I Kissed My Hated Ex-Partner, Now I Have to Put My Life in His Hands

The first report landed on Mori Ougai’s desk with a soft thud that belied the violence detailed within its pages. A primary shipping container at Pier 4, filled with munitions from Europe, had been annihilated. Not just stolen, but utterly obliterated. The container itself was twisted into a grotesque sculpture of scrap metal, the contents vaporized. The guards, all seasoned Port Mafia enforcers, were dead, yet there were no bullet wounds, no signs of a conventional struggle. They were simply lifeless, sprawled on the concrete as if their souls had been plucked from their bodies. The attack was clean, impossibly fast, and absolute.

Simultaneously, across town, President Fukuzawa Yukichi of the Armed Detective Agency stared grimly at a similar report. One of their most reliable, deep-cover informants, a man who had survived for years feeding them information on various criminal syndicates, had been found in a nondescript safe house. Like the Mafia guards, he was dead without apparent cause. The room was undisturbed, save for a single, small golden token left on his chest—a hand with the palm facing up. The Agency’s preliminary analysis suggested the informant’s ability, a minor form of clairvoyance, had been neutralized just before his death.

The message was unambiguous. The new player, who the single gold token identified as "The Gilded Hand," was targeting both pillars of Yokohama’s underworld and overworld with equal impunity. They possessed a power that could seemingly bypass standard defenses and even negate other abilities. It was a declaration of war on the city's established order.

Within hours, an emergency summit was called. Mori and Fukuzawa met in a sterile, neutral room that felt colder than it was. The air was thick with years of rivalry and bloodshed, a fragile truce held together by mutual necessity.

"They are surgical," Fukuzawa stated, his voice level. He sat perfectly still, hands folded over his katana. "They knew our informant's location and his ability. This was an execution, designed to send a message."

Mori leaned back in his chair, tapping a gloved finger on the polished table. A faint, unnerving smile played on his lips, though his eyes were sharp and serious. "And our warehouse was not a robbery, but a demonstration of force. They destroyed millions in assets just to prove they could. They want to destabilize everything, to force us to react."

Both men knew the truth. Their individual organizations, powerful as they were, could not fight a war on two fronts: one against each other, and one against this new, ghost-like entity. A joint operation was the only logical, if distasteful, conclusion.

"Our standard teams will be ineffective if the enemy can neutralize abilities at will," Fukuzawa conceded, his brow furrowed.

"Precisely," Mori agreed, his smile widening slightly. He saw the path forward, the one unpleasant, chaotic, and devastatingly effective tool they shared. "This threat requires not a scalpel, but a bomb. An unpredictable, volatile force that thrives in the very chaos the enemy seeks to create."

Fukuzawa’s expression tightened. He knew exactly who Mori was referring to. The most powerful combination of abilities and strategic mayhem their city had ever produced. A partnership forged in blood and darkness, one he had personally dismantled by recruiting one of its halves.

"We need the Double Black," Mori said, the name hanging in the air like a death sentence. "We need Dazai-kun’s mind and Chuuya-kun’s power."

The safe house was a bland, forgettable apartment in the city's gray mid-sector. Chuuya didn't bother with the key he'd been given, instead shoving the door open with enough force to make it slam against the interior wall. His temper, already simmering since Mori had given him the order, was beginning to boil. The thought of being chained to Dazai again, even temporarily, was a unique form of torture he thought he’d escaped four years ago.

And there he was.

Dazai was sprawled languidly on a cheap beige sofa as if he owned the place, one long, bandaged arm draped over the back and his head tilted up at the ceiling. He was humming a cheerful, off-key tune. He didn't even look over as Chuuya entered, the sound of the slamming door having elicited no reaction.

"Ah, Chuuya! I was wondering when they'd let you off your leash," Dazai said, his voice laced with that infuriating, lighthearted mockery. He finally turned his head, a wide, empty smile on his face. "Did you get lost on the way here? The building must have looked so tall from your perspective."

"Shut up, you suicidal maniac," Chuuya snarled, his gloved hands clenching into fists at his sides. He slammed the door shut behind him, the sound echoing in the small room. "Of all the worthless bastards in this city, it had to be you. I'd rather be partnered with a slug."

"A slug would probably be taller," Dazai mused, sitting up. He swung his legs off the couch and stood, his height advantage immediately apparent and, Chuuya knew, entirely deliberate. He sauntered over, circling Chuuya like a predator examining his prey. "And that hat. Really? Still with the ridiculous hat? I'm almost impressed by your commitment to terrible fashion. Is it glued on?"

Dazai’s hand darted out, impossibly fast, aiming to flick the brim of the fedora. Chuuya reacted just as quickly, swatting his hand away with a sharp smack.

"Don't touch me, you bandage-wasting bastard."

"So aggressive," Dazai sighed, feigning disappointment. He took a step back, his smile never faltering, but his eyes were sharp, analytical. He was taking in Chuuya's rigid posture, the fury burning in his blue eyes, the raw power that seemed to vibrate just under his skin. Good, Dazai thought, the cheerfulness a thin veneer over his cold calculations. He's angry. He's predictable. I'll need that power, and his rage is the simplest key to unlocking it.

"I can't believe Mori agreed to this," Chuuya spat, his voice low and tight with contempt. "Letting a traitor back into the fold, even for a day. You'll probably sell us out for a chance to have a beautiful woman commit double suicide with you."

"Now that's an idea!" Dazai chirped, clapping his hands together. "But alas, I'm on the Agency's time. For now, you're the only ugly dog I'm stuck with."

The air between them was thick with four years of resentment and a decade of shared history. Their insults were a well-worn rhythm, a language of its own that masked the unnerving truth: no one knew Dazai's weaknesses like Chuuya, and no one could direct Chuuya's strength like Dazai. They stood facing each other in the silent apartment, a bomb and its detonator, forced together once more.

A thick manila envelope lay on the coffee table between them, a stark and unwelcome presence. Dazai gestured to it with a lazy wave of his hand. "Our homework. Fresh from the top brass. Don't get your grubby little gloves all over it."

Chuuya ignored the jibe, snatching the envelope and tearing it open. He pulled out a stack of glossy photographs and reports, his expression hardening as he sifted through them. Images of the obliterated shipping container. Autopsy reports for the Mafia guards, all listing 'cause of death undetermined'. A close-up of the golden hand token. He scanned the preliminary analysis from the Agency's analysts, his eyes narrowing at the key phrase: ability disruption field.

"So they can just turn us off," Chuuya said, his voice a low growl. He tossed the file back onto the table. "Simple. We find their base of operations, I'll level it before they know what's happening. Mission over."

Dazai let out a theatrical laugh, high and hollow. "Oh, Chuuya, you really are just a walking sledgehammer, aren't you? So beautifully simple-minded. You'd charge right in, they'd flip their little switch, and suddenly you're just a short, angry man in a stupid hat with no gravity to manipulate. They'd probably just step on you."

"And your plan is what?" Chuuya shot back, stepping closer, his body taut with irritation. "Sit here and compose a poem about the beauty of a painless death until they come knocking on our door?"

"We don't know the range of their ability, its duration, or its trigger," Dazai said, his tone shifting, losing its teasing edge and becoming sharp, clinical. "Running in blind is suicide. Not the fun kind." He began to pace, his long coat swirling around his ankles. "They hit the Mafia's muscle and the Agency's intelligence. They're making a statement. They're not just strong; they're smart. They're baiting a rash, emotional response."

"So we give them a tactical one," Chuuya countered, his mind already working past the anger, falling into the familiar cadence of strategy. "They have to have a source of income. We investigate their financials, find their money man, and squeeze him until he gives up a location."

"Too slow," Dazai said, not even looking at him. "And they'd expect it. They've proven they can get to our informants. Any financial backer would be just as protected, or already a trap. They're expecting us to look for their past, for their foundation." He stopped pacing and turned to face Chuuya, a strange intensity in his dark eyes. "We shouldn't be looking at where they've been. We need to figure out where they're going next."

Chuuya stared at him, the gears clicking into place. The pieces of Dazai's logic settled over his own tactical instincts, a perfect, infuriating fit. "Power. Intelligence…"

"...The next piece is wealth," Dazai finished, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not a slow bleed of their finances, but a public statement. A high-profile target. Something that shows they can take whatever they want, from whoever they want."

A tense silence filled the room. The bickering had evaporated, replaced by the chillingly effective hum of two minds that were designed to work in tandem. They hadn't agreed on a plan. They had simply arrived at the same conclusion from opposite directions, their thoughts meeting in the middle with an unnerving, magnetic pull. They were a weapon, and they had just armed themselves.