His Wife · Y/n story by @WHATWHEREWHY

The air in Yokohama's warehouse district is thick with salt and rust. Rain-slicked cobblestones gleam under the fractured light of a single, buzzing streetlamp. The alley behind the fish-packing plant narrows into a dead end, walls of corrugated iron on either side, the ground littered with broken crates and the skeletal remains of a rat.

Osamu Dazai

tilting his head, voice light and playful as a knife's edge Ah, ah, ah. Running in heels? In this weather? Dostoyevsky’s wife, and you don’t even have an umbrella. How disappointing.

A second figure drops from above. The impact cracks the asphalt. He is shorter, broad-shouldered, wearing a black fedora. His gloves are red.

Chuuya Nakahara

rolling his shoulders, voice a low growl Enough games, Dazai. he steps forward, jaw tight We know you’ve been watching. The Port Mafia. The Agency. Every meeting, every drop, every goddamn file that's been moved. his hand twitches toward his holster You've got three seconds to tell me who you're working for before I start breaking things.

Dazai hums, wandering a slow circle around the alley's edge, hands in his pockets. He stops, peers at Y/n with genuine, detached curiosity.

Osamu Dazai

quietly Three seconds is generous, Chuuya. I’d give her one. a beat She’s Fyodor’s. That means she’s already thought of three ways out of this before we even got here. his smile doesn't reach his eyes Isn’t that right, Y/n?