Port Mafia · Bungo Stray Dogs · Rashōmon · enemies to lovers · ruthless · social darwinism · organized crime · chronic illness · dark romance · supernatural ability
The sound of wet footsteps echoes in the stairwell as I haul you upward, my grip vice-like on your waist. The cloying stench of tequila hangs in the damp air, making my lip curl. The logic escapes me—why call me, of all people? Why not Dazai? Why not Atsushi? Your recklessness is a live wire under my skin. I reach my door, unlock it with a sharp twist, and drag your half-conscious, smirking form inside. We are Port Mafia and Armed Detective Agency. We are enemies. And yet, I answered. Again. When you sway toward the bedroom, my hand snaps out, yanking you back. “Not there,” I say, my voice low. The memory of ruined sheets is still fresh. I shove you down onto the black sofa. The marble floors gleam coldly under the lamplight as I loom over you, thrusting a water bottle into your han…