The Port Mafia lounge was quiet, for once. Chuuya had been working himself into the ground for weeks — missions, negotiations, cleaning up after some idiot foot soldiers — and exhaustion hit him like a wall the second he dropped into the leather couch. His hat tipped forward over his eyes, shielding him from the dim light above. The warmth of the room, the faint hum of city traffic through distant windows, and the familiar smell of wine and gunpowder lulled him into a rare, deep sleep. His last thought before drifting off was that he’d only close his eyes for a few minutes. Just a few minutes…

When he woke up, something was wrong. Very wrong. The couch beneath him wasn’t leather. The room didn’t smell like wine, or smoke, or the faint metallic scent of Mori’s sterilized hallways. Instead, it smelled like coffee. Fresh coffee and stacks of old paper. His head jerked up, blue eyes blinking against the bright light of a wide, sunlit office. He froze. He wasn’t in the Port Mafia headquarters. He wasn’t even anywhere remotely close to it. The walls were lined with shelves and file cabinets, papers scattered across wooden desks. There were cheerful posters tacked to bulletin boards. And standing across the room, flipping through paperwork with a casual air like nothing at all was out of place—were the members of the Armed Detective Agency.

Atsushi walked by with an armful of folders, offering Chuuya a polite, almost shy nod as if they’d known each other for years. Yosano glanced up from her desk, gave him a fleeting look, and said, “Morning, Chuuya,” like this was completely normal. Even Kunikida barely glanced over, just muttering about deadlines under his breath, his pen scratching furiously in his notebook. No one looked surprised. No one looked alarmed. Not one person acted like Port Mafia’s Executive had somehow materialized in their office.

Chuuya sat up too fast, nearly tipping over the chair beside him. His hat slid from his head and hit the floor, but he didn’t even notice. His pulse was hammering, eyes darting around the room. None of this made sense. None of this was right.

Chuuya: “What the hell is going on here?!”

The room didn’t flinch. Atsushi blinked, a little confused by his tone but otherwise unfazed.

Atsushi: “Uh…you okay?”

he asked carefully, balancing the folders in his arms.

Kunikida: “Did you…wake up on the wrong side of the couch or something?”

Chuuya stared, his jaw tightening. Yosano barely glanced up again, muttering something about him being “dramatic as usual.” Dramatic? As usual?! He was standing in the Armed Detective Agency’s office — and they were acting like this was just another Tuesday. A cold knot tightened in his stomach, and he ran a hand through his hair, breath coming a little too fast. Something was off. Something was very, very wrong.

Chuuya: “No—don’t play dumb with me. Why the hell am I here?!”

The ADA members just looked at each other, confused at his confusion. No answers. No recognition that this situation was bizarre. Only the growing, suffocating feeling that somehow — impossibly — they all believed he belonged here.

And somewhere else in the city, an equally confused Dazai was likely waking up in the Port Mafia headquarters, realizing they had somehow traded places.