Work Text:
Summary: Mori flipped through the Book until he got to a blank page—And he wrote. Dad!Mori, Time travel, one shot.
“You don't raise heroes, you raise sons. And if you treat them like sons, they'll turn out to be heroes, even if it's just in your own eyes.”
—Walter M. Schirra, Sr.
Mori propped himself upright. He sat on the edge of the crater.
The broken and bleeding figures of ability users were spread across the land. Even Yosano, able to heal herself of a life threatening wound, had not been spared.
Mori's focus dropped to the ground. Fukuzawa was deathly pale, grey hair matted with blood. His sword was broken, the steel pieces scattered among the dirt.
In the middle of the crater, all alone, were two figures with red hair. Kouyou had held Chuuya in their final moments, having been forced into fighting her younger brother to keep him from killing everyone. In the end, that had been a fruitless attempt. Yokohama was pockmarked with large orb-shaped holes. The buildings had collapsed. Everyone was dead. The land, from an aerial view, would likely look similar to the back of a torture victim, Mori morbidly suspected.
On the other side of the crater, Akutagawa and Atsushi were upright, leaning against each other. Rashomoun had retracted after Akutagawa's death, leaving a fist-sized hole through the white button up shirt, the blow undoubtedly destroying Atsushi's entire heart. Atsushi's ability had not disappeared-his claws still extended into Akutagawa's ribs.
There were others, of course, but Mori didn't care enough to recognize them.
Surrounding the crater was nothing but rubble. Yokohama was just a pile of rocks and soon to be rotting flesh. The ones responsible for this destruction were not here. They were far away and safe in prison. No one could reach them in Tartarus, except each other.
Dostoyevsky's plan to wipe out all Gifted in Yokohama to destroy any resistance to him getting the Book had worked—had worked far too well—but also not well enough.
Mori looked down at his chest. He shucked his coat and shirt off. His hands kept steady despite the pain and frankly disgusting amount of blood, a fortunate side to having surgeon's hands. He had received a deep cut across his chest that was gushing blood. As he lacked bandages, he tied his shirt around the cut. He estimated his blood loss to be less than twenty percent.
Yes, Dostoyevsky's plan had not worked well enough. Mori still had time, at least until he bled out. (What Mori would give for a decent first aid kit right now.)
He stumbled a block down the street. Summoning Elise would take too much energy—energy better used on getting to his goal.
He propped a hand against the wall of the brick building. The blood on his gloves smeared on the wall as he pushed himself along.
He pulled a scalpel from his sleeve and stabbed it into the mortar between the bricks. He slowly chipped at the mortar. His hand quickly went numb.
He tugged out two bricks, exposing a metal box embedded in the wall. He did not have anything to pick the lock on it, so he smashed one of the bricks against the lock until it was mangled enough for him to get off.
He slid the contents out of the box. It was a book with a white cover. He read the title—Stray Dogs—with an unusual sense of apprehension.
He realized he had no pen and had to search for one among the corpses. He found one on Fukuzawa's would be successor, Kunikida.
Mori sat on the ground, churned up mud mixed with slowly congealing blood. He opened the Book and braced it against his knee.
He scribbled out the title and replaced it with a new name.
The pages were not yellowed with age even though they should. Some had been written on. Some had been torn out. Mori flipped through the Book until he got to a blank page—
—And He Wrote.
———
Mori was at his desk. His pen paused. The report was left half finished as he stood up. His chair scrapped against the floor.
He opened the door and saw the rest of the hallway, just as he remembered it from his time as an military officer during the Great War. A few cobwebs in hard to reach places, wooden floorboards, and little natural light.
Mori had the feeling the Book was saying something like, ‘You have to work for your ending.’
This was not the worst thing that could have happened.
The date was unimportant. Only the same battles and near losses from before.
“Yosano-chan,” he said when he saw the small figure at the end of the corridor.
The girl turned and snapped, “What, doctor?” She was tired. She was not broken.
Mori felt guilty. It was a rare emotion for him. “Come into my office. We need to discuss something.”
It was a brief chat that ended with Yosano not fully believing him, but willing to take the chance.
Mori drove to Yokohama. He dropped Yosano off outside of the Armed Detective Agency. Fukuzawa was new to parenting, but he would do okay like last time. Yosano would not be fully scarred from her military service and Fukuzawa would have one of his children early.
The Great War did effect Yokohama, but in the form of ripples—the veterans in bars and rookies spinning tales and dead buried in graveyards on the outskirts
Mori's guilt still nagged at him.
He could see the faces of everyone in that pit.
There was too much to fix.
He thought he understood a bit now, of how this regret and loathing and anxiety would drive people to action.
———
Mori eventually had an idea for who could help him change things and set up in Suribachi city for a while.
Chuuya was connected to several important happenings. He was loyal to a fault and contained an ace card that stood up to the title of a monster even at the very end of the war. Chuuya was going to be unleashed from the lab and rampage sometime tomorrow morning. Or that was to say, the entire city would be decimated in about seven hours.
What Mori needed to do for now was retreat some so he wouldn't be caught up in the blast caused by Chuuya. He had no intention of ending his second chance by getting crushed to a paste.
———
The child was naked, but it wasn't immediately apparent from how much dust he was covered in. His red hair—in Mori's timeline it would later grow past the small of his back and would be partially braided—was currently shaved into a buzz-cut. He was small, and far more vulnerable than he would grow up to be.
Mori wrapped Chuuya in his jacket and picked him up.
It was easier than expected to get Chuuya to accept Mori as a guardian. Chuuya had no memories or attachments currently. There was no Sheep or Port Mafia involved. However, Mori was rather sure Chuuya would stay a hellfire firebrand in all worlds.
———
They were at a cafe. The pastels did not suit their serious expression or formal attire, but the scent of coffee and tea was strong. Mori remembered: it was one of the only places both Fukuzawa and Mori had liked.
“Natsume-dono told me he had another student who reached out to him about me.” Fukuzawa seemed to shuffle his hands inside of his long sleeves. It was either fidgeting out of nervousness or to keep hold of a knife hidden there. “What is this about?”
Mori put a photo on the table. “It is about this.” If not from some vague, nostalgia filled memories of working together, Mori would never be giving this a chance. There had been a chance at legitimate friendship at that time and he had been the one to throw that away.
Fukuzawa waited for a few moments and picked up the photo. He was clearly surprised, the usual furrowed brow softening for a long time.
“I heard from Natsume-dono that you had two children.”
“...I do.”
“I need help with mine.” Mori knew he would not be rejected. He tried not to scoff at his friend-ally-enemy.
Fukuzawa could never turn away the damned and the forgotten and the haunted. It was his principles that gave him a spine of steel and unwavering courage, but a similarly open heart to those in need.
———
Dazai wandered in as he did last time. He wanted to die and tried his best to create a conflict at the docks. This suicide attempt resulted in him being patched up by Mori and offered a partnership. The caveats were more severe this time because Mori knew more about how far Dazai would go.
A few questions were asked about Chuuya. Dazai hadn’t taken Mori to be any sort of family man or parent or a good person—he was right to. He understood Mori for the most part and was confused by Chuuya.
Chuuya claimed to be older, but that was a lie. Mori didn't tell Dazai that though. It was obvious that Dazai would lord being older against Chuuya, just like last time. Chuuya being the oldest officially worked out better for the teenager's sanity.
It was a mockery of family in Mori’s opinion, but there was nothing to change. They were all set in their own ways and views regardless of age.
———
The Port Mafia was harder and easier with having Chuuya and Dazai. They were more likely to get into mischief and more to look after, but they also worked together to defend each other, a surprise development. It made sense some after all, they were children and not teenagers. They knew that they were vulnerable in a way that they weren't for older children. There was a unified front against snide comments, spying, and bullying from other, older members of the mafia.
When the boss was killed by Mori, he hid the Book in his new office. It was easy to just put another cover on top and pretend it was a collection of short stories or poems.
Not many people would look for the Book among other books or assume that Mori had it to begin with. The proper hunt hadn’t even begun and everyone was supposed to be at the starting line.
———
There were playdates with Fukuzawa’s children. Yosano kept silent about knowing Mori before and Mori did not mention it.
Kouyou’s lover died and she joined forces with Mori. Mori had made some attempt to warn Kouyou beforehand of the risks, but he was unsuccessful to stop her attempted escape. They had to make the best of the outcome.
Hirotsu was dependable and delighted to babysit. His own children had passed away it seemed and he had no grandchildren.
———
Perhaps Mori should have expected his trip to Europe to go off the rails. He never left the country except before the Great War. When he had last been in Europe, he had a lover and now both her and their child were gone.
Mori wondered why he had decided trying to parent chaotic future bringers of hell upon earth ability users. He wasn't sure what difference he could make as a person.
St. Petersburg was cold, but it was only early fall. Neva River was not flooding the streets nor was it frozen yet, but hungrily tried to wear down the stones it had been contained by.
Mori was having a nice walk until he saw a child by the side of the road.
That child was another major puzzle piece and driving force of the war in Yokohama: Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Black hair was decently common, but purple eyes were not. There was a weirdly pleasant expression on his face, and not the twisted smiles he had from the previous time.
“Do you know Japanese?” Mori asked. He pushed his bangs back with a hand, unable to tell if he was feeling nervous or frustrated.
Dostoyevsky straightened up. “Yes.” His bangs were falling over his eyes and his hair was full of split ends.
“Good. Do you want to come with me to Japan?” Mori held out his hand and waited. He ignored how the white glove was streaked with dirt from the child’s grubby fingers.
The hopeful end was the confirmed salvation of Yokohama.
The first step was a bath.
———
Mori could see the lights were still on in his apartment. The boys hadn’t gone to bed yet. It wasn’t too unusual as the mafia generally kept strange hours.
He opened the door and found Chuuya and Dazai in the living room. The boys were playing some console game that Mori never cared to learn the name of.
Mori checked that Dostoyevsky had come in and started immediately with introductions. “This is your new brother.”
Dostoyevsky almost seemed cute with how he stuck behind Mori’s coat.
The curious looks were also rather cute. Wide eyed interest.
Mori would be able to think of them more as regular, innocent children if he didn't know that these three would grow up to be powerful figures that could decimate the globe single handedly.
“What the hell?” Came the response from Chuuya.
“One was enough,” Dazai agreed.
Mori gestured towards Dazai and then to Dostoyevsky. “Ah, but consider, Dazai-kun, you’re not the youngest anymore.”
“That is tempting.”
Mori watched as Dostyoevsky was taught how to play the game and then was roped in himself.
Chuuya, Dazai, and Dostoyevsky were all friendly and competitive at the same time. Insults and fights were expected but there was a level of care they all held to. Chuuya’s baseline of morality and insistence on resolving issues—even if said solution was fighting—kept Dazai and Dostoyevsky in line most of the time.
———
Mori was in the kitchen, doing some late night baking. He was just pulling at two trays of brownies when he heard a slight creak from the front door. He placed the trays on the counter and went to check the hallway.
Three pairs of muddy shoes were in the foyer.
Mori sighed with the sort of tired expectation that came from having children with a habit of sneaking out. “Come here.” He turned around, already knowing what he would see in the kitchen.
Chuuya had chosen to float two brownies, using the air to cool them off. Dostoyevsky had a hand on a brownie. Meanwhile, Dazai had ignored the heat with the rashness of stubborn children and stuffed half of one in his mouth.
———
Mori had been patient.
The boss's death was efficient.
Taking over the Port Mafia was a quick affair this time. Mori knew how everyone and everything worked—he carried another thirty years of experience as a criminal leader.
Some of his supporters were apprehensive about the three children following after him. A short display of Chuuya's powers was sufficient to show their value.
———
With the support of his three children and knowledge of the future, Mori was able to solve some major problems. Rimbaud did not die and Verlaine was under a flimsy identity that the government was too scared to look at. Dragon Head was smooth sailing for the Port Mafia. The business permit was obtained without the involvement of Mimic.
Chuuya, Dazai, and Dostoyevsky had some facsimile of a childhood and grew up more well adjusted. Despite differing work in the Port Mafia, they kept in touch.
They never called Mori father, only Mori-san or Mori-sensei. Maybe Ougai-san when they were joking around. The label didn’t matter to Mori.
Things went wrong when Q joined. It was a traumatic experience for everyone involved. A few dozen people died before Dazai was able to nullify Q’s ability.
Dostoyevsky left immediately and could not be found. Chuuya was always busy and had joined the Flags. Dazai drew closer to Odasaku and Ango, and left with Odasaku later—Ango had clearly helped them create new identities.
Mori understood the reaction, but he needed to try again with Q. He could not simply lock a child away. He wanted a child, a healthy child, and not a weapon.
Q was in one of the worst places mentally out of everyone. He was scared and desperately wanted love and attention, but the way he did that was to lash out and hurt. It would take time and therapy and good parenting that Mori wasn’t sure he could provide, nor was it time that Mori's other children were willing to accept.
Mori would need to wait and that was fine. He knew the others were doing okay, and he would get back to them.
———
Mori drank tea with Hirotsu and Kouyou. It was calming and good to talk with them.
Elise and Q were playing together. Drawing challenges were enough to keep them amused for a few hours.
Dazai and Odasaku and those five adopted children were part of the Armed Detective Agency. Dostoyevsky was still under the radar except for some schemes in Europe. Chuuya was an Executive and pushing the limits of his ability further with Verlaine.
The office really seemed weirdly peaceful now with those three boys gone. He found himself missing the feeling of chaos they brought.
———
It was Chuuya's birthday again.
“I miss them.” Elise was drawing with the set of crayons she had given as a present.
Chuuya's face twisted.
Mori patted Elise on the head. “I know.”
Elise was his ability and she would often pick up emotions he didn't want to deal with or express. He desummoned her for the rest of the day.
———
The two children who were away would receive a gift for their birthday and relevant holidays. It was signed with their father's name. No other note would be attached.
Such presents would come across as performative, perfunctory for most. However, there was a great effort that accompanied for Dazai's and Dostoyevsky's presents. They had to be reliably located for a certain time for the present to be delivered to them. Only Mori, personally, would be able to find them.
The gifts were always practical in nature, or very small and easy to carry—a keychain that said Yokohama or a small plastic jar of tea leaves.
Odasaku and his children asked Dazai about it, and he brushed them off. He was annoyed when his tea leaves were used one day. Mori's usual sick tea was some blend from a small tea leaf farm in the mountains. It was the only thing Dazai and the others would agree to drink when they were sick.
Dostoyevsky hid his presents to where his associates never knew. Except for the clown, who pestered him about the sender for months.
———
There had been one picture missing the night Dostoyevsky left. It was an older picture of Mori, Dazai, Dostoyevsky, and Chuuya made with a momentarily stolen camera from Ango. A candid shot of humor, annoyance, and exhaustion from a prank in the office. Dazai is about to escape out the door, with Chuuya on his heels. Dostoyevsky is drawing with Elise. Mori is using colored pens and has a stack of paperwork.
When Dazai left, a similar picture of the family and his friends went missing from his room.
These were the only mementos they took that Mori knew of.
———
Dazai, Dostoyevsky, and Nakahara met in France. It was a small, cramped room in the back of a local bar. They had opened the window to get the smell of smoke out.
“It was strange wasn't it?” Dostoyevsky questioned. “How he collected ability users. Us. Raised us in the mafia.”
Chuuya uncorked the next bottle of wine. He shook his head. He was loyal, but realistic. “There weren't many good options. Could you imagine us being adopted and in a normal family?”
Dazai blatantly ignored how Chuuya was a runaway government experiment housing a destructive god. “I can see Chuuya as a gym instructor.”
“You'd just be dead.”
“I would love that.”
Dostoyevsky shook his head at them. “What would I be?”
Dazai grinned and leaned over into Dostoyevsky's personal space, almost spilling his glass of wine. “Oh no, you'd be dead too. In the cold or by the Russian Mafia. There's no way you would simply walk away and be a civilian.”
“We're too smart for that.”
“And Chuuya is…” Dazai clearly paused, teasingly, “...strong.”
Chuuya muttered a protest about not being called smart. He did have more common sense and emotional intelligence than his brothers.
Dostoyevsky's expression was thoughtful. He pushed Dazai away with his free hand. “Mori-san found you after you made a city wide crater.”
“Right. Chuuya would be screwed the most actually,” Dazai happily agreed. “I wonder if the experiments would have continued then if they found you right after. Or, if they would have just given up and sealed you.”
Dazai was punched in the shoulder for this train of thought.
“Sick bastard.”
Dostoyevsky's gaze wandered. He was off onto other thoughts.
Dazai went back to drinking.
“Oi,” Chuuya said. “Is that all?” His foot was tapping against the cracked tile floor. Bits of mud crumbled off the bottom of his boots.
Dostoyevsky nodded. “For now.”
Dazai brushed the ashes from Chuuya's cigarette off his coat. “Good to see you. Even if it was to cryptically discuss our childhood and mafia father's parenting choices.” His voice was sarcastic.
“Of course, of course.”
“It was, Fyodor. It's been three years. I'm glad you called.” Chuuya's genuine reply, his gruff sincerity, made a contrast that made Dazai and Dostoyevsky feel out of place—he was comfortable with his emotions and wielded them without hesitation.
———
Chuuya came back home to the smell of cooking fish.
This was odd because he lived alone now. He walked towards the kitchen cautiously, pulling out his knife.
"I'm back!” Dazai announced, turning to see the door.
Chuuya Nakahara's adoptive brother had broken into his apartment and was cooking mackerel. It was one of the few things Dazai could reliably make in the kitchen. He had begged and whined until Kouyou suffered through teaching him.
“You better be making enough for me too.”
Dazai enthusiastically confirmed. Unfortunately, he could still be lying because it was hard to tell.
Chuuya pulled some chopped vegetables out of the freezer and put another pan on the stove. “Where are you going?”
“The Armed Detective Agency. Fukuzawa heard I was back in Japan again.” Dazai wrinkled his nose. “ I think Mori-san gossiped about us.”
“What about Dostoyevsky?”
Dazai hesitated, before flipping the mackerel onto the opposite side. “He'll be back eventually.”
———
On Dazai’s second day of work at the Armed Detective Agency, there was a knock on the office door.
Odasaku stood up and opened the door. There was a look of confusion in his eyes.
A child skipped inside. He had mismatched eyes and was smiling. Q looked around the office briefly and then turned to Dazai, “Mori-san is going on a trip. He dropped me off.”
Dazai hummed. He had his hands behind his head, but his eyes were open and watching. “Did Fukuzawa-dono tell him?”
Q shook his head and pulled himself onto the couch. “No.”
Kunikida stood up. “We can’t just babysit a child. We have work.” He had his Ideal book in his hands.
Odasaku took Q’s bag and hung it on the stand. “I don’t think we have much of a choice.”
Ranpo squinted suspiciously at Q, but offered a singular piece of candy as a peace offering. It was very uncharacteristic of him.
Dazai laid out on the opposite couch as Q. “Kunikida-kun, that’s fine! You can go ask Fukuzawa-dono about whether we should just leave his friend’s ward out on the street then. It won’t be me.”
———
They ended up talking about their families. Atsushi was very curious because his sole experience had been an orphanage where he was abused. Kyouka had a good childhood until her parents died. She was a bit hesitant, yet similarly wished to know what an average experience of being a teenager and adult with living parents was like.
Atsushi turned hopeful eyes to his mentor next. “And what about you, Dazai-san?”
“I think my birth parents are alive but I'm not sure.”
“Why?”
“After I tried to commit suicide for the first time as a child, I was adopted.”
There was an uproar as many bets of the office around Dazai were lost.
Dazai grinned. “Guess how many brothers I have! Three.”
Yosano cursed under her breath. She must not have heard about Q.
“You're not an only child.” Atsushi hid his hands behind his back.
“I grew up with actual demons for brothers,” Dazai bemoaned as he sprawled out on a desk. “It was awful.”
———
Chuuya trained Akutagawa and Q. It was basic self defense for Q and control for Akutagawa. The latter needed to learn to be more gentle. Many times a bag of flour or rice burst and spilled forth.
Q was already going to a somewhat shady child's therapist, but there was a sort of homework he was given each time.
While Chuuya watched and corrected Akutagawa, he talked and played with Q. He found it to be a relaxing break from his usual work duties.
———
A few years later, there was a war again in Yokohama between the gifted organizations over the Book.
It was a bit strange though, when the Armed Detective Agency looked at Dostoyevsky and when the Rats of the House of the Dead looked at Dazai. Their masterminds were different yes…but it was almost as if they could see a similar echo in how they acted. There were the grins and the styles of clothes, the flourishing gestures and the humor. They commanded with a lazy ease. Were they copying someone else, or each other?
“Such an interesting response,” Dazai mocked.
“About as original as yours,” Dostoyevsky responded. He tugged idly on his gloves, ensuring that it stayed on.
Above there was a red flash and a bang as something hit the middle of the battleground. Chuuya Nakahara, Executive of the Port Mafia, was surrounded by floating debris from the ruined ground. It didn’t matter how soft or hard dirt was if it hit someone at twice the speed of a bullet. “Fun’s over for today. Boss said you’re too close to his office!”
“Do you know him?” Atsushi asked Dazai. His shirt was in tatters from transforming his arms. No wounds were visible, having already healed in the short respite.
Dazai looked over, to the other side of the field. He could see Dostoyevsky being asked the same question. He responded the same way as Dostoyevsky, “Ah…he’s our older brother, unfortunately.”
“Okay.” Atsushi nodded and then turned back to Dazai. “What?”
———
Mori hadn’t been expecting the phone call. “It’s good to, well, not see you, but hear you.” He picked his pen up. There was not a nervousness to his movements, but he was not still and silent—fidgeting with a well weighted pen helped keep himself from reflecting on his feelings.
Dostoyevsky was silent.
“Why did you call?”
“I had some questions about The Book.”
“The Book? As in, there’s only one?” Mori responded. His tone was curious, but he was merely repeating the same phrase.
“Oh.” Dostoyevsky was rarely surprised. He drew his own conclusions. “You do know about it.”
Mori let the pen rest between his thumb and index finger, a backwards grip from the result of him spinning the pen around his fingers. “Only heard of it here or there. If it exists, then I hope no one gets it. The power to control reality in any measure is terrifying, don’t you think?” He had The Book in his old office, hidden with his medical textbooks.
“It is important in some potential plans I have. Are you lying again?” Dostoyevsky sounded suspicious. He wasn’t always able to tell.
“If I do know anything helpful, then I won’t tell you.” Mori sighed and continued, “If I don’t know, then there’s no point in asking me.”
“...Okay. Understood.”
Mori narrowed his eyes. “What do you understand?”
“Whatever you know, you don’t trust me enough to say.” Dostoyevsky’s deduction was sound. There was a rattle of ice in a glass cup, half muted by liquid. “I’ll be coming back to Yokohama to look for The Book again sometime.”
“What would you really do if you had it?”
“Make it so the world never had abilities to begin with.”
“That would change many people’s lives,” Mori confirmed. He turned his head to look out the windows of his office, admiring the view. A small frown formed on his lips. “However, I don’t think it would help.”
“I disagree.”
“We agree to disagree then.”
———
There was confusion at the office when the Russian mastermind dropped off a small child that they knew to be Q, a cruel member of the Port Mafia. However, Q sat on the couch in the waiting room and only talked with Dazai about his day at the park.
His older brothers were much more okay with him now. Q knew he had to not try to play with them like he liked to, but how they liked to. He didn't want them to not love him again.
Kunikida tried to protest again. He was out voted by Ranpo, Yosano, and Oda.
“His adopted parent, an old friend of the President's, is still working,” was all Dazai said to explain.
Hirostu was the one who came to get Q. He was universally liked, a grandfather with the hardened edge of a career criminal.
———
About a year later there was another major fight, but with few participants. Dazai and Dostoyevsky sat at a table, playing chess.
A gun with one bullet was there and would be fired after each player’s turn.
Dostoyevsky had just ended his turn. He held the gun to his head but did not pull the trigger. There was a sick smile on his face as he waited. “Shouldn’t I play along with the rules?”
“No.” Chuuya had his hand on the gun, ready to stop the bullet with gravity. He was not sitting. He was always outside of their games, neither pawn nor player—an anomalous deity in human skin that was always seen as more human by his younger brothers.
Dazai was about to touch Chuuya’s shoulder. “I never suspected our older brother was a cheater. How terrible, Fyodor-kun. My hopes and dreams from my childhood have been broken.” There was no smile on his face. Few times had he ever looked as serious as he did when he considered whether or not to condemn Dostoyevsky.
The gun was removed by a sudden addition—a gloved hand that twisted Dostoyevsky’s wrist and took it. The firearm was pointed towards the floor and fired the remaining two times. There was no bullet.
“I know Osamu-kun wants to die.” Dostoyevsky clicked his tongue. “Why would I help him?”
Chuuya sighed and sat down.
Dazai made a face. “Keep my name off your tongue.”
“You used my first name,” Dostoyevsky replied.
Mori sat down in the fourth chair. He put a book on the table, The Book. “I’ve decided this game has gone on for too long. I need to start a new one. It’s best to bring more players in for a new game.”
Dazai leaned back, not wanting to touch it. He had a few seconds of shock on his face before it was replaced by humor.
Dostoyevsky leaned forward. He clearly desired to flip through the Book, to see what Mori had written.
Chuuya showed the least reaction. Out of the three, he might be the only one who read through the bookshelves of Mori’s old office in recent years. It was possible he discovered it beforehand.
“Well, boys, let's all sit down and have a genuine talk about the future.”
———
—And He Wrote.
A happy ending for all those who lived in Yokohama.