Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The morning broke soft and gold through the kitchen windows, pooling across the small dining table where Chuuya was teaching his daughter how to fold paper hearts. The radio hummed low in the background, an old jazz record that Dazai had insisted “sounded like sunshine,” though Chuuya thought it sounded more like nostalgia.

The house was modest, tucked along one of Yokohama’s quieter streets. Their lives had settled into something ordinary. On mornings like this, though, with the smell of coffee in the air and his daughter giggling over lopsided origami, Chuuya almost believed in ordinary.

“Papa, look!” the little girl chirped, holding up something that looked more like a crumpled triangle than a heart. Her name was Hana, just four years old, sharp-eyed and stubborn in a way that was unmistakably Dazai’s, though she had Chuuya’s copper hair and dimples that appeared only when she laughed.

Chuuya smiled and leaned down beside her. “It’s beautiful. Don’t let your dad tell you otherwise.”

Behind them, Dazai leaned against the counter, wrapped in one of Chuuya’s oversized sweaters. His hand rested absently against the small curve of his stomach, three months along, still at that point where the changes were more felt than seen. The soft fatigue around his eyes was new; the gentle glow wasn’t.

He tilted his head, amused. “Oh? I was just about to say it’s a perfect representation of my heart, crushed and misshapen from years of your abuse.”

“Very funny,” Chuuya muttered, rolling his eyes.

Hana giggled, catching onto the rhythm of their banter without understanding the words. Dazai’s laugh followed hers, light and breathy. The sound filled the kitchen, spilling into the hall, and for a moment it felt like nothing could touch them. They exchanged a look, that quiet, wordless one they’d built over years of surviving together. Beneath the teasing, there was still awe that they’d made it here, that the world hadn’t burned them down completely.

Chuuya stood and came around to press a kiss to Dazai’s temple. “You should sit down. Doctor said no standing around all morning.”

Dazai grinned up at him. “Yes, Alpha,” he teased, but there was no real bite.

He let Chuuya guide him to the chair beside Hana, their hands brushing on the table’s edge. The morning light caught the faint gold of his wedding ring, a tiny thing, scratched and ordinary, but more permanent than either of them once believed possible.

The smell of toast filled the room. Hana was talking about the pink paper hearts they’d tape to the window for Valentine’s Day. Dazai traced circles on the tabletop, half-listening, half-lost in thought. The baby had been restless last night, a faint pulse of warmth low in his belly that made sleep uneasy. He hadn’t told Chuuya; it didn’t feel like trouble, just… alive. Like a reminder that something fragile and miraculous was taking shape.

Chuuya caught him spacing out and frowned.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just thinking.”

“About?”

“About how weird it feels,” Dazai murmured, hand pressing lightly to his middle, “to have something growing inside me that isn’t trying to kill me for once.”

Chuuya’s face softened. “Don’t joke like that.”

“Old habits,” Dazai said quietly. Then, more brightly, “But really, I’m fine. I promise.”

He wasn’t lying, but Chuuya still reached across the table, resting his hand over Dazai’s. It was a small act, but it steadied both of them. The world had gone quiet for now. The Agency had given them the week off, Valentine’s week, Kunikida said, was “for family bonding and not blowing up half the port again.” Even Ranpo had dropped by the day before with sweets for Hana, pretending it was out of generosity rather than curiosity about Dazai’s “new domestic phase.” Chuuya still didn’t know how to feel about that.

“Papa, can we go see Uncle Kuni today?” Hana asked suddenly.

Chuuya chuckled. “Maybe tomorrow. Today’s for us.”

Dazai’s lips curved faintly. “He’s just scared of Kunikida’s Valentine lectures.”

“Damn right I am,” Chuuya muttered.

Hana gasped. “Papa, bad word!”

Dazai stifled a laugh as Chuuya groaned and rubbed his face. “Yeah, yeah, alright. Sorry, sweetheart.”

The small exchange broke the morning open again into laughter.

Outside, the air carried the faint chill of late winter. Snowmelt trickled along the edges of the street. Somewhere in the distance, church bells marked ten o’clock. It was all so painfully normal, the kind of peace that used to make Dazai restless. But now, it scared him for a different reason. Because he’d learned that calm often came right before something broke. He shook the thought away, standing to help Hana tape her paper hearts to the window. Chuuya watched them from behind, a familiar ache threading through his chest. There was something about seeing Dazai like this, gentle, patient, unguarded, that still undid him. He’d spent so long loving a man who believed he didn’t deserve softness. Now that he had it, Chuuya found himself terrified of losing it.

The doorbell rang. It was an ordinary sound, harmless. But something in Chuuya’s body stilled, a flicker of instinct he didn’t fully understand.

“I’ll get it,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel.

Dazai turned slightly, distracted. “Probably the flowers you ordered.”

“Yeah,” Chuuya said, though he hadn’t ordered any.

He crossed the hall, footsteps quiet against the floorboards. The morning light shifted as he opened the door, just enough to cast a long shadow across the threshold. A delivery man stood there, smiling too easily. He held a bouquet wrapped in red paper.

“Delivery for Chuuya Nakahara,” the man said.

Chuuya frowned. “Who’s it from?”

The man didn’t answer. His smile stayed fixed, too still, too sharp.

Behind Chuuya, Dazai’s voice floated from the kitchen. “Chuuya? Everything alright?”

And then, just before the moment broke, Chuuya noticed the faint glint of metal tucked beneath the man’s sleeve. The paper hearts in the window fluttered gently, as if stirred by a breath of wind. For a second, time seemed to hesitate. The hallway light trembled against the bouquet’s red wrapping paper, catching in the cellophane like blood turned to glass. Chuuya’s fingers tightened around the edge of the door. Every nerve in his body whispered wrong. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, only watched.

“Sir?” The man’s voice came too smooth, polite to the point of being practiced.

From the kitchen, Hana’s laughter echoed faintly, tiny, bright. The sound splintered the air.

Chuuya forced a breath, steady but shallow. “Wait there,” he said, voice low.

He reached slowly for his phone with one hand while his other hovered near the doorframe, a habit ingrained from years of surviving on instinct. The man’s smile flickered. His eyes darted past Chuuya’s shoulder, toward the soft noise of domestic life inside. Chuuya saw the shift, the tension in his jaw, the subtle lean forward, and in that instant, he moved. The door slammed shut, the latch snapping into place. A heartbeat later came the thud of impact, hard enough to rattle the hinges. Hana screamed.

“Dazai!” Chuuya’s shout cracked through the house. He spun, chest pounding. His body moved before his mind caught up, grabbing Hana, pulling her close. Dazai was already on his feet, pale, eyes wide, one arm protectively over his stomach.

“Upstairs,” Chuuya said, voice sharp and shaking. “Now.”

Dazai didn’t argue. He gathered Hana into his arms, her small hands clutching at his sweater. Behind them, the front door shuddered again, a dull booming that shook the floorboards. The glass in the window spiderwebbed. Chuuya’s pulse thundered in his ears. He wanted to tear the world apart. Instead, he turned and locked the second bolt, every motion deliberate, automatic. His mind catalogued everything, exit points, phone location, the knife two steps away, the way Dazai’s breathing was too fast.

Then, silence. The sudden kind that presses against your skin.

“Chuuya,” Dazai whispered from the stairs. He was trembling, but his eyes were clear. “Agency’s on their way.”

“Good.” Chuuya’s voice came out low, flat.

He’d already hit the emergency button on his phone, a direct ping to the ADA. If anyone was nearby, Ranpo, Kunikida, Yosano, they’d be here in minutes. Minutes that felt like hours. Something shifted outside. The sound of hurried footsteps, then a car door, then nothing.

Dazai’s hand gripped the banister so hard his knuckles whitened. “They’re gone?”

“Maybe.”

Chuuya didn’t believe it. He moved toward the window, peered through the gap in the curtain, empty street, still air, the faint smell of exhaust. No movement. Just the hum of an ordinary morning pretending nothing had happened. He exhaled shakily, turning back toward Dazai and Hana. The sight nearly broke him. Dazai stood halfway up the stairs, their daughter pressed to his chest, her face hidden in his shoulder. She was crying softly now, quiet, hiccuping sobs. Dazai was whispering something to her, gentle and rhythmic, his hand moving in slow circles along her back. The light caught the faint tremor in his wrist. For a moment, Chuuya couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. All he could do was look at them, at everything he had, and feel the terrible, fragile weight of it.

When the knock came again, soft, measured this time, he almost didn’t react. But Dazai’s head snapped up instantly.

“Don’t,” Dazai warned under his breath.

Chuuya hesitated, then crossed the hall, standing to the side of the door. “Who is it?”

A pause.

“It’s Kunikida.”

Chuuya let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He unlocked the door, keeping the chain latched just long enough to confirm the blond man’s face on the other side, calm, composed, the faint tension of someone assessing a threat. Within minutes, more agents filled the small house. Ranpo appeared with his usual unsettling ease, already analyzing the scene; Yosano followed close behind, a hand on Dazai’s shoulder to check him over. Hana clung tighter, eyes wide and red from crying. The air slowly changed. The chaos left a residue, silence heavier than noise, but there was safety again. Familiarity. Chuuya stood by the window, watching the street as uniformed police officers began to cordon off the block.

“You should sit down,” Yosano was saying. “Your heart rate’s still high.”

“I’m fine,” Dazai murmured automatically.

“Dazai,” Yosano said gently, and for once, He didn’t argue. He let himself sink into the couch, hand resting absently against his stomach. Hana crawled into his lap, curling up against him small and quiet. Chuuya crossed the room, crouched beside them, one hand brushing back a lock of Dazai’s hair.

“You sure you’re alright?”

Dazai nodded, though his eyes looked distant. “Just shaken.”

Chuuya looked at him for a long moment, then leaned in until their foreheads touched. Neither spoke. The world outside still felt off-balance, too bright, too brittle, but for now, in the quiet center of their living room, the three of them breathed together. The scent of flowers still lingered faintly from the bouquet dropped at the doorstep. Red paper torn open, petals scattered across the ground. A warning, perhaps. Or a reminder. Whatever it was, it had come close enough.

The ADA left at sunset, their footsteps fading. The house settled into a hush broken only by the sound of wind nudging the broken windowpane. Chuuya stood for a while in the doorway, a broom in his hand, watching dust turn to gold in the last light. Every muscle in him wanted motion; stillness meant remembering. Dazai sat on the couch still, one palm pressed over the small curve of his abdomen. His eyes were fixed on nothing, a faint tremor at the corner of his mouth. When Chuuya finally knelt in front of him again, he saw how pale his partner had gone.

“You don’t have to keep busy for me,” Dazai whispered.

“I can’t stand the quiet,” Chuuya admitted.

Chuuya finished clearing the floor in silence. The ordinary scrape of glass, the rustle of cloth, became a rhythm steady enough to breathe by. Upstairs, Hana was already drowsy, her lashes clumped from tears. She asked if the “bad men” were gone; Dazai told her the truth he needed her to believe, that their friends would keep them safe. When her breathing evened out, they lingered a moment longer, just watching.

By night, rain began to fall, thin, uncertain drops that tapped the roof in uneven time. The world outside blurred into gray. They lay in the dark without speaking. Chuuya could feel the way Dazai’s fingers sought his, hesitant, then sure.

“I hate that I couldn’t stop it,” Chuuya said finally.

“But you did,” Dazai murmured. “We’re still here.”

The words hung between them, fragile but real. Dazai’s hand came to rest over Chuuya’s chest, feeling for the steady pulse there. Chuuya turned his face toward the touch, exhaling until the tension left his shoulders. For a long time neither moved. The rain grew steadier, a quiet percussion against the windows. When sleep came, it wasn’t deep, but it was shared.

Chapter Text

The storm passed sometime before dawn. The rain thinned to mist, clinging to the glass in faint, trembling lines. The house was still, except for the soft rhythm of breathing, Hana’s from the next room, steady and small; Dazai’s beside him, lighter, unsteady, but there. Chuuya lay awake long after the sky began to pale, eyes tracing the pattern of cracks on the ceiling. The quiet didn’t feel peaceful this time. It was the kind of silence that hummed with aftershock. He shifted slightly, feeling the warmth pressed against his side. Dazai’s head rested on his shoulder, hair mussed, lashes damp from sleep. One arm draped loosely over Chuuya’s waist, and under the blanket, Chuuya could feel the faint rise and fall of his stomach, a reminder that he wasn’t just protecting one life anymore.

Dazai stirred, a faint murmur escaping his throat before his eyes fluttered open. “You didn’t sleep,” he said, voice rough with exhaustion.

“Not much.”

A pause.

Then, softer, “I keep thinking how close it got.”

Chuuya’s hand came up to brush his hair back. “Don’t,” he said quietly. “It’s over.”

“Until it’s not.”

He said it so simply that it made Chuuya’s chest ache. They both knew peace like this didn’t last, not for people like them. It was a gift borrowed from the universe, always at risk of being taken back. But Dazai looked up at him then, really looked, and something in his eyes was different. Less resignation, more… defiance.

“We’ll move again,” he said. “Or get a security system. Kunikida already offered. Ranpo’s tracing whoever sent that delivery.”

“You already talked to them?”

“Couldn’t sleep either.” A faint, tired smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ranpo look that serious. He hates when someone interrupts his ‘family sitcom experiments.’”

Chuuya snorted softly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You shouldn’t have to live like this.”

“I don’t want to,” Dazai said simply. “But I’d rather live like this with you than be safe without you.”

The words caught Chuuya off guard. Dazai rarely said things like that aloud, not because he didn’t feel them, but because he never trusted himself to mean them enough. Now, though, his voice was steady.

Chuuya exhaled shakily and leaned forward until their foreheads met again. “You really are gonna ruin me, you know that?”

“I already did,” Dazai murmured, a hint of his old grin returning.

A small sound interrupted them, a creak of the floorboards, then the soft patter of feet. Hana stood in the doorway, clutching her stuffed animal close to her chest, hair sticking up like a copper coil.

“Papa,” she mumbled, eyes half-lidded. “I had a bad dream.”

Chuuya sat up, opening his arms. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

She clambered onto the bed, curling up between them. Dazai tucked the blanket around her, his hand instinctively resting on her back, feeling her small heart beating through her pajamas. Chuuya watched them, his family, and felt something fierce and unshakable settle in his chest. They lay there for a long time, the three of them tangled together, as the light outside grew stronger.

Eventually, Dazai whispered, “We’ll fix the window today.”

Chuuya hummed. “Already planned to.”

“And maybe…” Dazai hesitated, fingers absently tracing Hana’s hair, “we should leave Yokohama for a bit. Just until things settle.”

Chuuya’s brow furrowed. “You think it’s that bad?”

“I think it’s for the best,” Dazai said quietly. “Whoever that was, they knew where to find us.”

The thought sat heavy between them. Outside, a car passed, slow and harmless, but Chuuya’s instincts twitched all the same.

Then Dazai’s hand found his again. “Hey.”

Chuuya looked down.

“We’ll handle it,” Dazai said, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “Like we always do.”

Chuuya squeezed his fingers. The word hung in the air, soft but sure. Hana stirred then, mumbling something incoherent, and Dazai laughed quietly, pressing a kiss to her hair. The world was fragile, but it was also still theirs, for now, that had to be enough.

Outside, the mist began to lift. Somewhere down the block, a bell chimed eleven. The scent of rain and paper hearts lingered in the air, traces of yesterday’s peace, not yet gone. And though danger still coiled in the distance, Chuuya let himself believe, for one more morning, that they could make it last.

By late morning, the rain had tapered off into a thin silver mist that clung to the windows. The house smelled faintly of coffee, steamed milk, and the ghost of last night’s storm. Chuuya moved quietly through the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from a quick shower. Every few minutes, his eyes flicked toward the couch where Dazai sat wrapped in a blanket, Hana perched in his lap with a picture book open across her knees. The morning felt too still. The kind of still that made instinct hum low beneath the skin, searching for signs of danger that weren’t there. Chuuya could almost feel it in the air, the aftertaste of adrenaline, faint but persistent, like static.

He poured a second cup of coffee and set it down beside Dazai. “You should eat something,” he said softly.

Dazai looked up with that sleepy half-smile that always undid him. “I’m fine. She wanted to read first.”

Hana held up the book proudly, the one Ranpo had brought her, The Clever Detective and the Cookie Jar Mystery. She was still in her pajamas, hair tied messily in two little braids Dazai had somehow managed to do himself.

Chuuya crouched down beside them. “You catching the bad guy, sweetheart?”

“Mhm,” she said seriously. “He left crumbs.”

Dazai chuckled quietly. “A rookie mistake.”

Chuuya’s hand found Dazai’s knee almost unconsciously, a grounding touch, light but steady. Dazai leaned into it ever so slightly, the warmth between them unspoken. That subtle pull of comfort, the wordless reassurance that everything was still theirs.

When Hana’s attention drifted back to her book, Dazai exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the edge of the blanket. “It still feels strange,” he murmured. “Knowing someone was at our door yesterday.”

“I know.” Chuuya’s voice was low. “Ranpo’s got it handled.”

“I know that too. It’s just—” He hesitated, searching for words. “Every time I start to believe in this, something reminds me we don’t really get to have it.”

Chuuya didn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifted closer, until their shoulders brushed, scent and warmth overlapping. His hand slid briefly along Dazai’s wrist, the kind of touch that settled heartbeats, quieted the small tremors that words couldn’t reach.

“Then we'll just make our own version of normal,” Chuuya said finally. “Right here. No one touches this.”

Dazai’s eyes softened. “Always so sure.”

“Someone has to be.”

The words carried a faint growl of protectiveness that made something in Dazai’s expression melt. He reached over and brushed his thumb along the line of Chuuya’s jaw, the gesture so simple it almost went unnoticed. But the air shifted around them, a quiet hum of familiarity, safety, the bond reaffirming itself in subtle, instinctive ways.

Hana interrupted with a delighted squeal, pointing to a picture in her book. “He found the cookie crumbs!”

Dazai laughed, leaning forward to kiss the top of her head. The tension bled out of the moment. For a few breaths, they were just a family again.

The ADA checked in on them around noon. Kunikida stood at the door, this time announced, his knock crisp, predictable. He brought paperwork and groceries, which Chuuya took with a reluctant sort of gratitude.

“Yosano said he needs to rest,” Kunikida reminded, glancing meaningfully toward Dazai.

Dazai offered a placid smile from the couch. “I’m always resting.”

“That’s what worries me,” Kunikida muttered. But his voice softened when Hana toddled over to show him her paper hearts taped proudly across the living room window. “Those are… impressive.”

“She made them all herself,” Dazai said, pride slipping easily into his tone.

When Kunikida finally left, the house felt warmer again, quiet, but not empty.

Afternoon drifted in soft and golden, a mirror of the day before but gentler, slower. Dazai had migrated to the armchair near the window, feet tucked beneath him, a light blanket over his knees. Chuuya was in the kitchen, humming under his breath as he chopped vegetables. Hana sat on the floor surrounded by a fortress of stuffed animals, narrating some elaborate story involving pirates. It was ordinary in a way that made Chuuya’s chest ache.

Every so often, Dazai’s gaze would find him, just a small glance, nothing more, but each time it happened, Chuuya could feel it. That soft tether between them, steadying both their instincts after the chaos.

When Chuuya finished lunch, he brought a bowl to Dazai. “Eat. Doctor’s orders.”

Dazai took it, smiling faintly. “You really are worse than Yosano.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll listen.”

He did, quietly, spooning up the soup while Chuuya sat nearby. Outside, the mist had lifted, leaving the world washed clean. The broken window had been patched with a sheet of clear plastic for now; sunlight filtered through it in rippled lines, catching the faint shimmer of the paper hearts taped above.

Hana giggled from her corner. “Papa, look! The sun’s making rainbows!”

Chuuya turned, and sure enough, the light refracted through the uneven plastic, scattering soft colors across the room. Dazai watched the shifting hues dance across the walls, his expression distant but tender.

“Maybe normal isn’t something we find,” he said quietly. “Maybe it’s something we make.”

Chuuya reached across the table, brushing his fingers lightly against Dazai’s. “We’re already doing it.”

Dazai smiled, small, real, the kind that made his eyes soften in a way Chuuya would never stop finding miraculous. He leaned back, exhaling, the air around them finally losing its tension. Hana’s laughter echoed, the light flickered across the walls, and for the rest of that afternoon, the world outside didn’t matter. It was only them, their quiet, fragile, fiercely-guarded peace. And for now, that was everything.

By early evening, the sun had dipped low, painting the room in muted amber that bled through the plastic-patched window. The air smelled faintly of wet streets, drying paper, and the lingering scent of Dazai, a subtle warmth that drew at something deep in Chuuya’s chest. His pulse thrummed at it, low and steady, a tether he didn’t dare release. Hana had curled up on the couch with a blanket over her shoulders, half-asleep and murmuring in soft, fluttering whispers. Chuuya watched her for a moment, the rise and fall of her small chest grounding him. Then his gaze shifted to Dazai, sitting across from him, the fading sunlight catching in his hair, highlighting the faint curve of his jaw, the delicate line of his neck. Chuuya’s chest tightened. Dazai's scent, warm, familiar, faintly musky, pulled at something primal, something protective and fierce. He had always felt it, but now, with Dazai carrying their second child, it was amplified, a low hum beneath his skin that demanded vigilance, closeness, and quiet care. Dazai looked up, eyes catching his. For a split second, nothing passed between them except recognition. An acknowledgment of instincts and bonds older than any words, a silent pulse of intimacy. Chuuya’s hand itched to brush against him, to anchor them both.

“You’re tense,” Dazai said softly, his voice carrying the weight of perceptive calm.

“Just… thinking,” Chuuya murmured, fingers tightening around his own knee. He could feel the subtle shift in Dazai’s posture, the way his scent thickened ever so slightly, the way his body leaned imperceptibly closer.

Dazai tilted his head, a small, knowing smile. “Thinking about me?”

Chuuya’s lips twitched. “Always.”

The air between them was charged, quiet but electric. Chuuya felt the pull of instinct, to shield, to enfold, to anchor, and Dazai’s faint tremor in response was a call to do just that. He stood, moving closer until the space between them was negligible, until his hand rested lightly on Dazai’s arm, warmth meeting warmth.

“Papa…” Hana mumbled, half asleep, small hand curling over the blanket.

Chuuya froze, heart thudding. Even now, his protective instinct surged, over Hana, over Dazai, over the house that felt suddenly too fragile. Dazai’s eyes softened at the gesture, his hand moving to rest over Chuuya’s in quiet acknowledgment. It was a tether neither needed to name, a wordless reassurance of presence and safety. The room shifted around them in those small, intimate movements. Plates from lunch had been cleared, the faint smell of cooking lingered, and the outside world was muted, softened by the last light and the mist of rain drying on the windows. Chuuya could feel Dazai’s pulse beneath his fingers, the subtle swell and warmth beneath his sweater, a living rhythm that tied them together, bonded them in ways beyond logic. He bent slightly, brushing a fingertip along Dazai’s jawline, sensing the faint heat of his skin, the quiet stirrings that came from both instinct and emotion. Dazai leaned into it, almost imperceptibly, a sigh escaping, soft and unguarded. Hana shifted slightly in her sleep, and Chuuya exhaled slowly, the tension that had been coiled tight in his chest loosening just enough to allow a quiet contentment. For now, the pull of instinct wasn’t panic, it wasn’t fear. It was grounding. It was home.

The light outside continued to fade, brushing the walls with muted gold and shadow. Chuuya moved to the kitchen to make tea, careful to keep his movements slow, attentive. Dazai’s gaze followed him, silent, warm, tethered. When he returned, the tea steaming in his hands, they shared a quiet moment across the table, the pull between them subtle but insistent, the unspoken promise of protection and closeness threading through every glance, every brush of skin.

Hana shifted again, eyes fluttering open, and Dazai’s hand immediately moved to cover hers, brushing gently. “Papa’s here,” he whispered. “Everything’s alright.”

Chuuya’s heart ached with the simplicity of it, the intensity of quiet bonds. It was domesticity, but it was alive, layered with instincts, with unspoken need, with the deep, unbreakable thread that bound their little family together. And for this fragile, golden hour, they allowed themselves to simply exist, together, tethered, and unshakable in their small, fiercely-claimed world.

Chapter Text

The sun had nearly disappeared behind the horizon, leaving the room washed in a dim, coppery glow. Shadows stretched long across the floor, pooling around furniture, creeping along the walls. The house felt smaller somehow, the quiet heavier. Even Hana, now sitting cross-legged on the couch, seemed subdued, sensing the subtle shift in the air. Chuuya moved with a precision born of instinct. Every sound, the distant scrape of a branch against the window, the hum of the heater, even Hana’s small shifting on the couch, registered with him. His pulse had picked up, low and steady, a vibration beneath his skin that called for vigilance. He could feel it in the way Dazai’s scent changed, subtle but insistent, curling around him like a tether. It was protective, almost hungry, and it made Chuuya’s stomach tighten in response. Dazai sat upright now, blanket pooled around his knees. His head turned slightly toward every noise, eyes catching the shifting light with a faint glint. The pull of instinct was evident in the way he leaned subtly into Chuuya’s proximity, even as if unconsciously inviting protection. Chuuya’s hands itched to rest on his shoulders, on the small of his back, anywhere he could anchor them both.

“Hana,” Dazai murmured softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Stay close to us, okay?”

The little girl nodded, her small hand slipping into Dazai’s. She had always been perceptive, and now, even in her innocence, she sensed the tension, the undercurrent of instinct flowing through the room. She nestled into Dazai, a small weight that made both of them acutely aware of their roles, protector, anchor, family. Chuuya moved beside them, low and silent. His scent mingled with Dazai’s, copper and warmth, familiar and grounding, a quiet signal to the house, to the world, that this space was claimed, guarded. He crouched slightly, letting Hana’s presence brush against his arm, Dazai’s shoulder pressing lightly into his chest. It was subtle, unspoken, but it carried weight, an assertion of territory, of protection, of belonging. Dazai’s eyes flicked to Chuuya. The faint tremor of anticipation in his pulse mirrored Chuuya’s own, the awareness of imminent threat sharpened by instinct. They didn’t speak; words weren’t needed. Their bodies, their scents, the rhythm of breathing and subtle touch conveyed everything. Hana stirred then, sensing the tension even as she tried to continue her imaginary pirate adventure in her head.

“Papa…?” she whispered, voice small.

Chuuya’s gaze softened immediately. He leaned down, letting her small face brush against his shoulder.

“We’re okay, sweetheart,” he said quietly, though his pulse still thumped with alertness.

His nose caught the faint change in Dazai’s scent, something tighter, more alert, and protective, and he stiffened slightly, a low hum of instinct running through him. Dazai’s hand found Chuuya’s, fingers intertwining in a silent promise. Even without words, the signal was clear. They were a tethered unit now, each heartbeat syncing with the other, a quiet, coiled energy beneath everything.

Outside, the last of the light disappeared, leaving the misty streets gray and shadowed. Chuuya’s eyes flicked to the window, noting every detail, the faint scrape of wind along the sill, the movement of a stray leaf drifting past. His senses sharpened, scent, sight, and sound all alert, guided by instinct he didn’t even try to name. Hana yawned, curling further into Dazai’s lap. Dazai lowered his head to press a gentle kiss to her hair, then let his cheek rest briefly against Chuuya’s shoulder. The motion was subtle, quiet, but it anchored them all, a shared pulse, a signal of safety and unity. Chuuya exhaled slowly, letting the tension ease just slightly, though every nerve remained alive. They were ready, poised, a quiet storm beneath the calm. The room smelled of warmth, and rain-damp air, tinged faintly with the mingled scents of their bond, copper, warmth, and faint, protective musk. And in that pre-dusk light, Chuuya felt it clearly, the world might press close, danger might coil in the shadows, but within this small, fiercely guarded home, they were unshakable. He tightened his fingers over Dazai’s, felt the subtle swell of instinct in response. Dazai leaned into the contact, eyes closing briefly. Hana’s soft breathing filled the space between them, the faint, rhythmic thrum of her pulse threading through the room, amplifying the protective instinct that wrapped them all. For now, the house was safe, their bond was alive.

The night had settled thickly around the house, the kind of dark that made everything sound closer. The rain had stopped hours ago, but the smell of damp earth lingered, seeping through the cracked window frame. The clock ticked faintly in the kitchen, a fragile, human sound in the hush of instinctive quiet.

Chuuya hadn’t moved for a long time. He sat on the edge of the couch, one arm resting over the back where Dazai and Hana lay. The air felt heavy with scent, the faint sweetness of sleep, the grounding spice of Chuuya’s skin, the soft, steady hum of Dazai’s presence beneath it. It wasn’t oppressive; it was steadying. A promise woven into the air itself. Hana had fallen deeper into sleep, one small hand fisted in Dazai’s shirt. Her breathing was slow and even, her little body trusting the safety around her. But Chuuya’s instincts didn’t let him rest. His eyes tracked every shadow. Every shift of the old house. Dazai stirred faintly beneath the blanket, lashes fluttering, and his scent shifted, alert again. Not alarmed, but responsive, searching. Chuuya felt it immediately, that ripple of connection running through him like a pulse.

“You’re awake,” he murmured.

Dazai’s eyes opened halfway. “You’re not sleeping either,” he whispered, voice soft and rough.

Chuuya's jaw flexed. He didn’t answer right away. The silence between them wasn’t empty, it was thick with understanding. He could feel Dazai’s instincts stretching outward, protective, quietly dominant in their reach, as if to wrap around the room. Chuuya met it, not resisting, just grounding it, his own energy rising to meet and steady it.

Something outside shifted, a sound like gravel underfoot. Both of them froze. Hana stirred but didn’t wake up. The house went still. Dazai’s hand moved slowly from Hana’s back until his fingers brushed Chuuya’s. A single point of contact, small but charged. His scent tightened, restrained alarm, protective instinct wound tight. Chuuya inhaled once, eyes narrowing toward the window.

“It’s not close,” he murmured, almost inaudibly. “But someone’s there.”

Dazai nodded, the movement barely perceptible. His scent shifted again, lower, darker, layered with a quiet authority that sent a shiver down Chuuya’s spine. Chuuya’s body answered automatically, muscles coiled, heartbeat syncing with Dazai’s rhythm. The shared instinct pulsed through them, silent communication more precise than words.

Silence.

The sound outside faded. The air in the room thickened with leftover adrenaline. Dazai exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. Chuuya let his hand linger over Dazai’s, anchoring him, steadying the hum of instinct that still burned under his skin. They stayed like that for a long while, listening. When it became clear the sound wouldn’t return, Dazai turned slightly, eyes finding Chuuya’s in the dim light.

“Come here,” he said softly.

It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t quite an order either, something between instinct and comfort, a call that pulled Chuuya in. He shifted onto the couch, close enough that their knees brushed, and Dazai leaned into him, the heat of his body a quiet reassurance. Chuuya tucked his chin into Dazai’s hair, inhaling deeply. The familiar scent wrapped around him, home, warmth, the faint electric hum of their bond. His body relaxed, but his instincts stayed tuned, listening through the night.

“You feel it too,” Chuuya murmured.

Dazai hummed against him. “Yes. But it’s not coming tonight.”

Chuuya’s arm tightened around him, instinctively protective even now. “Doesn’t matter,” he said quietly. “We’re ready.”

Dazai’s hand came up, fingers brushing the side of Chuuya’s neck in slow, grounding circles. “We are,” he whispered. “We always are.”

Hana shifted between them, murmuring softly in her sleep. Both of them froze, then softened instantly, their instincts folding inward, protective focus redirecting to her. The shift was seamless, from alertness to gentleness, from threat to shelter. Chuuya’s heart slowed again. Dazai’s breathing deepened. The three of them, bound by instinct and quiet understanding, let the night close around them.

The quiet thickened again after that brief alarm. The old clock in the kitchen kept up its tired rhythm, a soft mechanical heartbeat under the hush. The air had cooled, but the room felt heavy with warmth, as though the tension itself had a temperature. Dazai shifted restlessly against Chuuya. A fine tremor ran through him; his skin felt too hot, his pulse unsteady. Instincts that had been stretched thin all day finally gave way to something deeper, body and mind trying to recalibrate after fear. His scent rose, warmer, sharper at the edges, not dangerous but charged with need for closeness. Chuuya didn’t speak. He felt the change before he registered it, a low hum beneath Dazai’s skin that seemed to vibrate against his own. He pulled the blanket higher around them, wrapping his arms more firmly around Dazai and Hana both.

“Breathe,” he whispered. “You’re safe. Just breathe.”

Dazai’s reply was a shaky exhale, the sound catching in his throat. His eyes closed, forehead pressing to Chuuya’s collarbone as if the contact itself could ground him. Every instinct in Chuuya answered, steady warmth, slow breathing, fingers moving in small circles against Dazai’s back. The scents in the room layered and softened, paper and rain, the faint sweetness of Hana’s sleep, the deeper notes of Chuuya’s calm that filled the space like a hearth. Gradually, the tension in Dazai’s body began to fade. The tremor remained, but it no longer carried panic; it was just the body’s way of asking for rest.

Chuuya leaned his cheek against Dazai’s hair. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Just let it settle.”

“It feels so… loud,” Dazai admitted after a moment, voice hoarse. “Everything in me’s still listening for danger.”

Chuuya understood. He kept the rhythm of his hand steady. “Then listen to me instead,” he said softly. “I’m right here.”

The words worked like a key turning in a lock. Dazai’s breathing slowed again, syncing with Chuuya’s without thought. The warmth between them became a steady pulse rather than a fever. The room held still around their small cocoon of sound and scent. For a while, neither moved. The night pressed close to the windows; the house seemed to breathe with them. Hana murmured in her sleep, her small hand loosening its grip on Dazai’s shirt. Chuuya eased his own tension by degrees, every exhale smoothing the ragged edge of the day away.

When Dazai finally spoke again, his voice was barely more than a sigh. “You always know what to say.”

“Only because I remember what it’s like,” Chuuya replied. “When everything feels too close.”

Dazai gave a faint hum of agreement, a sound that was half gratitude, half surrender to rest. He tucked himself closer, nose brushing the line of Chuuya’s throat, not seeking anything but reassurance. Chuuya let him, the familiar weight against his chest anchoring him in turn. Outside, a single car passed, its headlights glancing briefly across the curtains before the dark folded in again. The world narrowed to breath, warmth, the steady beat of three hearts. Chuuya stayed awake long enough to feel Dazai’s body finally go still in sleep. The tension had melted, leaving only the residue of instinctive trust, the quiet hum of two people who had learned, again and again, to find peace in each other’s orbit. He closed his eyes at last, his hand still resting over Dazai’s heart. The house smelled of rain and paper and home. The danger could wait for morning.

Chapter Text

Morning came slow, reluctant to touch the house after the night it had held. The light through the curtains was thin and pale; the air smelled faintly of rain and clean wood. Somewhere upstairs Hana’s laughter floated down, muffled by walls, high, unbothered, already returning to childhood’s resilience. Chuuya stood by the doorway, boots unlaced, one hand resting on the frame. He listened first. The street sounded different today, birds louder, cars more distant, as if the world were trying too hard to sound ordinary. He glanced back once. Dazai was still at the kitchen table, robe wrapped loosely around him, mug cupped in both hands. His face had color again, if a little drawn; his eyes followed Chuuya with quiet understanding. No words, just that shared awareness.

“I’ll just check outside,” Chuuya said.

Dazai nodded. “Be careful.”

Chuuya slipped out into the cool morning. The porch boards creaked under his weight. The air tasted damp and metallic, washed clean but unsettled. He let his senses stretch, the way he always did before a fight or a mission, but here it was tempered by something domestic. The smell of coffee inside, paper hearts still taped crookedly to the window. He crouched by the doorframe first, running a finger along the splintered edge where the lock had been forced. The repair crew had done quick work overnight, courtesy of the ADA’s emergency contacts. Still, he didn’t like how the metal looked, too new, too bright against the old paint.

Then he noticed it.

At first it looked like nothing, just a scrap caught in the wet grass near the steps. But when he bent to pick it up, he saw the edge of red paper, the same kind that had wrapped the bouquet. His stomach tightened. The scrap was damp, blurred by rain, but ink still clung to the fibers. Not words. Just a mark, a looping symbol, too deliberate to be accidental.

Behind him, the door opened a crack. “Chuuya?”

He turned slightly. Dazai stood in the doorway, Hana’s sleepy head resting against his leg. The sight made the world sharpen again, his instincts flaring protective before he softened them deliberately.

“It’s nothing,” he said quietly. “Go back inside.”

Dazai hesitated, reading the tension in his stance. “You found something.”

“Maybe. I’ll call Kunikida.”

A few minutes later, the ADA car pulled up, tires crunching softly over wet gravel. Kunikida stepped out first, immaculate as ever despite the hour; Ranpo followed, munching on something wrapped in paper.

“What’ve you got?” Kunikida asked.

Chuuya handed him the scrap. “Found it under the steps. Same paper as that night.”

Ranpo leaned in, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “That mark, hmm. Not random. I’ve seen it in old Port Mafia archives. Could be a signature, or bait.”

Chuuya’s jaw set. “Then they’re trying to draw us out.”

“Or remind you they can reach you,” Kunikida said grimly. “Either way, we’ll put a watch on the street for now.”

Inside the house, Dazai had taken Hana back to the table, helping her stir sugar into her tea as though none of it touched them. But Chuuya could see the tension in his shoulders even from outside. When the agents left, Chuuya stayed on the porch a little longer. The air had shifted again, warmer now, heavy with that strange sweetness that came after fear, the scent of the house calling him back. He exhaled, forcing the tightness out of his chest, and went back inside.

Dazai looked up immediately. “Well?”

“They’re watching the street,” Chuuya said, closing the door behind him. “We’re safe for now.”

Dazai smiled faintly, not quite reaching his eyes. “For now sounds better than nothing.”

Chuuya crossed the room, resting a hand on Dazai’s shoulder. The touch wasn’t just reassurance; it was the smallest claim, the instinctive act of making sure his own were within reach. Dazai leaned into it, quiet and steady.

Hana held up a paper heart, newly folded, edges still uneven. “Papa, look! This one’s for the door. So bad things stay out.”

Chuuya smiled, throat tightening. “Good idea, sweetheart.”

He took the heart from her carefully, taped it to the repaired frame, and stood there for a moment, watching it catch the light. The house felt like itself again, warm, lived-in, still a little fragile, but whole. Outside, the city went on pretending nothing had happened. The calm held, for now.

The rest of the morning passed in uneasy rhythm. Hana had found her crayons and was bent over the kitchen table, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration as she drew bright hearts on folded paper. Dazai washed dishes beside her, humming under his breath. The water ran steady, the sound a fragile imitation of peace. Chuuya sat at the counter with the red scrap laid flat before him. It had dried, the ink mark clearer now, a looping shape, almost floral at first glance, but the longer he looked, the more it resolved into something else, a stylized sigil, the kind used in old Port Mafia field codes. It wasn’t one he’d seen in years, but the muscle memory of recognition hit him deep. He rubbed at the corner of his temple. It wasn’t just a threat; it was a sign. Someone was broadcasting allegiance. Or invitation.

Behind him, Dazai’s humming faltered. “You’re thinking too much again,” he murmured without turning.

Chuuya didn’t answer right away. He slid the paper closer, tapping the edge with one finger. “You ever see this before?”

Dazai turned, towel slung over his shoulder. His eyes caught the light, sharp, alert in an instant. He leaned in, scanning the mark. “That’s not for us,” he said after a moment. “That’s for them.”

Chuuya's jaw tightened. “Meaning what exactly?”

“Meaning whoever left it isn’t just warning you and me. They’re calling out the old network. The ones who never really left.”

Chuuya exhaled slowly. “So this wasn’t random.”

“No,” Dazai said softly. “It’s not.”

For a long moment they stood there in silence. Outside, a car passed, splashing through puddles. Hana’s crayon scraped faintly across paper; she hummed a little tune under her breath. The sound grounded them, kept the air from cracking.

Chuuya folded the scrap once and slipped it into his pocket. “We’ll tell Kunikida,” he said finally.

“We will,” Dazai agreed. “But not until after lunch.”

That earned him a glance, sharp and questioning.

Dazai’s expression softened. “She’s had enough fear already. Let her have her morning.”

Chuuya looked toward Hana, small shoulders hunched in focus, hair catching the sunlight. The knot in his chest eased just a little.

“Alright fine,” he said. “After lunch.”

He poured another cup of coffee, the ordinary motion feeling almost defiant. Dazai went back to the sink. Their hands brushed when he passed the mug over, a small, grounding touch, routine, but more than routine. The house breathed again, fragile but alive. Chuuya knew what would come next; reports, missions, the world beyond their door demanding attention. But for now he could stand here, feel the warmth of Dazai’s shoulder against his, the faint buzz of Hana’s laughter, and hold the calm for a few more minutes. He could already feel the pull of old ties stirring in the city beyond, the same rhythm he’d once moved to, now returning like a heartbeat he’d tried to forget.

“Whatever it is,” Dazai said quietly, as if reading the thought, “we’ll face it together.”

Chuuya nodded, eyes still on the window. “Yeah.”

The paper hearts shifted slightly in the morning breeze, their taped edges fluttering but holding still.

By early afternoon, the quiet had grown heavy, as if the house itself were holding its breath. Hana had finally dozed off on the couch, one of Dazai’s scarves pulled around her like a small cocoon. Chuuya was pacing the living room, coffee gone cold in his hand. He’d told himself he wouldn’t overthink until Kunikida arrived, but the sigil’s shape kept looping in his head, a network sigil, old Port Mafia shorthand for gathering point. Not a threat. A signal flare.

The knock at the door came soft but precise, Kunikida’s rhythm. Dazai went to answer, voice lowered so as not to wake Hana.

“You’re early,” he murmured.

“You said the same thing last time,” Atsushi’s voice replied, half-apologetic.

Then they were inside, the muted shuffle of coats, the smell of rain still clinging to them. Kunikida set his folder down on the counter and adjusted his glasses.

“You were right to hold onto this,” he said without preamble.

He placed a printed sheet beside the folded red scrap. The same looping sigil was blown up in black ink, annotated in his neat handwriting. “We cross-referenced it with the Port Mafia’s older code systems. It’s from a retired network, what used to be their logistics team. Someone’s reviving it.”

“Reviving it?” Chuuya repeated, low.

“Not the Port Mafia proper,” Kunikida said. “Something smaller. A faction that splintered off before Mori consolidated power. It looks like they’ve been testing the waters, contacting dormant cells, probing old members.”

“And the ADA?” Dazai asked, leaning a hip against the counter, expression unreadable.

Kunikida’s mouth tightened. “They’ve been mapping your patrol routes. Not just yours. Ours. It’s coordinated.”

Atsushi, hovering a step behind, shifted uneasily. “We think they’re trying to draw both sides out, see who reacts.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the soft hum of the refrigerator and the faint tick of Hana’s toy clock on the mantle.

Chuuya set his mug down with care. “So this wasn’t about revenge. It’s recruitment.”

Kunikida nodded. “That’s our current theory. The good news is—” his tone softened slightly, “the ADA’s got its defenses up. We’re not walking into this blind.”

Dazai’s eyes flicked toward the window, where afternoon light had started to pale. “But they wanted us to see it,” he said. “That mark wasn’t hidden. They wanted a response.”

“Then they’ll get one,” Kunikida replied.

It wasn’t bravado, just a simple fact, written in the rigid line of his shoulders. He gathered his papers again, leaving only a single card on the counter.

“We’ll be in touch within the hour. Keep her inside.” His glance toward the sleeping couch was brief but heavy with unspoken meaning.

When the door closed behind them, the quiet folded back over the house like a blanket, thicker now, almost protective. Chuuya sank onto the arm of the couch, rubbing a hand over his face. Dazai joined him a moment later, lowering himself beside Hana’s sleeping form. Something in the air, scent, warmth, a shared pulse of recognition, settled the tension before it could take shape. The calm wouldn’t last. They both knew that. But for the rest of that day, they chose to move quietly around each other, making dinner early, keeping the lights low. It was a kind of truce with the world outside, a space they’d hold until the next step revealed itself.

Chapter Text

The air had cooled further as the morning waned, turning damp from the earlier rain into a faint mist that clung to the edges of the porch. Chuuya stood rigid beside Dazai, fingers tapping against his thigh, eyes sweeping the street with practiced precision. The sense of unease had never fully left after the morning scrap of red paper; it was just resting, simmering under the surface, waiting for a sign.

Kunikida had stepped back slightly, consulting a notebook in his hand, voice low and precise. “We’re leaving a minimal patrol on the street. It’s likely they’re watching us now.”

Chuuya’s jaw set. He didn’t need the words to know the truth. His instincts stretched, alert, ears catching the faintest scrape of gravel, the distant hum of tires, the whisper of wind against the windows. Dazai’s presence beside him grounded him, but also sharpened him, their bond a line of tension, heat, scent, all keyed to the same rhythm of threat and protection.

“I’ll take first watch,” Chuuya said quietly, eyes narrowing.

Dazai inclined his head, expression soft but alert. “We’re not out here for long,” he murmured. “Just talk.”

They stepped a few feet back from the porch together, moving in unison. Every breath, every shift of weight, felt deliberate, a silent assertion; this space, this family, is under my protection.

The conversation with Kunikida stretched, measured, filled with reports, old intelligence, and a careful parsing of the sigil. Chuuya’s mind only half-listened; his senses were elsewhere, tracing the subtle disruptions in the air, the small anomalies that suggested someone had been close enough to test the locks, to sense where Hana slept.

A faint glint in the grass caught his eye. A scrap of red, smeared with rain, a sharp loop of ink at the edge, another mark. His gut tightened. The blood in his veins felt heavier, faster.

“Dazai,” he said, tone low, clipped. The sound carried the weight of command, instinctively protective.

Dazai’s head snapped toward him, pupils wide. He understood immediately, silent, following Chuuya’s gaze.

Chuuya didn’t wait. Every motion had the weight of controlled dominance; the boot against the step, the firm sweep of a hand over the door frame, checking the locks again. His mind catalogued escape routes, window latches, hidden corners, every inch of their home in seconds. Inside, the living room appeared untouched, but Chuuya smelled it before he saw it; the faint, metallic tang of disturbed metal, a whisper of unfamiliar scent where none should be. Hana’s scarf was slightly displaced on the couch, her small hand clasped around nothing. The room held its breath.

“Kunikida,” Chuuya said, voice firm as he crossed the threshold, eyes sweeping the interior with instinctive authority. “They were here. Seconds ago.”

The ADA agents followed immediately. Kunikida crouched by the window, scanning the tracks outside. Ranpo leaned close, calculating. Dazai stayed close to Chuuya, one hand lightly brushing the back of his neck, grounding him, sharing the quiet hum of tension. Chuuya’s nostrils flared, muscles coiling as he walked the house, checking each window, each door. The intruder had left nothing but traces; a small scrap of red, a subtle scuff on the wood floor, a displaced cushion. Enough to say they had been inside and left, but not enough to reach Hana. Not yet.

When the ADA finished cataloging the evidence, Kunikida’s voice was clipped. “They were testing boundaries. They know this is occupied. They know the family is here. We’ll double patrols tonight.”

Chuuya’s hands clenched at his sides. “They’ll regret it if they come again,” he said softly, low enough that only Dazai caught the edge in his tone. Protective, unflinching, lethal in the way his presence filled the room.

Dazai brushed a hand over his shoulder, quiet. “I know.”

Chuuya’s eyes moved to the window. The fading light caught a new mark, smudged red, curling on the edge of the porch railing. Not the same symbol, but deliberate, precise. Another signal. Another warning. He inhaled, letting the heat in his chest settle into controlled vigilance. Dazai’s hand found his, fingers entwining lightly, sharing the calm instinct between them. Hana stirred slightly in her sleep but remained untouched, cocooned by blankets and the invisible walls Chuuya had already reinforced. The ADA departed with quiet efficiency. Kunikida’s final glance was sharp, clear.

Chuuya stood in the dim light of the living room, one hand brushing the edge of the counter, the other over Dazai’s, letting their bond anchor them both. He drew in a slow breath, tasting the faint copper of tension and the familiar warmth of Dazai’s presence, and let it steady him.

The scrap on the railing caught the last of the dusk light, small and cruel, a reminder that the calm of their home was still fragile. But Chuuya’s body hummed with controlled dominance, vigilance, and a promise; no one would touch them while he breathed.

Chapter Text

Another morning came gray and slow, as if the world itself hesitated to move forward. The house smelled of night-sweat, faint adrenaline, coffee still warm on the counter, and the unmistakable pull between them, something low and anchoring, threaded through the fabric of their home like an unspoken vow.

Chuuya hadn’t slept. Not really. He’d spent most of the night awake, listening to Dazai’s breathing and the softer, occasional whimper of Hana turning in her sleep. Every creak of the house had put his instincts on edge, alpha vigilance that refused to fade, even with dawn. Dazai was already sitting at the kitchen table, bundled in one of Chuuya’s sweaters, mug in both hands. The steam curled over his pale fingers. His scent was stronger in the morning, a soft pull of warmth and safety tangled with a sharper note of unease. He hadn’t said much yet, but his eyes followed Chuuya like they always did when the world felt dangerous. Half trust, half fear he didn’t bother to hide. Chuuya set another mug down, leaning his hip against the counter. The quiet between them wasn’t cold. It was heavy with everything unsaid.

The knock came just past seven. Three sharp raps that carried authority. Chuuya didn’t need to check who it was, he’d already caught the muted scent of Kunikida on the breeze before the door even opened.

“Morning,” Kunikida said as he stepped in, boots still wet. His gaze swept the interior with practiced calculation before settling on Chuuya. “We’ve got a lead. Somewhat.  Ranpo traced the sigil. They’ve moved through the docks, quiet, professional.”

Chuuya’s jaw tightened.

Kunikida sighed, dropping a file on the table. “I want to coordinate a search team.”

Dazai shifted in his chair, pressing his hand absently to the small curve of his belly. “Meaning you want to take Chuuya with you,” he said quietly.

Kunikida glanced at him, expression unreadable. He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t need to. The air in the kitchen changed. Not loud, not visible, but felt. Chuuya’s instincts surged the way they always did when danger scraped too close, shoulders tight, pulse quick, every sense scanning for threat. Dazai’s scent reacted in kind, softer but insistent, a subtle pull that said stay.

“Not today,” Chuuya said finally, voice low, controlled. “I’m not leaving them.”

Kunikida exhaled, adjusting his glasses. “Chuuya—”

“No.” It came sharper than he intended. He lowered his voice a fraction. “You know what they’re targeting. You know who.”

The implication hung there like static. Dazai didn’t look away from him. His fingers curled a little tighter around the mug. His instincts had already staked their claim, drawing him toward Chuuya’s side like gravity, even without touching him. And Chuuya felt it.

“I’ll coordinate from here,” Chuuya said, quieter now. “I’ll keep Dazai and Hana safe.”

Kunikida’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t argue. “For now,” he said evenly. “But if we get movement—”

“I’ll be ready,” Chuuya finished.

When Kunikida finally left, the house exhaled with him. Dazai remained still at the table, shoulders drawn in, pulse thrumming faintly through their bond. Chuuya crossed the room without thinking, standing behind him, one hand bracing against the back of the chair, the other hovering at Dazai’s shoulder. The scent between them deepened, his dominance wrapping tight around the edges of Dazai’s unease, protective but steady. Dazai leaned back ever so slightly, like it was instinct more than thought.

“You’re not going,” Dazai murmured, voice softer now, but steady.

“Not today,” Chuuya said. “But you know I might have to.”

Dazai turned to look at him then, eyes darker, wide and unguarded in a way he rarely let anyone else see.

“I know,” he admitted. “I just need you here.”

Chuuya’s throat worked. He bent a little, letting their foreheads touch, a small, grounding movement.

“I am,” he said quietly.

Chuuya kissed him then. A soft, gentle, kiss. Dazai leaned into it, bringing his hands up to caress his face. The house smelled like them again, warm, thick with scent, a quiet boundary drawn against the outside world. Hana’s small voice carried faintly from upstairs, singing to herself. Chuuya wrapped a hand lightly around Dazai’s wrist, feeling the faint, steady pulse beneath his skin, and let the promise sit between them.

By mid-day the light outside had flattened into a colorless haze. The Agency's investigation was under way; the small earpiece on Chuuya’s desk crackled every so often with clipped reports, nothing found, a negative trace, moving south. Each burst of static felt like a heartbeat outside the walls. He’d set himself up at the dining table, laptop open, comm line steady. The house was still except for the soft sounds upstairs where Dazai and Hana rested. The quiet was almost worse than noise; it pressed against him, daring him to relax. Chuuya worked through coordinates, cross-checking shipping records Ranpo had flagged. His movements were efficient but restless. Every few minutes his gaze flicked toward the stairway, listening for the creak of floorboards, the soft tone of Dazai’s voice. Instinct made him track every sound. When the comm line went silent for a moment, he stood up and paced the room. The scent of coffee and rain clung to the air, mixed with the faint warmth of his own tension. Outside, the street was empty; puddles shimmered dull silver. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Not a clear threat, just that thin current of awareness that prickled the skin. His body stayed keyed for movement.

“Status?,” he said quietly into the line.

Kunikida’s voice came back, faint but steady. “We’ve confirmed the docks were used. The sigils are a mark, same pattern, different hand. Whoever targeted your home has ties . We’ll need you here soon to identify—”

Chuuya’s mouth tightened. “Keep me updated.”

He hung up before Kunikida could say anything else.

The silence returned. He moved through the house, checking doors and windows again, not because he expected to find anything new but because the rhythm kept his nerves in order. His senses kept mapping the air; the faint trace of Dazai’s scent upstairs, the milder sweetness of Hana’s, both telling him they were safe. In the living room, the red paper hearts Hana had taped to the window fluttered as the heating vent exhaled. For a moment the movement caught him off guard, a flash of color against the gray outside, alive when everything else felt waiting. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

The communicator blinked again. A new message scrolled across: “Lead confirmed. Stand by.”

He stared at it, fingers curling slowly into a fist. His mind was already pulling up routes, times, the smell of salt air, but then he heard a small sound from upstairs, the unmistakable shuffle of Dazai’s bare feet followed by the lighter patter of Hana’s. The instinct that had carried him through a dozen battles shifted, grounding him back in the present. He wasn’t out there. Not yet. Chuuya rubbed a hand over his face, forcing the tightness in his chest to ease.

He sent a short reply to Kunikida, “Standing by.” Then he turned toward the stairs.

The house settled again around him, the way homes sometimes do when night begins to gather outside, slower, warmer, heavy with the smell of tea and rain. The comms still blinked on the table, a pulse of the world waiting. Chuuya ignored it for now. He went to check the locks one last time before dusk.

The sky outside the windows bruised toward indigo. The house had settled into a hush that was more alive than silence, the faint hum of the heater, the clink of a mug somewhere behind him. Chuuya had just finished another round of checking the locks when he felt rather than heard Dazai at the edge of the room. Dazai stood a few steps away, hair half-tied, wearing one of Chuuya’s loose shirts that brushed against his thighs. The overhead light threw a soft halo around him.

“You’re pacing,” Dazai said, his voice low.

“Am I?”

“You get louder when you’re trying not to think.”

Chuuya snorted, but it came out softer than he meant it to. He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded.

“You should be resting.”

“I did. Hana’s asleep.”

Their gazes held. For a long moment neither moved; the quiet between them was threaded through with the same pull that had been there all day, his urge to shield, Dazai’s quiet demand that he stay human while doing it. Dazai crossed the room and stopped close enough that Chuuya could smell the faint trace of soap and tea on his skin.

“You’ve been guarding us like the world’s about to end.”

“It might,” Chuuya said simply.

Dazai’s mouth curved, not quite a smile.

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll still be ready.”

The answer wasn’t a joke, but Dazai reached out anyway and tugged lightly at the front of his shirt until Chuuya’s shoulders uncoiled. The small contact did more to steady him than he’d admit.

“Stay with us,” Dazai said quietly. “Just... Until the next lead turns into something real.”

Chuuya hesitated. The communicator blinked again on the table, Kunikida’s updates, the world still moving outside these walls. He glanced at it, then back at Dazai.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said finally.

Dazai’s fingers lingered against his wrist, a silent acknowledgment of both the promise and its limits. The air between them softened, full of the scent of rain-damp air slipping through the vent, of home. Outside, the last light faded, and the blinking communicator cast a faint reflection on the window glass, a red pulse against the dark, steady as a heartbeat.

Chapter Text

The house was deep in shadow. Rain had stopped sometime after midnight, leaving a hush that pressed close against the windows. The air smelled faintly of wet earth and paper glue, Hana’s crafts still drying on the table downstairs. Chuuya lay awake, eyes tracing the ceiling in the dark. Dazai’s breathing had steadied beside him, but not for long at a time. Each small shift, the tremor in his hand, the low, restless sound in his throat, tugged at Chuuya’s instincts until he reached over, palm settling against the side of Dazai’s neck. Warm. Alive. The pulse there quickened under his touch, then slowed.

“You’re safe,” Chuuya murmured, barely sound at all.

Dazai didn’t say anything, but his body turned toward the voice, curling instinctively into it. Chuuya shifted closer, letting their scents mingle, grounding, familiar, the kind of closeness that quieted both of them. It wasn’t just comfort; it was understanding. The rhythm of shared breath, the weight of skin against skin. When Dazai finally drifted again, Chuuya stayed awake. The clock downstairs ticked faintly. The world had the brittle calm of something holding its breath. Every creak in the floorboards, every sigh of the walls in cooling air, felt magnified. He told himself the house was old. He told himself the storm had loosened the windows. But the part of him tuned too finely to danger, the alpha part that had lived on instincts longer than reason, didn’t let go. His body stayed coiled, half-ready to move. The scent of night deepened. A subtle shift. Not wrong, not foreign exactly, but different. He couldn’t name it, a trace of cold metal, maybe, or the faintest burn of something that hadn’t been there before. It caught at the edge of his awareness, then slipped away again.

He eased out of bed carefully, moving without sound. Dazai murmured once in his sleep, reaching after him, and Chuuya paused, pressing a hand over Dazai’s shoulder until he settled again. Only then did he step to the window. Outside, the street lay silver under moonlight. The puddles reflected the paper hearts in the window below, pink against pale water. Nothing moved. No shadow, no shape. But Chuuya’s nape prickled all the same. Behind him, a soft noise, Dazai stirring again.

“Chuuya?” The voice was low, rough with sleep.

“Just checking,” Chuuya said, still watching the street.

“Come back.”

That quiet plea pulled at something deeper than fear. He turned away from the glass, the unease clinging to his skin like static. When he slid back under the blanket, Dazai’s hand found him immediately, seeking contact. Their foreheads touched. Dazai’s breath brushed his throat, still uneven, still catching on dreams. Chuuya wrapped his arm around him, hand resting protectively against the gentle rise of his belly. For a long time, that was enough, no words, just warmth, scent, the steady pulse of life between them. Eventually, he felt the tension leave Dazai’s body, slow and reluctant. Chuuya’s own instincts followed suit, the sharp edge of vigilance softening into something quieter. He let himself breathe with him, matching pace for pace, until the window light shifted pale with the first hint of dawn. The danger, if it was there at all, stayed unseen. Only the faintest scent of something unfamiliar lingered in the air, a thread too thin to name, but impossible to forget.

Chapter Text

Morning bled in slow and colorless. Pale light pressed through the curtains, catching on the edges of furniture, on the folded paper hearts still taped crookedly to the window downstairs. The house smelled of rain and stale heat, the scent of a night spent too awake. Chuuya hadn’t slept much. Dazai was still tucked against him, breathing even now but heavy, that kind of exhaustion that comes after fear has burned itself out. Hana’s small voice carried faintly from her room, humming to her toys. It should have been ordinary again. But Chuuya’s instincts wouldn’t quiet. The air felt wrong somehow, charged but silent. When he shifted out of bed and crossed the hall, he found it. The front window was open an inch, though he remembered locking it himself. A fine trail of damp dust crossed the sill, like someone had brushed against it. The sight hit low in his gut. He closed it quietly, latching it twice, then pressed his fingertips to the faint residue there, cold, metallic, almost scentless. Something chemical. Not random.

In the kitchen, the floor creaked under his weight. The coffee maker was already on; Dazai must have set it before lying back down. The sound of it bubbling was soft and domestic, but underneath, Chuuya could hear the faint, persistent tick of the clock, too loud, too slow.

“Chuuya?” Dazai’s voice drifted from the hall, rough-edged but steady. He was wrapped in a sweater, eyes still half-shadowed from sleep. “You didn’t come back.”

“Window was open,” Chuuya said, voice low.

Dazai froze. “…Open how?”

“Just a crack. Might’ve been nothing.”

But the way his shoulders held tension gave away the lie. Dazai saw it too; his gaze flicked past Chuuya, toward the door, the quiet street beyond the glass. His hand went unconsciously to his stomach, protective. Chuuya stepped closer, brushing the side of his throat, grounding, instinctive.

“It’s fine. No one’s here now.”

“I can still feel it,” Dazai murmured. His nose wrinkled faintly, eyes unfocused, searching for the trace. “Something sharp.”

Chuuya nodded once. “You stay with Hana. I’ll call Kunikida.”

“Don’t—” Dazai started, then stopped himself. “Don’t be long.”

He wasn’t. The call was brief; the ADA promised to send someone within the hour. Still, the unease didn’t lift. Hana had wandered into the kitchen by then, dragging her stuffed cat by one arm. She blinked up at them, sensing tension without words.

“Papa, did the hearts fall?” she asked, pointing toward the window.

Chuuya followed her gaze. One of the paper hearts, bright pink, crinkled from yesterday’s rain, had been peeled halfway off, its tape disturbed. Only that one, among dozens.

He crouched to her level, managing a smile. “Looks like it just got tired of hanging there. We’ll fix it later, okay?”

She nodded, satisfied, but Dazai’s eyes met his over her head, unreadable. The house felt smaller suddenly, air tight and thin.

The day stretched on in muted pieces; breakfast half-eaten, Hana playing in the living room, Dazai sitting close enough that Chuuya could touch him without thinking. From outside came the hum of city life returning, cars, vendors, someone laughing down the street. Everything ordinary, everything wrong. When the ADA arrived midmorning, Kunikida swept the place with quiet efficiency. Ranpo lingered by the window, gaze sharp, mouth set in an almost-smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Whoever left that window open,” he said finally, “wanted you to notice.”

Dazai’s hand tightened around Chuuya’s sleeve.

Chuuya exhaled slowly, forcing the calm back into his voice. “Then they got what they wanted. But next time—”

“Next time,” Kunikida interrupted softly, “we’ll be waiting.”

They promised to reinforce the house, to leave surveillance at night. It should have helped. But when the ADA left again, and the afternoon light fell long through the curtains, the house felt emptier than before, like something unseen had already crossed the threshold and stayed. Hana was napping. Dazai sat at the table, hands folded around his mug. His scent was steady again, layered with coffee and the faint warmth of their nest. Chuuya stood by the window, eyes tracing the paper hearts. One had slipped free entirely, drifting down to the wet pavement below. A single pink scrap in the street. 

The light thinned early that evening. A haze hung over the street, the kind that blurred lamps into small gold ghosts. Chuuya had spent the afternoon circling the edges of the house, checking latches, listening to the hum of the pipes, memorizing every creak the floor made. It was ordinary work, but it steadied him. Dazai had stayed downstairs, calm but alert, keeping Hana occupied with crayons and a stack of paper. Every so often he looked up, following the sound of Chuuya’s movements with the quiet precision of someone keeping count. By the time the knock came again, the room smelled of dinner and cooling tea. It was Kunikida, and behind him, Ranpo and Yosano. None of them looked surprised to be back. Chuuya ushered them inside, a low growl of weather building over the rooftops.

“We traced the residue from your window,” Kunikida said without preamble. “It wasn’t standard alloy. There’s a stabilising compound we’ve only seen in one place, tied to the same markings you saw on that delivery wrap.” He set a file on the table, careful not to disturb Hana’s drawings.

Ranpo leaned an elbow on the back of a chair. “It’s not just intimidation. Someone’s mapping your routines. The open window was a message. We can get this close.”

The words landed like a dropped coin. Dazai’s hand slipped instinctively to his stomach. Chuuya’s eyes flicked to him, a silent reassurance before turning back to the agents.

Yosano knelt briefly beside Dazai. “How’s your pulse?”

“Steady,” he said. Then, quieter, “For now.”

Kunikida closed the file. “We’ll post someone nearby tonight. But you’ll both need to stay in. Limit contact. Whoever’s testing the boundary wants you nervous.”

“We already are,” Chuuya muttered.

The group stayed only long enough to place a small sensor by the door and another in the kitchen window, unassuming devices that blinked once, then fell silent. When they left, the air seemed to fold in around the house again. Hana had fallen asleep on the couch, her fist still curled around a red crayon. Dazai gathered a blanket over her, smoothing her hair with trembling fingers. Chuuya watched the door long after it shut.

“They’ll keep an eye out,” he said.

Dazai nodded, but his eyes lingered on the file the ADA had left behind. The sigil sketch inside was faint, lines curling like smoke. “It’s familiar,” he murmured. “But I can’t place where I’ve seen it.”

“Don’t push yourself,” Chuuya said, softer now. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

Outside, the wind picked up, stirring the paper hearts against the window until they fluttered like tiny wings. Dazai’s scent edged sharper for a moment, worry, fear, something else beneath it, and Chuuya reached out, resting a steady hand at the small of his back.

“We’re alright,” he said, anchoring the words between them. “Tonight, no thinking about leads. Just this.”

Dazai leaned into him, eyes closing. The house settled around them; every sound, every shift of air, every flicker of light seemed amplified. Far off, a siren rose and fell. Then nothing.

It might have been hours later when Chuuya noticed it. The faint shimmer on the inside of the front window, a thin residue catching the light from the street lamps. When he rubbed it away with his thumb, it came off as dust, but beneath it, etched almost invisibly into the glass, was a small, precise mark. The same sigil. He stared at it for a long moment, the outline ghosted by the reflection of the paper hearts taped above. Then he turned off the lamp, letting darkness swallow the symbol. He didn’t wake Dazai up. Not yet. He just stood there, listening to the sound of their breathing in the next room, and waited for the night to settle again.

Chapter Text

The first light of morning hadn’t yet arrived; only the faint silver of the streetlamps pressed against the curtains. Chuuya hadn’t slept. He sat on the edge of the couch, the sigil still etched behind his eyelids, a pale thread burned into memory. The house made its small night noises, the tick of pipes, the soft rhythm of Hana’s breathing from down the hall. Every sound was a reminder that they were still here, still safe, for now.

He rose quietly and crossed to the bedroom. Dazai stirred the moment Chuuya touched his shoulder.

“…Something wrong?” The words came thick with sleep.

“Not wrong. Not yet.” Chuuya crouched beside him, voice kept low. “I found it again. On the window. The same mark.”

Dazai’s eyes opened fully at that, the faint gleam catching in them like light on water. “Inside or out?”

“Inside.”

A pause, soft but heavy. Dazai sat up slowly, pulling the blanket around his shoulders. Chuuya could feel the shift in him, the subtle spike, the instinctive pull of caution.

“Show me,” Dazai said.

They moved together down the hall. The house felt different in the blue-gray dark, every corner slightly altered, familiar yet edged. When Chuuya drew back the curtain, the mark was still there, thin and perfect, nearly invisible unless the angle was just right. Dazai leaned close, fingertips hovering over the glass.

“It’s deliberate,” he whispered. “Someone’s watching patterns, not boundaries.”

Chuuya’s jaw tightened. “They got inside to do this.”

“Or they did it before we ever checked.” Dazai’s hand dropped to his side, tremor slight but visible. “It’s meant to make you notice, make you doubt what you can protect.”

The words hit too close to the truth. Chuuya stepped in behind him, close enough that his scent filled the space between them, grounding, protective, an unspoken I’m here. He felt Dazai’s shoulders ease fractionally, tension bleeding out through slow breaths.

“We’ll handle it,” Chuuya said. “You and Hana stay close to the bedroom today. I’ll talk to Kunikida when the sun’s up.”

Dazai nodded, gaze still fixed on the faint lines of the sigil. “It’s not over.”

“No,” Chuuya said, steady. “But they don’t get to choose what happens next.”

He drew the curtain shut again. The room fell back into darkness, their reflections faint in the glass. Dazai’s head tipped against his shoulder, eyes closing, exhaustion overtaking the fear for a moment. Chuuya rested his hand at the back of Dazai’s neck, thumb tracing slow circles. The gesture wasn’t for comfort alone; it was promise, territory, anchor. The world outside might shift again come morning, but here, for now, everything held.

Morning light pushed through the curtains, a thin, colorless wash that made the kitchen feel both ordinary and exposed. Kunikida had already set up a folding table with the ADA’s portable instruments; glass fragments from the marked window rested on a white cloth. Ranpo leaned over them, chin propped in one hand, eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

“Whoever made this knew what they were doing,” he murmured. “See here? The etching isn’t just in the surface. It’s within the glass lattice. That takes precision, something meant for ability research or containment.”

Kunikida took notes, his expression sharp. “You’re thinking it’s connected to an experimental lab.”

“I’m thinking it’s someone who wanted to send a message in the language only a few people can read.” Ranpo adjusted the lamp, angling the light until a faint shimmer of metallic dust came into view. “This… it’s not standard. It reacts to ability residue. It used to be used to stabilize volatile subjects, people whose power turned against their bodies.”

Across the table, Chuuya went still.

The room carried on, the soft scrape of pens, Dazai pouring coffee, the faint sound of Hana playing in the living room, but for Chuuya the air thinned, each word striking something old and buried. The metallic dust gleamed like a heartbeat caught in glass. Ranpo glanced up, oblivious to the shift.

“Kunikida, we can trace the supply line. Only a handful of facilities had clearance to produce this.”

Kunikida nodded. “I’ll send inquiries to the research divisions and to the government archives. We might have another lead before noon.”

When they stepped away to make calls, Chuuya remained by the table, gaze fixed on the faint sigil. Dazai came to stand beside him, silent.

Chuuya’s voice, when it came, was low. “It’s the same stabilizer they used when they were trying to keep hosts alive.”

Dazai’s eyes shifted to him. “You’re sure?”

He gave a short, humorless breath. “There was a researcher. He specialized in those formulas, said he could make Arahabaki compatible. I thought the facility burned everything connected to him years ago.”

He didn’t say the name. He didn’t need to. Dazai recognized the look, something between realization and dread.

Ranpo called from across the room, breaking the silence. “There’s only one current laboratory that could reproduce this compound. It’s in the old port district. If we move fast, we might catch a trail before it goes cold.”

Kunikida was already packing up the equipment. “We’ll leave a team here for security. Chuuya, we could really use you.”

Chuuya hesitated, eyes flicking toward the hallway where Hana’s voice carried faintly. “Yeah,” he said finally, quiet but firm. “I’ll come.”

Dazai's hand brushed his sleeve, a small grounding gesture. The faint shimmer of the sigil caught the last of the morning light before fading completely from view, as if whoever made it had known the Agency would find it, and had wanted exactly this response.

Chapter Text

The old port had gone quiet years ago, after the government shut down the research blocks along the waterfront. What remained were long warehouses of corroded steel and broken glass, the smell of brine and oil thick in the wind. The ADA’s van rolled to a stop by the chain-link fence, its paint scoured pale by salt.

Kunikida stepped out first, scanning the perimeter. “No power to the main grid. Ranpo, take thermal.”

Ranpo adjusted his glasses, the lenses catching the overcast light. “Still faint heat signatures inside, three, maybe four. Could be residual from machinery, or someone who knows how to hide.”

Chuuya stood apart, gloves already on. His pulse thrummed under his collar, not from fear but from something old and familiar. He had forgotten how natural it felt to walk through threat like a scent trail. Dazai’s scent lingered faintly on his skin from that morning, grounding him, a tether against the growing edge inside. They moved in pairs. Ranpo with Kunikida, Chuuya with Yosano two steps behind him. Inside, the air was stale, heavy with dust and metal. Sunlight bled through shattered skylights, catching on suspended motes like drifting ash.

Ranpo’s voice echoed softly, “Someone’s been here recently. Look at the floor, tracks in the residue, small, light, but deliberate.”

Kunikida crouched near a fallen beam. “Could be the one who left the sigil.”

Chuuya knelt by the footprints, fingertips brushing the faint imprint. “He always wore the same boots,” he murmured, barely audible.

Kunikida’s head turned. “You know who we’re looking for?”

Chuuya didn’t answer immediately. The air tasted of rust and memory. “Professor N. I thought he died in the laboratory accident years ago.”

Ranpo’s voice sharpened. “Or he went underground.”

They advanced deeper, the floor slick with condensation. Equipment lay in rows, broken centrifuges, rusted tables, shattered containment tubes. And then, near the back, something newer; a clean workstation, polished metal gleaming under a single strip of working light. On the table lay the same alloy compound from the window sigil, scattered across sheets of paper dense with equations. At the center, an etched insignia, a spiral marked with a single wing.

Kunikida snapped a photo. “This symbol’s not in any known registry.”

Chuuya’s voice was tight. “It’s not meant to be. It’s his signature.”

A sound cut through the air. A drip, steady and rhythmic. Ranpo turned his head slowly toward the far corner where a curtain hung half-torn. Beneath it, something glimmered faintly in the dark. Chuuya moved first, pushing the curtain aside, revealing a long tank filled halfway with cloudy liquid. Suspended within, wires coiled around a frame that looked almost organic.

“Not human,” Kunikida muttered, eyes narrowing. “But not inert either.”

Ranpo leaned closer. “Ability residue embedded in the structure. Whatever he was building, it could replicate an ability’s energy. Maybe even mimic it.”

A chill crawled up Chuuya’s spine. “You mean he could reproduce ability effects, without the person.”

Ranpo nodded once. “Or with fragments of them.”

The realization hit like ice. Fragments. Not entire abilities, but traces, enough to recreate resonance signatures, to find people by scent, by bond, by instinct. Enough to reach them even in hiding.

The hum of the generator deepened, a soft mechanical growl beneath their feet. Kunikida swore and drew his gun. “We triggered something.”

The monitors flickered to life across the room, static bleeding into faint images; files, data, faces. For a brief second, one appeared clear enough to see. Dazai, pale and smiling, holding Hana in the kitchen window light. Then it dissolved into static. Chuuya’s body went rigid.

Ranpo’s tone changed completely, all humor gone. “This place isn’t abandoned.”

Lights shut off one by one.

***

The wind outside had picked up by late afternoon, a thin whistle through the cracks in the windows. Dazai tried to read in the living room, but his focus drifted constantly toward the quiet beyond the walls. Hana played on the rug, humming to herself as she arranged small paper hearts into a row. Every so often, Dazai’s instincts would flicker, small pulses in his chest, as if his body were listening for something it couldn’t name. His scent had changed subtly through the day, sharper, edged with anxiety he couldn’t hide from himself. The baby responded with faint flutters that came and went like an echo.

He pressed a hand to his abdomen, murmuring softly, “He’s fine. He’ll come home.”

But even as he said it, he glanced toward the door again. A knock startled both of them. Hana froze.

Before Dazai could move, Yosano’s voice called through the door. “Just us.”

He exhaled. She stepped in with Atsushi behind her, both carrying equipment.

“Kunikida wanted a more secure line set up here,” she explained. “You’ll get updates as soon as they have them.”

Dazai forced a smile. “Appreciated. Chuuya’s not one for sending texts when things get... complicated.”

Atsushi busied himself with the console. Hana climbed into Dazai’s lap, small hands reaching for his face.

“Papa’s coming home?” she asked.

“Always,” Dazai said, soft. “He promised, remember?”

Outside, the clouds thickened into a bruised sky. Somewhere beyond, the sea wind carried a metallic tang that made Dazai’s throat ache. He didn’t know why it felt familiar until he realized, it smelled faintly of old laboratories, the one Chuuya had once escaped. Yosano looked up from the monitor, frowning.

“Something’s interfering with the signal.”

Static rippled briefly through the console’s small screen. For a second, there was an image, dim light, glass tanks, and the outline of Chuuya’s back. Then the feed cut.

***

The dark pressed close. Emergency lights flickered to red. Kunikida moved toward the exit, radio in hand.

“We’ve been compromised. Possible live feed breach. Repeat, compromised.”

No answer.

Ranpo’s tone stayed measured. “If he’s alive, he’s watching from somewhere connected to this grid. He knows who was here. And who’s waiting at home.”

Chuuya’s breath came slow and steady, his instincts locked tight against panic. He scanned the room again. The monitors now glowed with shifting code. Among the static, a voice whispered faintly, metallic, distorted.

“You kept my prototype alive, Arahabaki. I only want what belongs to me.”

Every light in the lab went out at once. When they flared back to life, the tank was empty. The fluid spilled across the floor, still steaming. On the wall, the spiral sigil had been redrawn, larger, glowing faintly with internal light. And beneath it, scrawled in wet strokes of alloy dust, was a single line.

I see who you're protecting.

Chuuya’s breath caught, an old instinct rising from somewhere deeper than thought. It wasn’t just a message. It was recognition, something aware of his scent, of Dazai’s, of the fragile heartbeat that connected them.

Ranpo swore softly, eyes scanning the walls. “It’s live feed residue. He’s looking through something, maybe the old containment network.”

Kunikida’s jaw tightened. “Get the data and move. Now.”

Chuuya didn’t move at first. The glow from the sigil pulsed once, twice, almost like a heartbeat syncing to his own. He could feel the focus behind it, cold and deliberate, as if the space itself were being watched from behind glass. The metallic air made the back of his throat ache, the taste of danger bright and coppery on his tongue. When he finally turned away, the letters still gleamed faintly in the dark, dripping, alive, almost whispering to him.

Chapter Text

Kunikida was already commanding orders into his comm as the echo of that message lingered. “Ranpo, grab what you can. Chuuya, cover our exit.”

The air had gone sharp, thin with electricity. Chuuya stood between them and the pulsing sigil, every nerve alive. He could feel it, pressure brushing at the edge of his awareness, a low psychic hum that made the walls seem to breathe. Whatever had been inside the tank was gone, but the ability residue clung to the space like static. Ranpo packed samples quickly, his usual calm replaced by tight efficiency.

“He’s not just watching us,” he said. “He’s listening. This entire structure’s been retrofitted with sensory filaments. Think of it as one enormous nervous system.”

Kunikida muttered something under his breath and motioned for the exit. “Then we cut it off. Now.”

They moved fast down the narrow corridor, boots splashing through the streaks of liquid. Chuuya stayed last, senses straining. He could hear something faint behind the walls, a rhythm that almost matched his heartbeat, then slipped out of sync. As if something was learning it. He forced himself forward, jaw tight. Not here. Not now. Not when Dazai’s home with Hana. Outside, the sea wind tore at the broken siding of the warehouse. The ADA van waited with its engine running, Atsushi’s voice crackling faintly through the radio.

“No activity near the house. Dazai’s calm, Hana’s asleep. You’ve got time.”

Time. Chuuya hated the word, it always meant the opposite.

Ranpo sealed the evidence case, his expression unreadable. “He’s marking boundaries, Chuuya. Testing reaction distance. ‘I see what you protect’, that wasn’t a threat to your life. It was to your bond.”

Chuuya’s hands clenched. The memory of Dazai’s scent from that morning, warm, soft, edged with new life, hit him so strongly he had to look away from the sea. “Then he’s already too close.”

Kunikida checked his watch, eyes narrowing. “We’ll send this to the analysts. But we’re pulling double patrol on your street tonight. No exceptions.”

Ranpo nodded. “And if he’s been inside before, he’ll try again.”

Chuuya didn’t say anything. He stared out toward the distant lights of the city, the ache in his chest settling like gravity. Somewhere out there, Dazai was probably awake, feeling the same hum beneath his skin. He could almost sense the echo of it, like their bond was a thread stretched too thin between safety and distance.

***

Dazai felt it first as a vibration under the floorboards. Not a sound, exactly, more a change in pressure, like the moment before thunder. The house had been silent for hours. Hana slept upstairs, curled under her blanket with the pink paper hearts above her bed. He sat on the couch, a blanket around his shoulders, the low lamp flickering as if touched by static. For a while he told himself it was nothing. But the air tasted strange, metallic, faintly electric. He finally got up, walking barefoot into the kitchen. The lights overhead flickered once, twice, then steadied. Outside, the wind had picked up, carrying the tang of salt from the bay. It made the curtains move, the faint scent of Chuuya’s cologne drifting from the doorframe where he’d leaned that morning. A pang of instinct curled low in Dazai’s chest. His body was tuned to absence; he could feel when Chuuya was too far away. The pulse of that bond thinned, trembled, then steadied. He pressed a hand against the counter, grounding himself.

“Papa?”

Hana stood at the bottom of the stairs, hair mussed, clutching a paper heart.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he murmured, kneeling.

She shook her head. “The house was loud.”

He smiled softly. “That’s just the rain.”

But when he glanced to the window, he saw the reflection of the city lights flicker in a way that didn’t match the weather. The faint outline of something, maybe a symbol, maybe just a shadow, glimmered on the glass. He blinked, and it was gone. He picked Hana up, holding her close. Her small heartbeat pressed against his ribs, steady and warm. The instinctive part of him, the one that smelled faint warning, tightened protectively around that rhythm.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, voice low, steady. “I’ve got you.”

And still, somewhere beneath the floor, the faint hum continued.

***

By the time Chuuya reached the house, the sky had gone black. Rain slicked the pavement, reflecting the amber glow of streetlights. He killed the van’s engine before it pulled to a full stop, stepping out into the quiet. He didn’t need to knock. Dazai opened the door before he reached it. Neither spoke for a moment. Chuuya’s coat was wet, his hair plastered to his neck. Dazai’s hand came up, brushing the rain away from his jaw. The contact was small, but grounding, the kind that steadied everything too fragile to name.

“Are you okay?” Dazai asked softly.

“Could be worse.” Chuuya stepped inside, pulling him into a hug before the door even closed. 

Dazai’s body stilled. “You’re sure?”

Chuuya nodded once, jaw tight. “He left a message.”

Dazai drew back enough to look at him. “What kind?”

Chuuya’s eyes darkened. “He said, I see what you protect.”

For a heartbeat, Dazai said nothing. Then, quietly, “Then he’s watching even now.”

They both glanced toward the window, where the faint shimmer of city light reflected off the glass. Rain streaked down in long, trembling lines. Chuuya pressed a hand to the frame, scanning for residue. Nothing visible, but the air felt charged, the same metallic weight he’d noticed in the lab. He exhaled through his teeth. “I’m calling Kunikida to double the perimeter.”

Dazai caught his wrist. “Stay here first.”

Chuuya hesitated. The command wasn’t verbal, but he answered it anyway. He turned, meeting Dazai’s eyes, saw the fear barely hidden there, the fierce, quiet trust underneath it. “Okay,” he said softly.

Later, after Hana was asleep again and the lights were dimmed, Chuuya checked each lock twice. Dazai sat on the couch, blanket drawn around his shoulders, watching the rain. The world outside looked washed out, colorless. He’d just begun to relax when a faint sound came from the porch, so soft it could have been wind, except it had rhythm. Chuuya’s instincts snapped awake. He was at the door in two strides. Outside, nothing. The street was empty. But when he looked down, he saw it; a single trail of red alloy dust smeared across the step, forming the beginning of a spiral, unfinished, but unmistakable. It shimmered faintly in the rain. Behind him, Dazai’s voice came quiet but steady.

“Chuuya.”

“I know,” he said. His heartbeat pounded hard enough to hurt.

Lightning flickered across the distant water, illuminating the curve of the spiral for an instant before it dissolved under the rain, leaving only the scent of metal and the cold rain.

Chapter Text

The house was wrapped in a pale gray morning when Chuuya woke. Rain from the night before had left streaks along the windows, fine as threads of silver, and the air smelled faintly of wet earth and coffee grounds. The quiet didn’t feel natural yet; it was the sort of quiet that followed a storm, where silence only seemed heavy because something had been taken out of it. He rose before anyone else, moving barefoot through the kitchen, the floorboards cool under his feet. The kettle clicked softly to life, steam gathering in the narrow light. Outside, the city still seemed to hold its breath. There were people on the street again, but none lingered too long. Across the way, a car he didn’t recognize stopped for a few seconds before pulling off. Chuuya kept watching it until it was gone. When he turned back, Dazai was in the doorway, hair mussed, wrapped in a blanket. He looked like he hadn’t slept much.

“You’re up early,” Dazai murmured.

“Couldn’t stay still,” Chuuya said.

“That’s not new,” Dazai teased faintly, voice low, but there wasn’t much energy in it.

They didn’t speak for a while after that. Chuuya poured two mugs and slid one across the counter. Dazai took it with both hands, staring at the faint curl of steam. His scent, warm, faintly sweet, edged by fatigue, was all through the room. Chuuya felt the tightness in his chest loosen a little at the familiarity of it.

From upstairs came the soft thump of small footsteps, and then Hana’s voice, “Papa? Daddy?”

Dazai’s expression softened at once. Chuuya set his mug down and went to meet her on the stairs. She was holding the paper heart she’d taped to the window days before, one corner torn.

“It fell,” she said, lip trembling a little.

“We’ll put it back,” Chuuya promised, smoothing her hair.

The morning gathered around the three of them like something fragile but real. Dazai made breakfast with slow, careful movements; Chuuya kept glancing toward the windows and the locked front door. Every sound from the street made him tense first, listen second. Still, he forced himself to sit with them. Hana chattered about the pink hearts again, and Dazai’s hand brushed his across the table.

The afternoon passed in small pieces. Hana’s nap, Dazai drowsing beside her; Chuuya repairing the lock on the back door, the hum of the radio a faint, constant background. He caught himself standing still too often, listening for sounds that didn’t come. Once, a shadow moved outside and he almost drew his gun before realizing it was only a stray cat.

By evening, the rain had returned, softer now, just a hush against the eaves. Chuuya lit a lamp in the living room while Dazai read to Hana from one of her storybooks. His voice was slow and even, the kind that made her eyelids droop halfway through a page. Watching them, Chuuya felt that ache again, equal parts gratitude and fear. When the story ended and Hana was asleep, Dazai laid the book aside.

“She dreams easier when you’re in the room,” he murmured.

Chuuya brushed a strand of hair from his face. “So do you.”

Dazai smiled, soft and crooked. “You sound like you’re planning to watch me sleep all night.”

“Maybe I am.”

He meant it. Even after Dazai drifted off beside Hana, Chuuya stayed awake, sitting by the window. Outside, the streetlight flickered, casting slow pulses of amber across the rain. Every creak of the house drew his attention; every heartbeat of silence pressed harder against his ears. Yet, as the hours deepened, the quiet began to feel different, not safe exactly, but gentler. The kind that existed when danger hadn’t quite reached them yet. He turned back toward the couch, where Dazai and Hana slept close together, the blanket rising and falling in rhythm. Chuuya finally let himself breathe. The air carried the faint trace of Dazai’s scent, grounding him. He leaned back in the chair and watched the light fade to nothing. For the first time that day, he closed his eyes. The house held. The rain kept falling. And somewhere far away, whatever threat still lingered hadn’t yet found its way back to them. But Chuuya knew it would. He just didn’t know when.

Chapter Text

The house woke early, gray light diffused through thin curtains, the smell of coffee and metal in the air. Chuuya hadn’t slept much. Every creak of the floorboards had pulled him halfway upright through the night, instincts gnawing at the edge of rest. He’d taken the first hours of morning to walk the perimeter of the house, scanning the frost-damp yard, the faint indentation of tires at the curb, the faint shimmer of warding barriers Kunikida’s team had reinforced at dawn. The ADA had already begun their quiet occupation. Kunikida was methodical, moving from room to room with his notebook open and his glasses catching the morning glare. Ranpo sat cross-legged on the couch, eyes half-lidded but focused in that unnerving way that meant he was pulling entire histories out of every scuff mark and scent trace. Yosano had set up a small medical station by the kitchen table, her hand occasionally brushing Dazai’s wrist to check pulse or temperature, her gaze sharp enough to cut through the usual deflections. Chuuya stood near the window, arms folded, trying not to pace. The air had a static taste, his own, restrained. Every instinct told him to be between them all and his family, to carve the space into a safe perimeter by force if he had to. But Dazai had asked him to hold still. That meant something.

“Traces of something chemical,” Kunikida murmured, crouching near the doorframe. “No explosive residue. Something organic. Corrosive to a mild degree, but inert now.”

Ranpo’s eyes flicked up. “Experimental. Something that decays fast. Like whatever was in that tank we found that night.”

Dazai, sitting at the table with his hands wrapped around a mug, spoke softly, his voice still edged with sleep. “So it’s connected.”

“Too neatly to be coincidence,” Ranpo replied, tone almost lazy. “They wanted to leave a trail we could follow.”

“Or they wanted us to think we could,” Kunikida muttered.

Chuuya’s jaw tightened. “You found any direct prints? Anything we can trace?”

“Only partials,” Kunikida said. “They wiped most of it. Whoever this was, they knew what kind of cleanup we’d look for.”

Ranpo shifted, finally standing. “There’s a mark. Not on the door, under the step.”

Chuuya’s eyes snapped to him. “A mark?”

Ranpo crouched near the door, tapping the floorboard with a pen. The faint light caught something etched shallow into the wood, almost invisible without the right angle, spiral lines, intersecting in a way that made Chuuya’s stomach knot.

Yosano turned slightly, her voice quiet but edged. “That sigil again?”

“Not exactly,” Ranpo said. “Variation of it. Older, less refined. Maybe a prototype. But it’s the same hand.”

Kunikida straightened, frowning. “So it’s deliberate. They want us to see it.”

Chuuya’s pulse picked up. “They already came to my door once. They don’t need to announce themselves a second time.”

Ranpo’s smile was faint. “Oh, they do. They want you to know this is personal.”

The words hit harder than he expected. He felt Dazai’s gaze on him, soft and knowing, but he didn’t look back. Instead, he turned to the window again, jaw flexing. Outside, the sky was shifting from gray to pale blue, the faint sound of wind against the gutters.

“Ranpo,” Dazai said quietly, “what do you think it means?”

Ranpo shrugged one shoulder, eyes still sharp behind the lazy posture. “Could be a threat. Could be a breadcrumb. But it’s not random. It’s someone who knows how to manipulate patterns, and fear.”

Chuuya’s pulse thudded once, heavy. He could smell Dazai’s unease in the air, a faint change, warm and electric, triggering the part of him that wanted to pull him close and keep him there. Instead, he said tightly, “If it’s really him, this isn’t about revenge. It’s about experimentation.”

Kunikida’s expression hardened. “Then we’ll move fast. Ranpo, pull all data we have on N. Yosano, stay with them. I’ll organize surveillance teams for the perimeter.”

He paused, looking at Chuuya directly. “You’re staying here. You’re too close to this, and he's your priority now.”

Chuuya’s first instinct was to argue, but the weight of Dazai’s gaze silenced him. Dazai’s hand had gone unconsciously to his stomach again, protective, grounding. The message was clear. He nodded, quietly.

By late morning, the team had transformed the house into a controlled zone. Discreet sensors were fitted along the door frames, soft wards at each window, and one of Ranpo’s small devices pulsing quietly on the kitchen counter, a signal jammer disguised as a music box. The normal rhythms of the home bent under the shape of investigation; whispers in corners, soft beeps of scanners, the shuffle of evidence bags. Hana, kept mostly upstairs, peeked down the staircase once or twice. Dazai caught her and guided her back up gently, his voice steady even as his scent trembled with unease. When she asked what was happening, he told her the truth that wouldn’t frighten her, that their friends were making sure the house stayed safe.

By noon, the team gathered their notes, quiet and efficient. Kunikida checked the last readings, Ranpo flicked the light off his tablet, and Yosano gave Dazai a small nod of reassurance. Chuuya lingered by the door as they prepared to leave for the temporary command post nearby. The day outside had sharpened into sunlight, but the air still felt wrong, as though the light couldn’t quite touch the corners of the street. Ranpo stopped before leaving, looking back over his shoulder.

“He’s not done yet, Chuuya. Whatever he started back then, this is just the start.”

Chuuya’s hand tightened on the edge of the door. “Then we make sure it ends before it touches them again.”

Ranpo’s smile faded into something almost kind. “That’s what he’s counting on.”

The door closed softly behind them, leaving the hum of the house in their wake. Chuuya turned, finding Dazai watching him from the kitchen doorway, eyes calm but shadowed. The faint flicker of the wards caught between them like heartbeat light.