Generations of Rain || Dazai Osamu/Reader

23: stray dogs.

They tie you down onto a chair with thick rope, rope that would have been used to anchor ships to the dock, in an abandoned warehouse.

Their voices echo on the metal walls. Your temple is accompanied by the metal nose of a gun, nudging against your skin as though kissing it. You flinch at the coldness at every movement. Your breathing is coming out in shallow breaths, as if you were afraid to inhale the cigar smoke one of your assailants were smoking.

"Y'know," One of them begins. "One of our members got shot in the subway. You know anything about that?"

You remain silent, focusing your gaze on the floor. You flinch when the barrel of the gun smashes against your head. Your world blurs into black and white in shock.

"Answer boss." He orders.

"No," You say, quietly. He breathes out the cigar smoke. A mouthful of wispy grey. He looks at you with animal eyes, animal hungry, piercing you down like a pin to a preserved butterfly, down to your delicate animal bones.

"Funny, 'cuz you were the one we were looking for," He flicks his cigar and stamps on it. He's sitting on a chair opposite you, and rests his elbows on his thighs as he nears his head towards you. You can smell his cologne, smeared with smoke, radiating off him. The geiger counter of panic goes off in your head. "Your ass was saved by the Armed Detective Agency. Too bad they're not here!"

He roars a rough laugh, scarred from tobacco. You were near tears, your eyes moist with human tears. But you had a third eye, in the middle of your forehead. It did not cry human tears: it saw. And behind it was someone saying: I will get you back for this. I don't care how long it takes or how much shit I have to eat in the meantime, but I will do it.

But you were scared, as all cornered animals are. The powerless have a seductiveness to those with power. Your shoulders were tensed up, hands clammy with sweat behind your back. The ropes were beginning to dig into your skin through the thin shirt; they would leave marks, for sure.

"They won't find us here," He barks. "We have no need for plans. Other than toying with you like a lil stuffie, of course." He lecherously smears his eyes down your chest, greedily taking in the sight of your body. You squirm uncomfortably. "They won't ever find us."

"How can you be so sure of that?" You ask. Your voice is shaking, but your eyes contain a certain power in it, silence and stillness.

"Because I simply am," He says, leaning back on the chair. He lowered his sunglasses so he could stare at you more clearly, like a wolf staring into Red Riding Hood's face. "The Armed Agency will simply chirp like a baby bird in despair over your gruesome death. They'll find you mangled and shredded beyond belief."

"Killing me won't bring back your dead leader." You blurt out. Then his eyes darken, and the gun on your temple presses down even harder, and his lips turn downwards into a scowl.

"You think I don't know that?" He snarls. "But it'll do us some good: revenge is best served warm, on a bloody platter, for the Agency to find."

His eyes contained a distilled evil. It was like staring into the eyes of a great white shark: unblinking, devoid of any emotion whatsoever, and murky black like freshly burnt coal.

You look away from him and inspect your surroundings. The door was one of those vaulted doors that they used in banks. It looked as though even a bomb wouldn't tickle it. There were craters and boxes tucked away against the walls, with silken white webs of spiders draped over the ceiling corners. The repressed air within the warehouse was filled with the blue-grey haze that often appears once the cigar or cigarette has been stamped out. The lightbulb above flickered as though unsure of its own vitality.