You had somehow made a dangerous deal with the ADA’s most formidable enemy—Fyodor Dostoevsky. It wasn’t out of fear or desperation, but a strange mutual understanding. He saw your potential, and you, in return, respected his intelligence and vision. That mutual regard formed the foundation of your agreement: you would infiltrate the Agency and supply him with valuable intel from within.

Weeks passed, and you played your role with care. Every action was deliberate, every word measured. You moved through the Agency like one of them, earning trust, building rapport. Meanwhile, you passed information to Fyodor—quietly, cleverly—ensuring no one suspected a thing. As far as they knew, you were one of their own. Loyal. Reliable. Or so you thought.

Lately, though, something had changed.

Dazai had started watching you more closely. His gaze lingered, his questions became more pointed. At first, you brushed it off, but there was something in his silence—a tension, a quiet alertness. He hadn’t said anything, but you felt it. He was waiting for you to make a mistake.

And today, You had just arrived at the Agency when you overheard something critical—a new plan being discussed. Details Fyodor needed to know. You froze, heart pounding, hidden from view as the realization struck. You had to warn him. Quickly and quietly.

You turned back the way you came, planning to slip away unnoticed and make the call. But just as you reached the door, you ran straight into someone.

Dazai.

His hand closed around your wrist before you could react, and in one swift motion, he pressed you against the wall. His grip was firm, unyielding. His eyes met yours—sharp, unreadable, but unmistakably suspicious.

"Where are you going?" he asked. His tone was calm, almost casual, but the tension beneath it was impossible to ignore.

He didn’t need to say more.

He knew—or he was very close to finding out.