I Sacrificed Myself For My Hated Rival, And He Claimed Me With A Desperate Kiss

It began with a scream. Not the kind born of simple fear or pain, but a sound of utter violation, of something essential being torn away. In a back alley slick with refuse and evening dew, a low-level Port Mafia enforcer, gifted with the ability to harden his skin to the consistency of steel, suddenly convulsed. His power, his shield for a decade, turned on him. The steel-like quality did not vanish; it inverted, growing inward, crushing bone and organ under its relentless pressure. He was dead before his body hit the grimy cobblestones.

They called the new threat "The Weaver." The name, whispered first in the Mafia’s interrogation rooms and later in the hushed offices of the Armed Detective Agency, was terrifyingly apt. The Weaver did not nullify abilities like Dazai. They unraveled them. They found the invisible thread that bound a person to their gift and severed it with surgical precision. The resulting backlash was always violent, the power turning on its wielder in a final, agonizing betrayal.

Within a week, Yokohama was bleeding. The Port Mafia lost a dozen of its gifted soldiers, their abilities—pyrokinesis, teleportation, manipulation of metal—becoming their instruments of death. The Agency was not spared. During a reconnaissance mission, Kenji’s superhuman strength suddenly turned brittle, the force he exerted to lift a car causing hairline fractures to spiderweb up his own arms. He had collapsed, screaming not from the pain, but from the alien feeling of his own body breaking under a power that was supposed to be his. He was out of commission indefinitely.

The pattern was undeniable. The Weaver only struck groups. An entire squad from the Black Lizard was incapacitated when their abilities were turned against each other in a chaotic, fatal cascade. It became clear that any team sent after The Weaver was simply a collection of weapons being handed to the enemy.

This reality led to the most improbable of meetings. In a sterile, soundproofed room deep in the heart of the Port Mafia’s territory, Mori Ougai sat opposite Dazai Osamu. There was no pretense, no sinister cheerfulness from Mori, no glib suicide jokes from Dazai. The air was cold with the gravity of their shared problem.

“Our methods are ineffective,” Mori stated, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Every team we deploy is dismantled. The losses are becoming… problematic.”

Dazai stared at a point on the polished table, his expression unreadable. “The Weaver’s ability requires focus. A single, concentrated effort to locate and cut the thread. They can’t do it to two people at once. Not if the attack is perfectly synchronized.”

Mori’s eyes, sharp and intelligent, narrowed slightly. “A two-person team.”

“One with such overwhelming offensive power that The Weaver has no time to choose a target,” Dazai continued, his voice flat. “A dual assault. A pincer movement of pure, destructive force that strikes as a single entity.”

A long silence stretched between them, filled only with the hum of the building’s ventilation. The leaders of Yokohama’s light and shadow, two men who had spent years as adversaries, were in complete agreement. The logic was inescapable.

“Very well,” Mori said, the words precise and devoid of emotion. “My Akutagawa-kun has the necessary destructive capability.”

Dazai did not smile. He simply nodded, his gaze finally lifting to meet Mori’s. “And I have the Jinko.”

“Atsushi-kun, a moment.”

Dazai’s voice cut through the low hum of the Armed Detective Agency office. He was perched on the edge of his desk, an unusual seriousness in his expression that immediately put Atsushi on edge. Kunikida stood beside him, arms crossed, his brow furrowed so deeply it looked as though it were carved from stone. The atmosphere was heavy, a stark contrast to the usual controlled chaos.

Atsushi walked over, his hands clasped nervously in front of him. “What is it, Dazai-san?”

“We have a plan to deal with The Weaver,” Dazai said, his tone leaving no room for his usual theatrics. “A new temporary unit is being formed for this specific mission.”

Atsushi felt a flicker of relief. A plan was good. A plan meant they could stop people from dying. “Okay. Who’s on the team?”

Dazai’s gaze was direct, unwavering. “You. And Akutagawa Ryunosuke.”

The name landed like a physical blow. For a second, the air left Atsushi’s lungs, and the office around him seemed to tilt on its axis. A cold dread, sharp and familiar, coiled in his stomach. He could feel the phantom pain in his leg, the one Akutagawa had ripped from his body without a second thought. He saw the cold, dead light in Akutagawa’s eyes, heard the rasp of his murderous cough.

“No,” Atsushi said, the word coming out sharper, louder than he intended. “Absolutely not. You can’t be serious. He’s a killer. He’s Port Mafia. I can’t—I won’t work with him.”

“Your personal feelings are irrelevant in the face of a city-wide crisis, Weretiger!” Kunikida snapped, his voice tight with strain. “Kenji is in the infirmary because we underestimated this threat!”

“I know that!” Atsushi retorted, his voice rising with a frantic energy. “But it’s not about my feelings! It’s about trust! How can I fight alongside someone who has tried to kill me and Kyouka-chan multiple times? He’ll stab me in the back the first chance he gets!”

“He won’t,” Dazai said calmly, his voice slicing through Atsushi’s panic. The certainty in his tone was absolute, and it was more unsettling than Kunikida’s anger. “Because his goal, for now, is the same as ours: survival. The Weaver is a threat to the Port Mafia’s power structure. Mori-san wants them eliminated as much as we do.”

Dazai slid off the desk and took a step closer, lowering his voice. “Listen, Atsushi-kun. The Weaver’s ability is precise. It targets one person at a time. A team is a liability, but a perfectly synchronized duo is a weapon. You and Akutagawa, your abilities… they resonate. A simultaneous attack from Rashomon and the Beast Beneath the Moonlight will overwhelm The Weaver before they can even choose a target. It’s the only strategy that has a chance of working.”

The cold, hard logic of it was a cage closing around him. He looked from Dazai’s impassive face to Kunikida’s grim one. They weren’t asking him. They were telling him. The weight of Kenji in the infirmary, of the faceless victims, of the entire city holding its breath, pressed down on him. His hatred for Akutagawa was a burning, righteous thing, but it was a personal fire. This was an inferno threatening to consume everyone.

Atsushi’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He squeezed his eyes shut, the image of Akutagawa’s black coat and furious eyes burning behind his lids. He hated this. He hated the powerlessness, the feeling of being a pawn in one of Dazai’s grand, inscrutable plans. But he couldn’t say no. He couldn’t be the reason more people got hurt.

He let out a shaky breath and opened his eyes. “Fine,” he mumbled, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. “I’ll do it.”

The rain had stopped, but the night air was heavy with the smell of wet asphalt and ozone. Each step Atsushi took up the final metal staircase echoed with a finality he despised. When he pushed open the heavy door to the roof, the sprawling, glittering expanse of Yokohama greeted him, its beauty a mocking counterpoint to the ugliness of his mission.

He was already there.

Akutagawa stood near the opposite edge of the roof, a stark, black figure against the city’s neon glow. He hadn’t turned, but Atsushi knew, with a certainty that made the hairs on his arms stand up, that Akutagawa had been aware of his approach for the last five minutes. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the distant hum of traffic.

Finally, Akutagawa spoke, his voice low and contemptuous, not even bothering to look at him. “You’re late, Jinko. Did you get lost on your way from the kennel?”

Atsushi’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I had to be briefed by someone who doesn’t communicate exclusively through murder.”

That earned him a slow turn. Akutagawa’s face was pale in the ambient light, his eyes dark pits of disdain. He gave a small, dry cough into his hand, a sound that grated on Atsushi’s nerves. “Your sentimentality is a weakness. It will get you killed. It is a liability I am now forced to endure.”

“And your cruelty is a sickness,” Atsushi shot back, taking a step forward onto the slick surface of the roof. “You think killing is the only answer to every problem. You enjoy it. Don’t pretend this is anything other than an excuse for you to hurt more people.”

“I am effective,” Akutagawa stated, the words sharp as broken glass. “Something your agency of do-gooders seems to forget. Results are all that matter. Dazai-san understands this. It is why he approved this partnership. It is why he chose me.”

The mention of Dazai’s name was a deliberate jab, and it landed perfectly. A hot spike of resentment flared in Atsushi’s chest. Before he could form a reply, however, Akutagawa moved. He reached into his long black coat and pulled out a folded, slightly damp piece of paper, tossing it onto the roof between them. It skidded across the wet surface and stopped near Atsushi’s feet.

“What is this?” Atsushi asked, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Intel,” Akutagawa said, his tone flat. “The Weaver is using a defunct shipping company as a front. Their next point of contact is a man named Hirai. He will be at the docks in two days to receive payment. The information was… difficult to extract from his last associate.” A thin, cruel smile touched Akutagawa’s lips, and Atsushi felt a wave of nausea. He didn’t need to ask what had happened to the associate. He could guess.

He stared at the paper, then back at the unwavering, intense gaze of the man who was now his partner. The proof of Akutagawa’s commitment to the mission was lying there, a piece of paper likely paid for in blood. It was horrifying. It was also undeniably useful. A knot of cold, hard pragmatism formed in Atsushi’s stomach, pushing aside the heat of his anger. For now, the rabid dog was pointing his teeth in the right direction. For now, their goals were sickeningly, perfectly aligned.