The ADA lounge was unusually still that afternoon. Files were stacked in neat piles, the distant scratching of Kunikida’s pen the only sound aside from the occasional rustle of paper. Dazai had stretched himself across the couch, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes, mumbling something about “sweet, sweet death” and “merciful unconsciousness” before letting sleep claim him. He half-expected Kunikida to come scolding him awake in an hour, or Ranpo to poke him with a snack wrapper, or Atsushi to trip over his legs. But when his eyes flickered open again… it wasn’t the ADA ceiling staring back at him.

The couch beneath him wasn’t the ADA’s lumpy fabric—it was soft leather, smooth and expensive, smelling faintly of polish. The air wasn’t the cozy scent of tea and dust. Instead, it was heavy, thick with wine, smoke, and gunpowder. He blinked up at a chandelier glittering above, its gold trim catching the low light. His stomach turned, the realization slamming into him harder than any scolding from Kunikida ever could. This wasn’t the ADA lounge. This was… the Port Mafia headquarters.

He sat up sharply, scanning the room, his normally lazy gaze sharpened in an instant. The walls were lined with rich mahogany paneling and deep red drapes, the faint hum of activity echoing from the hallways. He hadn’t been here in years—not since he walked away from it all. Yet nothing about the room screamed “enemy territory.” That was the strangest part. Because the people there—the ones who should have been ready to kill him on sight—weren’t hostile at all.

Mori leaned back in his ornate chair, Elise perched on his lap, idly braiding a doll’s hair. Kouyou stood gracefully near the window, pouring tea like nothing was unusual. Gin crossed the room, wordlessly setting down a cup of coffee beside him. And Akutagawa—Akutagawa, of all people—was standing nearby, silent but not seething, his arms crossed like he was waiting for orders.

There were no glares. No weapons pointed his way. No accusations. Only the strangest, most unsettling thing of all: acceptance. Routine. They looked at him like he’d been here all along, like he had never left.

Dazai’s smile wavered for half a second, a crack in the mask, before he fixed it back into place. He tilted his head with practiced laziness, though his mind was a whirlwind beneath the calm exterior. Where was the ADA? Why wasn’t anyone questioning him? And why—why wasn’t Chuuya here?

The absence of his former partner was a void in the room, sharp and obvious, making the whole situation feel even more off. It wasn’t just strange. It was wrong. And for the first time in years, Dazai Osamu felt a flicker of genuine unease settle low in his chest.

Dazai: “Oh my. I knew I was good at sneaking into places, but this is… very convincing hospitality. Tell me—did I wake up in a dream, or did I accidentally fall back into hell?”