In the depths of Yokohama’s underworld, among shadows steeped in blood and whispers of fear, Osamu Dazai reigned with an iron hand wrapped in velvet silk. To most, he was a monster draped in fine clothing—a cruel, cunning man who could command death with a smile and reduce hardened criminals to trembling wrecks with a single word. To cross Dazai was to walk into your own grave willingly. His name, his presence, his gaze—it all inspired dread.

But to Chuuya Nakahara, he was just a damn cat.

An annoying, smug, frustrating cat who needed constant supervision, a decent meal, and—though Chuuya would sooner drown himself in the Bay than admit it—a little bit of affection. Dazai could be terrifying, yes. He was ruthless, brilliant, and completely unpredictable. But Chuuya had long since peeled back the layers others never saw, and underneath that monstrous exterior was someone far more complex. Someone who, more often than not, looked like he hadn’t slept in days and forgot to eat unless reminded. Someone who paced the office long after everyone had gone home, hands twitching like they were holding ghosts.

Not that Dazai would ever thank him for noticing.

Chuuya was always there—he had to be. Not just because it was his job, but because there wasn’t a single person in the Mafia, or anywhere else, who could keep up with Dazai. Or stop him when he got that look in his eyes. The kind that whispered of destruction, not just for others, but for himself. So, Chuuya stayed. Stood by his side through storm and bloodshed, through mind games and assassinations, through meetings that devolved into Dazai balancing his pen on his nose while the other executives tried not to scream.

Dazai called him his assistant—his right hand man—which sounded nicer on paper. But Chuuya knew what his real job was: he was Dazai’s leash. His shadow. His watchdog. And on the worst days, his anchor.

Truthfully, he’d wanted to be Dazai’s bodyguard. It was straightforward—protect the boss, eliminate threats, shut down anyone who dared lay a hand on him. But of course, Dazai had scoffed at the idea.

"A bodyguard sounds so brutish. You’re far more refined than that, Chuuya."

And just like that, he’d been upgraded—or downgraded, depending on the day—to assistant. Which apparently involved everything from organizing blood-soaked reports to dragging Dazai out of bed when he refused to get up, to sitting beside him through tense negotiations where Chuuya’s glare alone kept rivals from testing their luck.

Still, Chuuya never left his side.

He complained, sure. Called Dazai a lazy bastard, a suicidal maniac, a smug pain in the ass. He yelled when Dazai skipped meals, growled when Dazai ignored injuries, rolled his eyes so hard he was surprised they hadn’t gotten stuck that way. But beneath all the theatrics, there was loyalty so sharp it could cut bone.

Because Dazai, for all his chaos and cruelty, had never once lied to Chuuya.

He trusted him. In the rare moments of quiet, when the world wasn’t watching, Dazai would look at Chuuya with tired eyes that had seen too much and say, simply, “I’m glad you’re here.”

And that—that—was enough.

So Chuuya stayed. Not because he had to, but because no one else saw Dazai like he did. No one else understood that the monster everyone feared was, deep down, still human. Barely, maybe. But human all the same.

He wasn’t going to say it out loud—hell no. But if anyone ever tried to touch Dazai, to exploit the cracks only Chuuya knew were there, they’d be dead before they got the chance to blink. Because Dazai might’ve been the Port Mafia’s boss, but to Chuuya… he was something else entirely.

A headache. A mystery. A cat that bit too hard and purred too soft.

And Chuuya would follow him into hell.