What thrilled him even more was the trust willingly placed directly into his hands. As if he would never betray it. Though, given Dazai’s abilities, almost like the foxes from childhood stories mothers recite from memory, he could plunge a knife into one’s back so gently, almost tenderly. The pain would only come later, long after Dazai had vanished without a trace.

The roots of the Port Mafia. He never commented on it. He was no better himself. Now, he was known only as a villain with a god complex or, at the very least, extreme narcissism. It was typical, utterly one-dimensional.

They slapped a label on him and never looked deeper.

Ah, humans were just humans. Always simplifying things so they wouldn’t have to strain their poor, overburdened brains with excess information.

Fyodor regarded people kindly. He guided them toward the righteous path, spoke the words they needed to hear in those moments. And in return – silence.

A series of slow, deliberate clicks. The silence now emanated from him.

He might have remained in that state indefinitely, had he not found one person… interesting.

The moment his thoughts returned to Dazai, his Osamu, a smile tugged at his lips almost immediately. The first person in a long time who truly saw him. Not that he needed it. He had long since distanced himself from such human sentiments, preferring relationships like the one he had with Nikolai: almost no communication, just the occasional exchange of words, the rest being pure work.

But Dazai.

Special.

Exceptionally special to him.

Perhaps he was far too drawn to this twenty-two-year-old brat whose intellect clearly surpassed the ordinary. Here he was an equal. Their little clashes delighted him. He had to provoke them even more, just to watch how he, his soul, would react. The others from the Armed Detective Agency posed no threat, nor did those from the Port Mafia or the Special Division for Unusual Powers. He knew exactly how to deceive them all. He had a precise plan.

But Dazai.

He was worth spending extra time on. Especially after those words: "If you want my attention, you could just ask."  

Ask. So simple.

Fyodor invited him to play, dangling death as the prize. If he was going to pretend to be a cheerful suicidal maniac, then why not take advantage of it? A classic game of Russian roulette. He had booked a room in a fine hotel for this delightful little pastime. And he didn’t regret it.

Watching Dazai as he examined the revolver, sitting on the table (it was actually the windowsill, but the two chairs faced it), one long leg crossed over the other—it was utterly mesmerizing. The expression on Dazai’s face was so… warm. Not in the usual sense, but burning with the sheer enthusiasm of taking the gamble. He had expected such a reaction, but for it to be this palpable that was... surprising.

The game was about to begin.

"You can check the cylinder now," he said, breaking the silence between them. There was no need to rush. Outside, evening was falling, and from the window, they were, mind, on the sixtieth floor, a breathtaking view of Yokohama’s skyline stretched before them, its buildings ablaze with colorful lights, Tokyo Bay glittering beyond. Tourists would surely be in awe. "If you don’t trust me."

A near-provocative remark, but nothing came of it. Fyodor merely smiled and took the revolver from Dazai’s hands, clicking it open himself.

"Two bullets. A two-in-six chance. One of them is hollow-tipped, filled with poison from a poison dart frog, you know, the brightly colored ones. It’ll be excruciating. Burning. Convulsions. The other is ordinary. If you get the ordinary one, the other fulfills any wish. No restrictions."

He understood how unusual these terms were. Normally, the point of Russian roulette was to avoid the bullet and survive. Here, the goal was to get the right bullet.

"Aim for the leg. If die, die with agony."

It made it all the more thrilling.