blood money || YANDERE!Chuuya Nakahara

One: The Librarian.

The library is a mystic place.

The library is filled with a myriad of people and books; from studying to casually reading to borrowing books. The library is filled with a plethora of books, each hiding the secretive answer that a question should have. The library is mysterious, calm, and quiet.

This is the place you work at.

You're typing in the numbers into the back of the book into a database as someone uses the self checkout machine. It doesn't work, to their dismay, and they're resorted to manually putting the book on your counter.

"Excuse me," She says, "Can I borrow this book?"

You look up from the computer and smile, "Of course." You scan the book, watch the title, number, and author name pop up, as well as the library card it is to be borrowed under. You authorise the borrowing before gently slapping a hand on the cover of the book.

"Done," You say, pushing it towards her, "You're all set to go now."

"Thank you!" She says, slotting the book into her tote back before walking outside. You watch her go with a smile, before turning back to your work.

You admit, the work that you do here is mundane; boring, even. Typing in numbers, organising books into shelves, making sure that no one was eating or drinking in the library (you had a soft spot for students, though); it was all yawn-inducing work. It was the only job you could get without a hefty pile of personal documents, anyways. The pay is miserable to say the least, but at least you're working.

At least.

At least you're not in the Port Mafia again, that is. The work at the Mafia was soul-consuming and done in complete darkness. You could close your eyes and watch it replay in the blackness of your eyelids like a movie, helpless to the perils and deaths witnessed in the past. You'd argue it's good old-fashioned post traumatic stress, but you're no psychiatrist. It would be a good guess, though. In a sense, you're the one who did all of what you did: you did it yourself. No one had forced your hand when you pulled the trigger—

"Hello?" A man waves a hand in front of your face. You shake your head and look up.

"Oh, I'm terribly sor—Dazai?"

"In the flesh," He says, grinning.

"What're you doing here?" You stand up from your chair and lead him outside of the library by the elbow. He doesn't relent. Multiple stare at you as he chuckles loudly when you drag him outside and through the open doors.

"I just wanted to see how my acquaintance was doing!" He says, as cheerful as ever. This version of Dazai was, to you, unsettling; it was almost as if he had carefully constructed and tailored a human suit, and was fitting it on himself like a glove. Most people brushed off his suicidal existance as idioscyncracy; but to you, you knew that it came from his core. His deep, dark core. You had seen this deep dark core as his skin in the past, and it was raw as a newly inflicted wound; he bore no light in his gaze back then, only an eerie darkness that would have sent one into a spiral of fear if they came too close. That was the extent of this man's depravity; and he knew that you knew that.

After all, you two were accomplices at some point in your life.

"Don't lie; you need something from me, don't you?" You deadpan. He puts a hand to his chest in faux pain.

"Oh, a beautiful lady—"

"None of that, please," You politely cut him off. He sighs.

"How'd you know?" He asks.

"You only come to me when you need a favour," You say, "You don't want to see any affiliations of what we were in the past anymore. So, what is it?"

"As perceptive as ever, (last name)," He smirks, his gaze darkening. You could see hints of his Mafioso self come out like something lurking under a murky water lake, something about to break the surface but not quite. It was filled with suspense, just to watch his face ripple and change like shadows to the sunlight. "I need something from you."

"What is it?"

"Well, for one..."

XX

"You want me," You point to your chest. "To go back into the Mafia for some intellect?"

"Pretty much," Dazai replies. "There's been—"

"I refuse," Your voice is steely, cold, unforgiving. "You know how I was in the Mafia. I refuse to go back to such a place."

He sighs, "I knew you'd say that. As for myself, I'm in the same position as you."

"What intellect do you guys need anyways?" You cross your arms. He winks.

"See now, I can't tell you that. Agency confidential information," He says.

"Then why...You know what, sure," You give up, "Keep it to yourself then."

"I will," He concludes, then waves at you, "Well, it was nice seeing you then, (Last name). Goodbye."

"Bye." You wave at him back, with less vigour than him. His coat sways like a pendulum as he walks away from you, like a tongue, licking up time. That man was strangely timeless; he lacked the temporal shading that normal people had that denoted change; though you knew Dazai was a different person than he was in the mafia, there was something fundamentally indifferent to the person he is and was. It was a strange phenomenon to experience, as someone who had seen both sides.

You put a hand to your forehead: lukewarm. No fever. You sigh, dropping your hand to your side before walking back into the library.

You need a coffee. Or even better, a whisky.