bed, a folded set of street clothes and a garment bag were sitting waiting for him. Chuuya shucked off his hotel uniform, stuffing it into the bag without bothering with hangers. He hadn’t been the one to pack his outfit for afterwards, and his clothes from before the job were sitting in a garbage in the hotel kitchen.
Chuuya almost considered seeing if his turtleneck and slacks were still in that garbage, when he finally took a closer look at what Tachihara had picked for him. It was, to Chuuya’s disdain, very American.
Wide leg jeans and a cropped sports jersey had been folded and shoved inside the bag. Chuuya let out a sigh of relief when he saw the black leather jacket. He changed quickly, adjusting his choker from where it had been fastened to hide beneath the uniform. Tachihara had also been kind enough to give him a pair of tennis shoes that didn’t pinch at the toes.
The hotel was too fancy for Chuuya to pass comfortably as a guest, and he didn’t need that trouble. Chuuya grabbed his bags and turned back towards the balcony. After resituating himself, Chuuya clambered back over the railing and dropped to the next floor with little worry. The room beneath had darkened their lights and seemed to be fast asleep. His feet were silent on their landing.
From there he could climb rather easily to the ground. Three stories was a fall he’d survived a dozen times. Though, it had been nearly four years since his shoes slipped from under him.
Chuuya still had his bags in hand as he dusted himself off around the side of the hotel. There was a bar across the street, but Chuuya took time to ditch the uniform he’d stolen in a nearby business’s garbage can.
He found himself a place at the bar. A Sunday night made for a smaller crowd.
“What can I get you?” The woman bartending asked, making her way over to him. She was drying a glass. Chuuya could feel her scrutinizing gaze.
“Do you have a wine menu?” He asked.
The woman snorted, tossing her drying rag back over her shoulder. “Yeah. Can I see some ID first?”
Chuuya’s brows knit, and he frowned as he retrieved his passport from inside his jacket pocket. It dawned on him that Americans could only drink at 21, and he nearly laughed as he remembered. The forged little book had his real age, 22, but it still was comical.
The woman’s brows shot up. “Don’t you just carry your driver’s license?” She flipped open the little book, scanning his information.
Chuuya didn’t bother to answer as she fetched him a short menu and set it on the counter with his passport before she hurried back over to a different customer.
He frowned, realizing that only a portion of the menu had a wine selection, but he still ordered a dry red and took his time on the first glass. The woman tried to chat with him, doing her job he supposed. She was asking something about the drink in his hand when red and blue lights flared through the front windows and across her face.
Chuuya sighed, but mirrored her face of intrigue as he turned on his barstool. He already knew why the police had arrived, but humored the others in the bar as they started guessing with outrageous theories.
“Rich fucks are always getting into trouble with drugs.” The bartender mused, watching as the ambulance came to a stop in the middle of the street.
Chuuya didn’t say anything, watching with an expression that bordered on bored as the mistress came out wearing handcuffs. She was a pretty thing, it was almost a pity. A few minutes later the dead body was carted out the front of the hotel already in a body bag.
A distinct ringtone Chuuya had assigned to only one woman started. He slipped his phone from his pocket, earning a few glances from the bartender and her customers. Koyou’s name flashed at the top of the screen.
Chuuya knocked back the rest of his wine. It was annoying, but he slipped a few bills from his pocket and set them beside the empty glass. The bartender cocked an eyebrow as she reached his spot and counted. It was excessive.
She opened her mouth to stop him, but Chuuya was already heading towards the door.
“Tip.” Chuuya mouthed over his shoulder. The woman wasn’t one to argue, tucking the extra bills inside her shirt with a small smile.
Discretion was easily bought, Chuuya didn’t know if she’d noticed his dirty nails.
“What?” Chuuya said, finally answering Koyou’s second call.
“I taught you better manners than that.” Koyou snapped. She didn’t say anything else, but Chuuya was certain she could hear his eye roll.
“Hello, Ane-san.” He sighed. “How’s tomorrow?”
His phone read a little bit after 11, making it lunch time in Yokohama.
“Unfortunately busy.” Koyou mused. “No report on your end yet, that was supposed to keep me out of morning meetings.”
“I’m working on it now.” Chuuya lied.
Koyou laughed lightly. “You’ll have plenty of time to finish it on the plane, your flight info is in the email I just sent you.”
Chuuya’s brows knit together. “I wasn’t supposed to leave for Panama until later this week.” He said, gauging her breathing on the other end of the line. He’d stopped in his tracks, a few blocks from the bar on a relatively empty street.
“Plans changed, you’re coming home.” Koyou said too quickly.
“Why?”
She didn’t say anything, and Chuuya suspected she wouldn’t even if he questioned her further. All of this seemed like Mori’s doing. Chuuya had been sent from Tokyo to Dublin to Dubai to New York over the last few months, all high profile jobs that left a trail of blood that led authorities away from Japan. He was a fox with a pack of bloodhounds on his trail, and Mori had promised him a break in central America after finishing this D.C. job to let the suspicion die down.
“You leave at 4:30 tomorrow, I’d recommend spending the night in the airport.” Koyou said. “Maybe finish the report early, if you’d like to make my life easier.”
Chuuya sighed and started walking towards a busier street. It’d be late to catch a taxi, but there was always a chance.
“I’ll get it to you as soon as I can.” Chuuya told her before hanging up.
He hailed a taxi a few blocks from the American capitol, pulling up his flight info on his phone and telling the man the name of the airport. It earned him a confused look, but he flashed the cash in his wallet and got no further questions.
The security terminals were closed for the night. Chuuya was almost annoyed, but he’d been trained in slipping through without question for years. A few back doors and the airport layout in his email– sent by Ryuunosuke, Koyou couldn’t be bothered– and Chuuya was walking past closed, overpriced restaurants to his terminal. He saw few travellers, but none of them questioned him as he wandered past without any luggage.
Airports, for all of their attempts at high class security and awareness, were the easiest places in the world to be anonymous. Nobody could be certain of who you were, because half the folks walking past looked like they were wearing disguises. Chuuya was certain of that as he studied the businessman in an ill-fitting suit across from him.
The man was asleep, so it was easy to see his tattoos poking out from under his sleeves and the fact that his shoes were cracking out at the soles. The young girl with her butterfly backpack a few seats away was bouncing her foot nervously as a tired flight attendant sat by her side trying to get her to play a game.
A few hours later, the bartender who swapped shifts at normal bar-time with the other working man turned the news on. He kept the volume nearly silent, a low hum as he served another few fingers of bourbon to the single woman drinking. Chuuya watched the face of the dead London secretary flash on the screen, the news anchor looking exhausted as she gave the report. After a few seconds, a photo of the man’s family appeared on screen. His wife, who’d paid for his murder, was cradling their two kids with a smile. He suspected the photo was a few years old.
It took several minutes for the mistress to become the focus, and from there Chuuya stopped paying attention. He knew the story that had been forged, covering his tracks.
The flight from D.C. to Tokyo was 14 hours non-stop. He’d done it before, and typically the air was the only place Chuuya could sleep without holding a knife under his pillow. His line of work didn’t exactly leave him without enemies.
Instead, he sat with his legs crossed and typed out the job report on his phone and sent it to Koyou. He stared out the window for a few hours, and managed to catch a few hours of sleep towards the end of the plane ride. It was dinner time when their wheels touched down, and Chuuya stole a snack with an old trick he’d been taught as a teenager. Sure, being an assassin paid well, but that didn’t mean he wanted to pay atrocious airport prices.
He’d been a poor kid stealing from street carts once, he knew the value of the money he’d earned spilling other people’s blood.
Chuuya wasn’t surprised that a car was waiting for him in arrivals. He did quirk a brow upwards when he found Ichiyo Higuchi holding the sign with a nickname scrawled across the front.
He raised his hand in greeting.
“Welcome back.” Higuchi smiled at him, and Chuuya’s shoulders sagged as he was able to slip back into his native tongue. Even Koyou had insisted on speaking in English as he played the part of an American.
Chuuya nodded and followed her to the car waiting in the parking garage. Higuchi spun the keys to the sleek black sports car around her finger, clearly pleased that she got to drive as they got in.
“I’ve got to say, I do like when you show off a little midriff.” Higuchi teased almost as soon as the car doors were shut and they could drop the facade. The tinted windows meant no cameras, and the cars were never wire tapped as a treat to their clientele.
Chuuya scoffed, reaching for his seatbelt. “Tachihara’s fault.”
Higuchi giggled, and Chuuya’s hand immediately went for the door as she peeled out of their parking spot. The girl had always driven like a crazy person, Chuuya blamed her background as a getaway driver. She’d never lost that touch when she got promoted.
They cut the drive time nearly in half. Chuuya had cursed more than he thought possible as the girl swerved in and out of traffic, and he was grateful their facilities were just off the highway. His apartment was a few blocks away, but he’d gotten a text from Koyou when he landed that said there would be no time for him to freshen up before he had to meet with Mori.
“Good luck.” Higuchi escorted him past the front desk, even though Chuuya was one of the most well known faces of their business. He did pity the secretaries that lost their jobs every few months for discretion's sake. Mori’s medical sales enterprise functioned as an excellent cover until lower level employees started asking why so many foreign individuals came into their offices specifically to see him.
Chuuya would’ve no doubt been stopped by the bright eyed young girl who looked confused when Higuchi flashed her badge and let them both in. Chuuya could’ve been any person off the street in the outfit Tachihara had left him.
“Why?”
Higuchi shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know what’s going on. Gin wouldn’t tell me.”
Chuuya frowned, knowing full well that didn’t bode well for him. Though, he suspected Koyou would have at least warned him if they were calling him in to put a bullet through his skull.
Mori and Koyou were waiting in a conference room that spanned half over the second-to-top floor of the building. Mirrored windows kept anybody from looking in, but Chuuya still glanced around the open windows to see if anything had changed.
“Chuuya.” Mori greeted, and Chuuya hated the smile the man offered him. Higuchi was dismissed with a wave of Mori’s hand, but she didn’t even grumble about it. He was almost certain it was after her contracted hours and the blonde was ready to go back home.
“What’s so important I couldn’t shower before coming in?” Chuuya asked, making his way over to a wingback chair and falling into it. He caught Koyou’s unimpressed frown, but didn’t correct his posture.
Koyou inhaled deeply, sighing while reaching up to rub her brow. “I suppose it’s good you’re already sitting down.”
Chuuya doubled back on his suspicion of getting shot, but neither of them had a gun from what he could see. There was the chance of one being strapped to Koyou’s thigh, but that had never been her style. He raised an eyebrow as his eyes landed on a file, thick with paper sitting in front of Mori.
“What’s in there?” He asked, jutting his chin towards the folder.
“We’ve received some new updates on a case we know you have vested interest in.” Mori played the professional, his gloved hand resting lightly on top of the folder. It was the only thing stopping Chuuya from snatching it off the table.
He didn’t have interest in cases unless there was a fuck-ton of money on the table, and he was on the record saying that. However, he was still a little irked at being brought back before his break in Panama. He hadn’t been able to spend time in the sun in months, it was getting to him. His frown deepened as he saw the contract holder written across the cover of the folder was Mori himself, making it a threat to their company. He’d be lucky if he made pennies compared to the job he’d just finished.
“Take a look.” Mori said after holding his gaze for several seconds. Chuuya squinted at him as the folder slid across the table towards him.
“Chuuya.” Koyou started, but his eyes had already caught on the name at the top of the first page.
“What the fuck.” Chuuya spat. He looked up at Mori, who simply folded his arms over his chest. Koyou had a grimace spread across her face as she sucked in a breath through her teeth.
The first few documents were information Chuuya already knew. They’d put together a case file just like the ones he’d received before jobs, background on the person of interest. Except, nobody had seen Osamu Dazai in two and a half years.
He shoved those papers to the side as he made it to the bottom half of the stack.
A collection of photos, all date and time stamped, had been printed in color. Chuuya would have known the bastard’s face in black and white, but he still ground his teeth to stop himself from tearing them to bits. Chuuya saw red.
The last two pages were an updated profile.
“Shuuji Tsushima.” Chuuya read in disbelief. “Professor of Art History at Oxford University?”
He laughed, his voice coming out at a higher pitch. Osamu had always mocked the elite universities, claiming he was smarter than any of their students when they were just teenagers. He hadn’t been wrong, but Chuuya had always thought he hated what they stood for. Yet there he was, standing in front of a class in a blurry photo stolen from some student’s phone.
He rolled his eyes at the caption. “New hot professor without any warning wth.”
“Ryuu found him two days ago. He’d been running an international search for a different man in our system when Osamu set off a camera in London. He was able to track him backwards and pull the rest of the data.”
“Are you fucking joking right now?” Chuuya asked, turning over the pages.
“No.” Mori said. “He was heading to the airport.”
Chuuya scoffed.
“Don’t you see it?” Chuuya’s voice got louder before he caught himself. He let out a disbelieving laugh. “He’s taunting you.”
“Chuuya.” Koyou said.
“No, no.” Chuuya shook his head, leaning backwards. “You would not have found Dazai if he didn’t want you too.”
Chuuya knew that fact in his bones. Mori saw himself as better than every man that worked under him, it was the illusion of power. Osamu could’ve ruined him when he ran, but he didn’t. Mori saw him for the threat he was, but he was too focused on eliminating that to see he was being led by a red herring.
-
Osamu Dazai sat at a small Parisian cafe sipping espresso and flipping through a book he’d stolen. The tiny bookshop owner hadn’t even questioned him when, in perfect French, he’d told her that he’d seen a woman acting suspicious in the back aisle of the building. An American. Simple misdirection, she hadn’t even noticed him holding an old copy of the Louvre's collection and heading for the front door.
“A good book, sir?” A woman asked in French, and Osamu looked up to find the barista who’d served him standing near the seat across from him. She had taken off her apron and draped it over her arm, and he was certain it was the end of her shift.
“It is.” He answered, almost cringing at himself as his accent faltered.
“Have you ever been to the Louvre?” The woman continued, not having noticed. She blinked a few times, and Dazai thought there might be something in her eye until he realized it was an intentional flutter to lower them as she bit her lip.
“Once. I’m hoping to visit again now that I’m back in Paris.” Osamu smiled at her.
“Oh? You are not from Paris?”
“No.” Osamu shook his head.
“Madeline! No flirting with customers.” A sharp, reprimanding voice came from the elderly woman standing behind the pastry shelf. The woman in front of him offered him a sheepish smile and bid him goodbye, hurrying away with her head down.
Osamu left the cafe not long after, wandering down the streets of Paris and studying the buildings around him as he came to the building he’d leased an apartment inside. He took the time to flash a smile at each security camera he passed, certain they were following him as he wandered down the streets. His landlord was an elderly man with bad eyes who didn’t seem to care who Osamu was as long as he paid his rent on time.
He offered a smirk and playful wave to the single security camera in the lobby of the building. The red light on it flashed once, as if in greeting.
Osamu climbed the several flights of stairs to his apartment, tossing the stolen book onto the breakfast table just inside the door. His kitchen was quaint, with a tiny bouquet of flowers on the windowsill above the sink. He’d grown fond of the old lady who sold them on the corner, buying a bouquet of carnations each week. Osamu wandered into his living room and sighed. He had blueprints and profiles covering the walls, red string making a messy web. The planning was almost complete, but a single job went unfulfilled. The name card had no string, and a lone photo was waiting to be tied into the mess.
It’d been two days since he’d had Taniazaki swap in the footage of him leaving London for Paris from three weeks ago. Really, he should’ve been dead by now.
Osamu glanced at his phone, empty of any unknown number notifications.
“Taking our time then.” Osamu huffed a laugh, studying the photo of Chuuya Nakahara he’d tacked to his plan.