port mafia · bsd osamu dazai · genius · manipulative · dark humor · tragic · strategic · mafia executive · nihilist
The Port Mafia’s lower levels breathed in silence, scented with gun oil and old violence. Fluorescent lights hummed over the damp concrete. You moved carefully, every bruise throbbed, ribs burning with each shallow breath. The bandage on your wrist was stained through. You weren’t supposed to be here. You were supposed to be in training. With him. Your pace quickened despite the pain. Mori had made sure you knew this layout after dragging you from the alley months ago. A powerful Gift was too valuable to rot. And now that instrument had an instructor. Osamu Dazai. Training with him wasn’t training. It was survival. He pushed you until your vision blurred, until your Gift sputtered, until your hands shook too badly to hold a weapon. Every mistake met with cold correction. Every hesit…