The following year, in April.
Ding-dong—
The crisp chime of a bell rang out, accompanied by the sound of a door opening.
From a bakery on the street corner, one that exuded the warm, sweet fragrance of freshly baked bread, a black-haired young man stepped outside, his appearance that of an ordinary office worker.
And yet, compared to the average wage slave worn down by daily life, his features were far too striking. His suit fit his frame perfectly, clean and elegant, devoid of any visible branding—a piece of private tailoring. If not for the calm, assured air of an elite professional about him, and if not for the fact that the watch on his wrist was not a flashy, ostentatiously expensive luxury piece but a restrained, practical business watch, one might easily have mistaken his profession for that of a host.
Asou Akiya held a paper bag in his arms, filled with freshly baked croissants and baguettes. He was careful not to let the bread brush against his high-end suit, and because of his good mood, his black-onyx eyes narrowed slightly with a quiet smile.
He had just placed an order for a cake—a tangerine-flavored fruit cake shaped like a cat. In his heart, every adorable child was a kitten rather than a puppy, and Chuuya, with his unmistakably orange hair, was the most textbook example of all.
In a few days, Nakahara Chuuya would be turning nine.
"Perfect timing. I'm free at noon," Asou Akiya thought as he walked. "I'll bring some bread home for Randou. He can't really chew baguettes, but they're quite good when soaked."
During his lunch break, preparing to return home to see his lover, Asou Akiya felt no sense of hardship at all.
He had ridden over in a colleague's car to one of Yokohama's most well-reviewed bakeries, and now planned to walk home at a leisurely pace.
Passing by several shops shuttered tight and closed for business, he cast a slight glance to the side. A gentle smile hung at the corners of his lips, masking the joy he felt at the thought of seeing his lover again and celebrating his child's birthday.
Japan had lost the war, and Yokohama had become a city occupied by armed forces from multiple nations—a true "lawless zone."
Unemployment had soared.
Families torn apart, wives separated from husbands, homes reduced to nothing—such tragedies were far from rare.
The city's level of chaos remained dangerously high. Countless criminals had slipped in under the cover of disorder, stirring up waves of violence and bloodshed. Even though the Battle of Standard Island had long since ended, and Japan had paid its reparations, Yokohama looked no different from a city still at war.
The military police and coastal guard had all but lost their effectiveness, overwhelmed and running in circles. At times, they were less useful than Yokohama's municipal police—or even the mafia.
Well… he'd accidentally spoken a blunt truth again.
The Port Mafia really was a "fine" organization when it came to maintaining peace and stability, easily rivaling that other anime's Italian mafia* that made a habit of saving the world.
*{Note: He was talking about the Vongola Famiglia from Katekyou Hitman Reborn.}
"To be alive in an era like this," Asou Akiya thought to himself in silence, "is truly unfortunate."
Fortunately, he was no longer the same person he had been a year ago.
Because he had successfully "predicted" the outbreak of war and the chaos that would engulf Yokohama, and had planned well in advance to secure considerable benefits for the Port Mafia, the Boss—who valued talent above all else—had taken him in as a trusted confidant and personally cultivated him. Violence was merely one means by which the mafia seized profit; if someone's intellect could achieve the same results, then such a person was no less valuable than an outstanding ability user.
After the organization spared no effort in training him, Asou Akiya's hand-to-hand combat skills had barely reached the lower-middle tier by mafia standards, his marksmanship had passed muster, and his ability to protect himself was more than sufficient. At the very least, he would no longer be taken out easily by an enemy.
Of course, this so-called "lower-middle tier" was in no way comparable to Dazai Osamu's.
Without drawing attention to himself, Asou Akiya subtly avoided the crowds and shifted his gaze toward a corner, where he discovered a foreigner tailing him. His mind began to calculate calmly: which country the man belonged to, whether he had any backing, and whether he was worth killing.
Since his status within the Port Mafia had risen, the number of people keeping an eye on him had increased as well.
An operative from a rival organization?
A lone criminal?
Or perhaps an Englishman whose "cooperation" he had ruined, coming a year late to seek revenge?
He turned into a secluded alley. Yokohama's dark backstreets, true to their reputation as hotspots for trouble, bore the weight of most of the city's crime. Five minutes later, he emerged again with an expression as though nothing at all had happened. Beneath his suit jacket, the barrel of his gun was still warm; the bloodstains that had splattered onto his leather shoes had been wiped clean, and the used tissues had been tossed into a trash bin.
If no one provokes me, I won't provoke anyone.
Within the mafia, this principle might once have been seen as weak or easily exploited, but no one dared to underestimate it anymore.
By frequently remaining at the Port Mafia boss's side, Asou Akiya's growth had become visible to the naked eye, and his methods had grown increasingly clean and decisive. Within the organization, he worked diligently and conscientiously, treating his colleagues with gentle courtesy and never raising his voice in anger. Toward enemies outside, however, he showed not a trace of mercy. As a result, his reputation within the organization had turned out to be unexpectedly good.
—A consummate double-faced man.
Asou Akiya shed the persona he wore outside the home the moment he returned. He changed his shoes, set the bread down on the dining table, washed his hands thoroughly, and made sure there were no lingering odors or suspicious traces left on his body before heading toward the study.
He knocked lightly on the study door. Before he could even open it himself, Randou abandoned his half-formed inspiration and rushed out.
"You're home already? Haven't you been busy lately?" Randou asked.
"Being busy is not an excuse," Asou Akiya replied.
He rejected one of the most common lines heard in countless households and, following European custom, kissed Randou on both cheeks, wordlessly expressing how much he had missed him during the long morning apart.
He kept his lover safely tucked away in the rear, protecting him every second of every day, and finding deep happiness in doing so.
"I miss you," he said softly. "No matter what, I'll always find a way to see you."
"Akiya…"
Randou's lips immediately curved upward in a smile.
Leaning casually against the doorframe, Asou Akiya struck a handsome pose, yet what he said next was the most down-to-earth of domestic questions: "Randou, what would you like for lunch—pasta or steak? Borscht, or corn chowder?"
"Anything is fine," Randou answered without hesitation. "Whatever Akiya eats, I'll eat too."
As if he were that easy to please.
Seeing straight through Randou's habitual "anything," Asou Akiya considered the recent meal plans and chose a mildly sweet pasta paired with a savory-sweet corn chowder—simple enough to prepare. Randou was not particularly fond of sweets; he could handle sour, sweet, and spicy flavors alike, but that was only in comparison to European heavy dessert lovers, for whom sweetness was practically a way of life.
On January tenth at the beginning of the year, Randou and Asou Akiya celebrated a birthday together. As for his age, Randou felt that he ought to be a little younger than Akiya, and so he chose twenty-one.
Taking advantage of the chaotic era, when warlords from multiple nations were entrenched everywhere, Asou Akiya went to great lengths trying to procure a false identity for him. In the process, he made contact with intelligence brokers, and because he was unfamiliar with the industry's unwritten rules, he nearly fell victim to being double-crossed. He suffered only superficial injuries from the incident, yet when he returned to work, he was mocked by his own organization's boss, who teased him for not knowing how to make proper use of the resources at his disposal. In the end, at a single word from the Port Mafia boss, it was the Port Mafia itself that handled the paperwork and arranged a brand-new identity for Randou.
Name: Randou.
Gender: Male.
Age: Twenty-one.
A foreigner who had immigrated from France to Japan earlier this year.
Randou was finally freed from the awkward status of being an undocumented resident.
The only person who knew that he was a victim of the Yokohama Foreign Settlement bombing, that he had lost his memories, did not wish to return to his home country, and had already been lovers with Asou Akiya before all of this, was the Port Mafia boss.
Japan was a country with a highly developed culture and entertainment industry, yet it was not particularly open when it came to same-sex relationships. Things that could be indulged in privately were rarely brought into the open, and the Port Mafia boss chose to turn a blind eye—neither opposing nor supporting, simply covering the matter up. Such an approach was more than enough to mark him as a clear-headed and prudent leader.
After lunch, Asou Akiya had to leave for work. As Randou saw him to the door, he failed to spot Akiya's usual business car and asked in confusion, "Where's your car?"
"A vehicle's trail is too conspicuous," Asou Akiya replied. "It's not convenient for staying hidden."
He would never bring danger back home, nor would he treat Randou like a caged canary. Any information that needed to be shared, he would never conceal, so as to prevent Randou from making a misjudgment about the current situation. For the family members of a mafioso, this sort of thing was not considered a "violation" at all.
"There's some unrest outside. Be careful," Asou Akiya said in farewell. Leaning close to his lover's earmuffs, he added softly, "There's a gun in the drawer. Remember to take it with you if you go out. I've already taught you how to use it."
Randou stood there, touching the fluffy earmuffs, still able to hear each gentle word lingering in his ears.
How nice.
No matter how chaotic the world became, Akiya was safe.
After losing his memories, Randou's world had been very small—so small that it did not even contain a warm house. Outside lay raging wind and snow. Then someone had stepped inside, filled the emptiness, built walls and a roof, and stood between him and the cold, between him and danger.
Randou laughed softly from the depths of his heart, his teeth catching lightly on the tip of his glove.
Day by day, he was growing more accustomed to the cold.
Perhaps one day, standing at Akiya's side, he would no longer feel that bone-piercing chill at all.
Three days after celebrating Nakahara Chuuya's birthday, Asou Akiya began commuting by traditional public bus, getting off one stop early and walking the rest of the way home, decisively abandoning the car that had already been fitted with a bomb once before. The mafia was a dangerous line of work. Envy lurked within, trouble came from without, and if one wished to retreat unscathed, complacency was not an option. It was time—indeed, long past time—for him to purchase a safe house for his future.
While turning over possible locations for such a refuge in his mind, Asou Akiya disembarked the bus with heightened vigilance, scanning his surroundings as a matter of habit. He did not notice at all that, in the rear of the bus, a teenage boy had also been pushed off amid the crowd, stumbling down onto the pavement in a daze.
The boy carried a shabby little backpack on his shoulders, looking very much like someone from the countryside who had come to the city to visit relatives. He scratched at his messy black hair, muttered a few complaints under his breath, then strode confidently toward the bus stop sign.
"Yep, this has to be it!"
—It was the wrong stop.
Those who had never suffered the harsh lessons of society could never truly understand the particular "terror" of a big city.
Asou Akiya stopped by a convenience store to pick up a few daily necessities, lingering there for a short while. After walking less than a few hundred meters, he caught sight of what seemed to be a lost teenage figure spinning around a crosswalk, unsure of which way to go. The distance between them was not insignificant, and there were convenience stores nearby where the boy could ask for directions. Akiya had no intention of playing the part of a good Samaritan.
"Hey, mister!"
"Mister!"
"Mister, wait up!"
Just as he was about to leave, a bright, energetic voice suddenly rang out behind him, clear and lively like a fledgling bird's call. It sounded as though it had not yet passed through puberty, adding an unexpectedly vivid splash of color to the gloomy streets of Yokohama.
…Mister?
I'm twenty-two years old this year.
Asou Akiya, who considered himself perfectly young by any reasonable standard, did not believe for a second that the call was meant for him. And yet, almost against his will, he turned his head anyway—only to commit an act he would regret instantly and profoundly.
The moment he saw that face, his heart seemed to seize and stop altogether.
It was a youthful, immature face he recognized far too well.
"..."
Damn it!
I should have turned around and run the second I heard that voice!