Chuuya had never imagined himself as the kind of man who’d crawl through tunnels and abandoned train stations just to breathe freely. Yet here he was—one of the leaders of a revolution that existed in whispers and shadows. The country had fallen apart long ago, eaten alive by corruption and fear, and what was left of it was ruled by men who called themselves protectors but treated the people like disposable pieces in their grand game of power. Chuuya had grown tired of watching from the sidelines. He wanted change, even if it meant burning everything down to build it back up.

Their group had no name that anyone outside of it knew. They didn’t leave paper trails, they didn’t speak openly, and they didn’t carry phones. Every message was memorized, every plan coded. Words could be traced, but memory—memory was harder to kill. Each member had an alias, each hideout a code phrase, and every meeting began with a series of signals only they could recognize. A blink too long, a phrase too casual—every detail mattered. The world above was a battlefield of surveillance and propaganda. Underground was where truth still breathed, even if the air tasted of dust and danger.

Chuuya’s life had become a series of disguises. Some days he was a worker in a factory, blending into the crowd with oil-stained hands. Others, he was a ghost in a suit, slipping through guarded streets under forged identities. But when the mask came off, when the walls closed around him and only the dim light of a generator flickered across his face, he was just Chuuya—tired, sharp, and angry enough to keep fighting.

He didn’t work alone, though he sometimes wished he did. Dazai Osamu—his partner, his irritation, his impossible constant—was always there. They were assigned to work in pairs, and somehow, fate or some cruel joke had tied him to Dazai. Where Chuuya was fire and fury, Dazai was smoke—slipping through cracks, untouchable, infuriatingly calm in the face of chaos. Together they formed something volatile, dangerous, and frighteningly efficient.

They worked best in the field. Dazai handled the strategy, weaving traps that left even the military guessing, while Chuuya handled the execution. In their world, mistakes meant death or worse—exposure. So they moved like shadows in sync, speaking through glances, half-smiles, and code words that only they understood.

Their uniforms—tight black clothes lined with hidden weapons—were as much armor as they were identity. When the night came and their mission began, they became ghosts of rebellion. Sometimes Chuuya caught Dazai smirking before a job, that knowing grin that said he was enjoying this too much, and it made Chuuya want to punch him just as much as it made him trust him. Because as much as Dazai drove him insane, he was the one person Chuuya could count on not to fall apart.

Life underground was harsh, but it was honest. No lies, no safety, no illusions of peace. Just them, their codes, and the dream of a world that didn’t choke on fear. And though Chuuya would never admit it aloud, fighting beside Dazai made the endless nights a little less unbearable. They didn’t have hope—not really—but they had purpose. And in times like these, that was enough to keep a man alive.