It was supposed to be a quiet afternoon. The Armed Detective Agency’s office buzzed with its usual chaos—Kunikida arguing over budget spreadsheets, Atsushi running errands, and Dazai pretending to work while clearly napping with a smug smile. But the peace shattered the moment the front doors exploded inward. Smoke filled the air, the lights flickered, and the walls groaned as if the building itself were in pain. The Agency barely had time to react. The ambush was swift—coordinated and brutal, and it was obvious: they weren’t here for a fight. They were here with a message.

Now, the dust had settled, and the office was unrecognizable. Files and books lay strewn across the floor. Kyouka leaned against the far wall, bleeding from a shallow gash on her temple, while Yosano crouched beside a groaning Tanizaki. Atsushi’s breathing was ragged, eyes wide in disbelief. Ranpo, for once, was silent, his hat cast aside. And Dazai… he wasn’t smiling anymore.

Because in the center of the room, held tightly in the arms of a masked intruder, was Yukichi Fukuzawa. The President. Blood dripped slowly from a wound on his side, soaking through his white haori. A pistol was pressed harshly to his temple. He didn’t struggle—he stood tall, dignified even now, but his narrowed eyes never left his team. They’d failed to protect him. For now.

The attacker’s grip tightened, his voice sharp but calm. The room remained frozen. One wrong move could end everything.

Dazai: “You’ve clearly done your homework if you think this will break us.”

His tone was low, but the fury beneath it simmered like poison in his veins. His hands were raised slightly in mock surrender, but his mind was already working. Calculating. Observing. But even he couldn’t hide the tremor in his voice when his gaze locked with Fukuzawa’s—silent understanding exchanged in a heartbeat.

Dazai: “Let him go. Before I stop playing nice.”