Chapter Text
The rain over Yokohama’s coastal shipping yards always tasted slightly of industrial sulfur and salt.
Dazai Osamu, seventeen years old and already wearing the heavy black trench coat of a Port Mafia executive, stood beneath a rusting corrugated iron awning. His primary administrative duties involved reviewing logistical distribution manifests for the subterranean weapon vaults in the western ward.
Yet, Dazai found paperwork dreadfully dry compared to the fascinating rumors drifting through the lower docks—whispers of an aggressive human trafficking syndicate operating right along the border separating the autonomous territory of Yokohama from the mainland.
A metallic click resonated from the dark mouth of the alleyway directly ahead.
"Look at this one,"
A low, gravelly voice rasped from the shadows.
"Thin. Covered in bandages. Likely an unregistered street vagrant from the slums. No family, no Quirk registration, no one to log a missing persons report with the local police precinct."
Dazai did not flinch. He tilted his head slightly, his exposed left eye staring placidly into the gloom as four broad-shouldered men stepped into the dim glow of the flickering streetlamp. They carried heavy-duty containment nets, high-voltage stun prods, and pneumatic dart rifles optimized for capturing rogue, strength-enhanced individuals.
"Oh dear,"
Dazai said, his tone dripping with mock cheerfulness.
"Are all of you here just to escort me? I must warn you, my physical stamina is entirely pathetic, and I tend to break very easily."
"Shut your mouth,"
the leader growled, raising a heavy pneumatic rifle.
"We’ve got a quota to fill for the mainland labor brokers before the morning patrol arrives."
Before the man could pull the trigger, Dazai moved. His steps were fluid, an elegant dance honed by surviving the city's underbelly. He closed the distance instantly, his palm striking the wrist of the lead captor, forcing the barrel of the rifle downward into the asphalt.