Four years had passed since Dazai Osamu walked out of the Port Mafia and never looked back. From Chuuya Nakahara’s point of view, that kind of time didn’t erase anything—it just taught you how to carry it.

Yokohama still breathed crime and power like it always had. The Port Mafia remained rooted in the city’s underbelly, ruthless and efficient, while the Armed Detective Agency strutted around as its so-called opposite. Rivals by name, enemies by circumstance. And Dazai had chosen them. A traitor, by every official definition. A ghost, by every personal one.

Chuuya felt him before he saw him.

Standing in the shadow of a ruined warehouse, gravity coiled tight around Chuuya’s body, he turned just as footsteps echoed behind him. Dazai appeared like he always did—hands tucked into his coat, expression unreadable, bandages peeking out like a bad joke. Four years hadn’t dulled that presence. If anything, it had sharpened it, honed by the Agency’s ideals and Dazai’s own twisted sense of purpose.

From Chuuya’s perspective, anger flared first. It always did. Four years of unanswered questions, of resentment, of hearing Dazai’s name spoken with disdain in Mafia meetings. Traitor. Liability. Target.

And yet, Chuuya didn’t raise a hand against him.

He could have. The Port Mafia would’ve backed him without hesitation. Capturing Dazai Osamu would’ve been a victory worth celebrating. But the truth—one Chuuya never said out loud—was that the Mafia had let Dazai walk free on purpose. Someone like him wasn’t just a deserter. He was an asset too valuable to burn. If he ever chose to return, they wanted the door open.

Chuuya kept that door open himself.

The Armed Detective Agency and the Port Mafia didn’t cooperate often. When they did, it meant the threat was big enough to swallow the city whole. Those were the moments when Chuuya and Dazai stood side by side again, not as partners, not as enemies, but as something in between. Their coordination remained instinctive—Dazai’s nullification snapping into place the instant Chuuya unleashed his gravity. No words needed. No explanations given.

From Chuuya’s point of view, that was the proof that mattered.

They met occasionally now, in the spaces between orders and obligations. When information was needed. When plans were too dangerous to trust to anyone else. Because despite betrayal, despite rival allegiances, there was no one Chuuya trusted more in a real fight.

He didn’t forgive Dazai. He didn’t forget what he’d done.

But when Chuuya looked at him—standing there, calm and infuriating as ever—he knew the truth hadn’t changed. Some bonds didn’t break when you cut them. They just waited.

And Chuuya, for better or worse, was still waiting.