Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This tearful day will come,
As from the dust shall rise again,
A guilty man too,
Have mercy on him, O God.
Jesus is the good Lord
Send him to rest. Amen.

    The small, three-story, two-building structure was located far outside the center of Yokohama. It was surrounded by a park forest that separated the private psychiatric hospital from the small Toshima-mura.

    The Mori Ogaya Hospital was enclosed by a high iron fence, preserving part of the park area on the hospital grounds. During the warm seasons, the area was decorated with shrubs cut in round or rectangular shapes, neatly planted, colorful flowers, and medium-sized trees with dense crowns that provided shade on a hot summer day. The metal benches that stood along the paths were coated with white paint, the backs of which had a semi-circular shape with beautiful designs inside. The rounded legs were dug into the ground with a small part of them and poured concrete for stability. When it was getting dark outside, the rare street lamps were lit throughout the hospital grounds, which were mostly located in the central part of the hospital, and at the gates for entry.

    In the cold, the beauty did not fade, but took on the added charm of longing of an already sad place. At first, the yellowing and falling leaves on the crowns of the trees said that nothing lasts forever and everything will wither someday. Then there were naked bushes, trunks, empty front gardens and a lonely pond, which was only visible from a few rooms, enclosed from the building first by a fence and then by sparse trees that merged into a dense forest hiding the mountain range.

    It seems that you can enjoy such a view forever. But when you remember that you are not at a resort, but in a psychiatric hospital, all beauty loses its superb appearance. Everything fades, hiding in the dark gray tones of sadness of consciousness. Drowning in one's own thoughts, or, in fact, in the corners of unconsciousness, pulling with black, viscous and shapeless hands or tentacles into the swamp of despondency.

    It had been several weeks of recovery since Dazai last failed suicide attempt, but his coworkers were no longer surprised, only exhausted. To be more precise, it was fear that was exhausting - the fear that a colleague would simply not come to work one day, would stop answering calls, texts and e-mails. Not only coworkers were worried, but also Osamu close acquaintances.

    Dazai did not seriously consider anyone his friends - he preferred to refuse this fate, explaining that he always loses what he does not want to lose. He concluded that it was his close relationships that brought grief not only to his world, but also to the lives of others.

   Fukuzawa Yukichi was the director of the detective agency where Osamu worked, and it had to be said that he was the most worried about his employee. In truth, Fukuzawa was more than just a boss to Dazai.

    About ten years ago, Yukichi, out of the kindness of his heart, had picked up a lost boy, beaten not only by life but also by cruel peers, perhaps even by his parents, about whom nothing is known to this day. The director of the detective bureau considered Osama his son, who was very dear to him. Compassion, desire to help, intelligence and cleverness of the child played its own thing, and captivated the heart of the Silver Wolf, binding him to himself.

    It's hard to say what Osamu attempt to shorten his life was, because even if someone was keeping score, he should have lost it a long time ago. It couldn't be said that Dazai had survived by sheer luck alone, for more than once he had been pulled from a noose or a bloody bathtub.

    "If I commit suicide, I'll only do it in pairs, with a beautiful girl!" - Dazai Osamu guiding principle... But honestly, no. It's completely different. No matter how self-centered a guy with suicidal tendencies and a habit of hurting himself may seem, he's only partially so, and he wouldn't really encourage someone to commit suicide on a whim. In fact, the main rule of life, or rather death, was that if you decided to kill yourself, you should do it with the least possible harm to those around you.

     That's why he never threw himself in front of cars, trains, or tried to jump off the roof of a high-rise. He patiently waited for the moment when he would be alone, no matter if it was day or night, at home or on the street. The main thing was to be alone. It was the only way to get lucky, to be able to kill himself this time, and the emptiness inside his chest would stop tormenting his already tortured mind.

     And so it was that time... At the end of the workday, Osamu went home to the apartment he shared with Rampo. Although Edogawa was younger than the brown-haired man with the bandaged body, he still served him not only as a neighbor, "friend" and colleague, but also as a so-called "lifeline", which had already performed this function perfectly, just like in the last suicide attempt of Dazai Osamu, which was almost successful.

       Although, "almost" doesn't count....

     Dazai walked home slowly, letting the thoughts in his head rage, stabbing his heart harder than a criminal stabbing his ribs when he solved his first case on his own.

     Even though it wasn't a long walk, he managed to smoke a couple cigarettes in a row. When he reached the entrance, he took one last drag and threw the cigarette butt to the ground, but then, shaking his head unhappily, as if mentally scolding himself, he picked it up and threw it in the trash. An orange-pink sunset framed the gray clouds. Osamu lifted his head, and stood for a while. Just stared sadly at the sky.

   - Why is everyone around me dying? - He whispered, as if asking the setting sun. The death of his faithful comrade, no matter how much time had passed, could not leave his mind. If only he had made it a minute or two sooner, his comrade, his colleague, his friend... Would be alive. - Is it really about me? - He asked again, speaking to whom it was unclear.

     But then he felt cold, and his neck was stiff from the uncomfortable position. The suicide lowered his head, staring at the front door of the entranceway, then glanced briefly at the sky again, closing his eyes and shaking his head negatively again to ward off any thoughts.

     Before opening the door, he took a deep breath. The cold, fresh air filled his lungs. Osamu pulled a seemingly genuine smile on his face and stepped into the entryway.

     At that moment, the drama lover was in for the biggest betrayal of the day.

   "Damn elevator," he thought, shifting his gaze from the A4 sheet of paper that screamed at him, "LIFT IS NOT WORKING!" to the stairs. He had to go up to the third floor.

      He rang the bell with a pained look on his face, as if he were so tired from walking up and down the stairwell that he couldn't even get the key out of his coat. But no one opened the door.

       - So he's not back yet..." Dazai muttered, pulling out the key and turning it in the keyhole. When the door opened, he was greeted by an empty, dark apartment.

      Osamu sighed, either with relief or sadness, and wandered into the interior of the dwelling, not even bothering to turn on the lights.

     Fear is one of the most destructive feelings of all. It limits one's options and prevents one from thinking rationally. It can lead to making wrong decisions, especially if accompanied by panic.

  What do people with suicidal tendencies think about before committing what fills their thoughts every moment and accompanies every step? Most likely, only those who have voluntarily stepped beyond the reach of a healthy person know about it.

    The walls of the empty apartment were pressing, tearing the empty soul into even smaller pieces.

     Stuffy and scary.

    Was he crying? No. He was smiling. Smiling as he filled the bathroom with barely warm water for the last time, stripping off his clothes and bandages in parallel.

      He was always so amused by the fact that the bandages didn't become part of his skin and body, but were merely pieces of clothing that hid the numerous cuts from prying eyes. Those, in turn, were covered with a protective crust of crust and blood, scars on top of which the cuts were not so old, but not so fresh either.

       Dazai whistled or hummed, though it was more like the purring of a cat that's clamoring to be fed or petted or scratched behind the ear.

      Except it didn't matter... It just didn't matter, he was fine, he was fine. Before diving into the bathtub, Osamu glanced in disgust at the vanity mirror that hung above the washbasin. At times he even felt as if his reflection was talking to him... Unfortunately, the same thing had happened again....

   - You know, it sounds rather prosaic, even dramatic. Since when did you start feeling things? - With disgust and contempt, in a calm voice, the reflection began to speak.

    - Shut up! You don't know anything! - Dazai replied, covering his ears and clutching his head, just so that the disgusting voice would stop saying such horrible, but unfortunately true, in Osamu opinion, things.

       The young detective realized that every time his reflection was not lying, but telling obvious facts. But the brown-haired man didn't want to admit it.

      - I don't know, do I? Stop lying to yourself. I am you, and we know everything," the reflection said with slight irritation. - You're the cause of all the trouble. You're always playing games and making things up, and instead of living in the present, you're stepping on the past. Odasaku died because of you. So why are you still alive? - The reflection grinned smugly, giving Dazai a disdainful glare. - Remember what he said? You'll never be able to fill the void inside you. Just die. You're pathetic...

     Dazai reflection became the same. He sank to the floor in panic and fear. How he wanted to throw a rock or something so that this ugly reflection would never look at him again. But there was no point in spoiling Rampo property.

     Edogawa and Fukuzawa had gotten rid of the sharp objects more than once, but it hadn't worked. Dazai seemed to buy new blades as often as he bought bandages.

     When the bathroom was half full, the brown-eyed boy took one last glance in the mirror, but immediately turned away, wincing as if he'd been stabbed in the back.

   The bath was drawn, the blades lying by the headboard in a small plastic box. Anxiety mixed with the repose of the soul made the entire body queasy.

       Dazai Osamu was no longer smiling - there was no point in putting on a show, since there was no audience, and the reflection that seemed to keep looking at him in disgust was more interested in tragedy.

     A tragedy that Osamu called a one-act comedy. It all meant only one thing - there was no turning back.

    Dazai was a true expert in the art of suicide. He had read a great deal of literature, but more importantly, he had put some of it into practice. The experiments, though unsuccessful because of the non-lethal outcome, nevertheless gave him food for thought. He would have made a good suicidologist.

    Before dipping into the cool water, the detective pulled out a pack of pain pills labeled "Buprenorphine" from the cabinet under the sink. It would be interesting to know where Osamu had gotten them without a prescription, though... Knowing Dazai abilities, there was no reason to be surprised.

    He didn't like pain, so he took the whole bottle at once, without drinking.

    He sat in the bathroom for a while, but he couldn't get used to the cool water, so he plunged into it, staying there for a few minutes.

    A shiver of sadness and coldness pulsed through his body, prompting Dazai to whine and reach for the blades. Due to his trembling hands, he wasn't immediately able to pick one up. However, on his second attempt, he 'managed' to get it, only all the other sharp, metal rectangles, along with the box collapsed, dotting the bathroom floor.

    Dazai took a deep breath, followed by an exhale, trying to calm the rapid heartbeat and trembling. And behind that action and the drug, or rather the overabundance of it, began to affect not only the guy's body, but his mind as well. The body relaxed, the shiver was already leaving then, not in a hurry. Osamu glanced at the blade in his right hand, and slashed horizontally with it on his left, but more just scratching rather than really making a deep cut. However, no pain followed, just a faint tingling and tingling that was accompanied by barely perceptible scarlet droplets seeping out.

    Dazai nodded approvingly and ran the blade once more along the same left arm, but vertically. The pain was almost imperceptible, and the drug was working well.

  Blood ran down his arm, staining the water scarlet. Brown eyes glanced tiredly at the cut, his arm was going numb, and while he had strength left in it, Osamu shifted the blade, and with the same force, he slashed vertically across his right arm.

    The color of the water changed from clear red to a rich bloody color. Now it was hard to tell if it was blood in the water, or water in the blood....

    A terrible coldness began to envelop Dazai's body, making his lips turn blue. He plunged both hands into the water, feeling the strength leave him. Losing his coordination, his head banged against the back of the tub, his eyelids closed, but not for long, for all this was followed by a bout of nausea and vomiting from the strong narcotic analgesic. Consciousness was so clouded that the suicidal man did not realize that he was vomiting into the bathtub in which he lay. The water was mixed with blood, some incomprehensible bits of food not processed in his stomach, and bile.

    Before he was finally plunged into the darkness of nothingness, his stupefied and frightened mind heard the click of a door, quick footsteps, and a voice calling his name.

   - Dazai..? Osamu? Are you home? - Someone called out to the suicidal man from outside the place where he was trying to find eternal rest.

   Silence. Darkness. Darkness. A slight smile. A scream.

   And then, nothing but emptiness. Nothing but emptiness.

    Osamu woke up in the unfamiliar surroundings of the hospital room where he had spent about two weeks.

   From time to time, Rampo, Yukichi, and other colleagues visited him. No one broached the subject of why he was in the hospital, and conversations were neutral.

    After he was discharged, Fukuzawa had a serious conversation with Dazai about his well-being, and informed him that he had managed to make a deal with his old "buddy" and that the brown-eyed detective would be sent to the Mori Ogai Psychiatric Hospital for treatment.

      Dazai, of course, had denied it and claimed he was fine, throwing in idiotic jokes, but the boss was so serious in his intentions that he had to agree.

       "It's not that bad." - Thought Osamu, looking out the window of the car Fukuzawa was driving him in. Sitting next to the brown-haired man was Rampo. - "Maybe this really is all for the best. Maybe they can heal my emptiness... Pgh, nonsense."

     - What's on your mind? Don't worry, everything will be all right," interrupted Rampo sitting next to him.

     - I'm not worried. - Dazai winked at Edogawa, smiling radiantly. - There is a charm in straitjackets and being surrounded by lunatics! - He exclaimed in his usual manner of mirth.

       - No one is going to put a straitjacket on you. - Fukuzawa replied sternly, but with a certain accuracy in his voice, keeping his eyes on the navigator's screen.

     - Ahh... I was hoping! What a shame! - Dazai replied sadly.

   The rest of the trip was spent in silence, accompanied by a barely audible female voice from the radio, broadcasting the weather forecast for the day

Chapter Text

There's often no reason for people's anger, 

 it's just a consequence.

of the days they've lived. 

      Who can draw a line in a rainbow where green ends and blue begins? We can clearly see the difference between these colors, but where exactly does one color transition into the other? It is the same with sanity and insanity. As soon as I opened the front door to the hospital, the smell of medicine, bandages, and disinfectants hit my nose.

      "A hospital is just like a hospital," – Osamu thought to himself as he looked around.

      White walls, people and medical staff wandering by. His gaze searched for something to latch onto, but he never noticed anything out of the ordinary. Absolutely nothing.

      It even made the guy a little sad, because he was expecting something completely different. In the books he'd read. And in the movies he'd seen. Places like this were described very differently.

      - Stand here, – Fukuzawa said briefly, and walked away to the front desk, which looked like a separate room with shelves filled with medical records and patient files. It was separated by a wide, half-wall panoramic window with another window in it.

      Rampo and Dazai stood obediently in place, only moving a little to the side so as not to block the way. Yukichi chatted with the young girl for a while, then turned back to them.

      - What's up? - Osamu asked, watching as the female employee called someone on the landline, throwing confused looks in their direction.

      - We'll have to wait. - Once again, Fukuzawa replied briefly. The silver wolf wasn't much of a talker, most likely due to his professional deformation and past experiences that taught him that it was better not to talk about things he wasn't sure about.

      Dazai sighed lazily, putting his hands behind his head and looking up at the ceiling.

      - Looks like fate won't let me heal or die. - Dazai declared, tucking his hands into the pockets of his beige coat and turning on his heels to leave. But he was stopped by a hand that rested gently on his shoulder.

     - I wouldn't rely so much on Lady Fate if I were you. She is, after all, a capricious lady, and likes to delay a little in the fulfillment of her duties. - An unfamiliar, calm voice spoke. Dazai awkwardly twisted out from under the hand resting on his shoulder and turned to face the source of the sound.

      It was a man in his mid-forties with black hair, most likely shoulder-length, but it was impossible to tell more precisely because it was gathered in a low, loose ponytail at the back of his head. Only a few strands, disheveled, fell over the man's face.

      "He must be a doctor," Osamu thought as he looked at the black-haired man in the white coat. - "Well, or some schizophrenic who managed to steal a doctor's robe and is now convinced he's a medic." - Dazai grinned at his thought, and was about to say something, but Fukuzawa beat him to it.

      - It's not right to try on the face of fate, Mori. But you're right about the procrastination and postponement of your duties.

      - Fukuzawa, you're always looking at the heart of the matter. It's good to see you How are you? Have you got forty cats yet? Forty... such a symbolic number. - Mori grinned Yukichi, on the other hand, was more than calm and serious.

      - Stop it. That's not why I'm here.

      - Right, right. - Ogai shrugged, and glanced first at Rampo and then at Dazai, and stopped his serious gaze on him, smiling softly. Well, not gently, but he was trying not to scare off his new patient. - I take it you're Dazai?

      Osamu nodded, and looked around once more at the man in the medical gown, searching for a badge, or anything that might denote the stranger's role in this hospital.

      - And you are? - Dazai inquired, raising one eyebrow in anticipation of an answer.

      - Oh, I apologize, I completely forgot. Mori Ogai, the owner of this hospital, is a psychiatrist and neurosurgeon. And also happens to be your boss's only friend.

      - We're not friends. - Yukichi cut him off.

      - Whatever you say, my friend. - Ogai shrugged. - Well, let's not get distracted. I'm familiar with the situation in absentia, but I'd still like to have a conversation with Dazai before settling in. - He said, glancing at the front desk. - But first, a little pape....

      Before he could finish, he was interrupted by the loud voice of a young girl who came out of the door that apparently led to the stairs to the other floors.

      - Mori Ogai! If you think that you can just cut off our conversation about your patient and go somewhere else, you're wrong! - Black heels clacked loudly on the floor tiles as the girl walked briskly toward the company of men. Mori sighed tiredly, and turned his gaze to Yukichi, but ignoring her words, he turned to Yukichi.

      - Fill out the necessary paperwork for now, and turn in Dazai's personal belongings to the registrar's office for inspection. Koyo will give you the necessary forms and explain them to you, and I'll have to excuse myself for a while. I've got business to attend to. - He beckoned to Ozaki, who was watching them from the window, pretending to be going through patient records. The redhead nodded, and came over to escort him to the waiting room, to go through the intricacies of admitting patients to a psychiatric hospital.

      Fukuzawa followed silently behind Koyo, while Dazai and Rampo walked slowly, lagging a little behind. Osamu was in a playful mood, whispering something to Edogawa, casting fleeting glances at Mori and the girl in the white robe beside him, chuckling from time to time. Ogai and the girl remained standing still, discussing something, and clearly arguing. It was hard to call it an argument, though, since she was the only one arguing and resenting. Mori, on the other hand, just listened and nodded occasionally, throwing in short phrases.

     The paperwork did not take as long as expected. Then it was time to say goodbye, for the first week of their stay was an adaptive one, and visitors were not allowed before patients. Mori Ogai stood back, watching how awkward Dazai farewell to Rampo, and his old friend, was.

      - Don't miss me. - Osamu said cheerfully, tucking his hands into his pants pockets. He wasn't wearing his usual beige coat anymore, it had been left among the suicide books, bandages, and other things that had been confiscated before the treatment was over. They chatted some more, and then the suicidal guy stared at them as they left the building, waving his hand after them.

   When the door to the treatment room closed silently, Dazai turned around and saw Mori watching him. He shrugged, heading toward him.

      - I'm sure you'll like it here, young man," Mori assured him, placing a hand on the new patient's shoulder again.

      - I don't think it's very good for someone to like being in a mental hospital..." Osamu slipped out from under Ogai's arm again.

      - Who knows? We have patients for whom this place is more like home," Ogai sighed, adjusting his robe. - All in all, you have nothing to worry about.

      Dazai shrugged, still glancing around from time to time, trying to get used to the hospital environment.

     - Mori! Mori! Your Dostoyevsky is out of line! - Breathing heavily, the same girl in the white coat as before approached Mori, only this time her appearance and gait indicated that she was anxious. There was even some fear in her gaze. Ogai ignored the statement about his patient, and smiled cordially.

      - Dr. Yosano, we were just coming to see you. This is Dazai Osamu, your new patient. Please love and adore him. This young man is an important person to an old friend of mine, so-" Yosano quickly glanced at Osamu, but immediately looked at Mori again. Though it was impolite and not in accordance with the hospital's rules, Akiko was more concerned with Mori's patient right now, so she didn't let him finish by interrupting him:

      - Mori-san, Dostoevsky is refusing to eat again!

      - That's not surprising. He's got a new super-precious idea. Our hospital God and I have taken up asceticism. However, he'll get over the first loss of consciousness and start eating. - Ogai tried to calm his colleague.

     - You don't understand! He's in the medical ward right now. When the orderlies dragged him into the cafeteria on your orders, he stabbed himself in the arm with the handle of a spoon! What if the next time.

      - There won't be a next time, – Mori interrupted her. - Take care of Dazai, interview him, test him, and put him in a room. I'll deal with Dostoyevsky myself," he said the last words as he left for the stairs that led to the top floor.

      What had happened did not upset the director of the hospital... It would be more accurate to say that it made him angry. Dostoevsky's behavior was unpredictable. Usually, you don't know what to expect from a mentally unhealthy person, but when it came to a patient with the surname "Dostoevsky", the surveys and additional diagnostics not only didn't give any answers, but also raised even more questions.

      - And who is this "Dostoevsky" of yours? - Osamu asked, attracting Yosano's attention.

     - Never mind. Come on, you and I still have a lot to do, and check-in.  – Yosano replied with a sigh, and took the first steps deep into the waiting room, glancing around to make sure Dazai was following her. He shrugged again, and followed his doctor.

      "Staying here might be even more interesting than I thought," – Dazai grinned at his thoughts.

       Mori took a quick step to the third floor, where the psychiatric ward was located. When he entered the room where patients were being bandaged and injected, he stopped in front of Dostoevsky, looking at his patient, whose arm had already been treated and bandaged. Ogai made a hand sign to the nurse to leave the room for a while. The nurse nodded and, with a final look of disgust at Fyodor, left.

      - You are angry. – Dostoevsky smirked, looking at his doctor with a blank and cold look.

      - How well you understand other people's emotions. Did your wounded arm give you empathy? - Mori asked with a wry smile.

      - No, but your behavior is logical.

      - Enough. What the hell are you doing? Are you trying to scare my staff and patients? - The neurosurgeon hissed.

- I told your dogs in the ward that I didn't need food. But, unfortunately, they are not gifted with intelligence, and they not only dragged me to the dining room, but also threatened to feed me by force. And that kind of thing goes against my beliefs and principles.

      After listening to his patient, Maury rubbed his forehead with the fingers of his left hand and sighed tiredly.

      - Keys. – Ogai answered briefly, not taking in the essence of Dostoevsky words. Fyodor looked at him with half-closed eyes. Only the psychopath himself could know for sure that he was looking at Ogai, because, watching from the outside, it could seem that Dostoevsky was looking as if into the soul, and his gaze coursed fear and terror through the veins of people who had ever encountered him even a fleeting glance. In truth, however, they were the emptiest and most indifferent eyes that looked not into the soul at all, but rather through objects, not clinging to anything in particular.

      - They are in the ward, – answered Fyodor.

      - That's great. From this day forward, you will no longer walk around my hospital in peace. Stay here! - Mori ordered as he left.

      Three large orderlies were already standing outside the office. Two of them went in to see Fyodor, and one followed Mori, probably to search the patient's room to get the keys that unlocked and locked the doors between the floors.

Chapter Text

After all, what we lie about

or not telling

- says the most about

about ourselves.

      You can hide a lot of things about yourself, but, darling, what are you going to do? You can sleep in a coffin, but the past will still be with you.

      The waiting room at the hospital was no different from any other hospital room. It seemed even a little funny that Osamu was subconsciously looking for differences from the regular hospital he had spent time in before coming here.

      The office contained a desk where Dr. Yosano was sitting, and indicated Dazaiu's hand to take a seat in the chair that stood in front of her.

       The suicidal man complied with Akiko instruction and sat down, looking around. There was a clock hanging on the wall and a few framed photos of local scenery. The room was fairly bright, but not overly so. The monochromatic, white walls made it feel like the office was a bit bigger than it actually was. To the right of the front door were several cabinets that held medications. The floor in this room was no longer tiled like the corridors of the hospital, but was covered in black linoleum, which provided a contrast to the bright whiteness of the office. Overall, the room was decorated in a rather simple and practical manner, not drawing much attention.

      Yosano examined the A4 sheet and turned to the guy:

      - Dazai Osamu, twenty-two years old. He was admitted as a result of a suicide attempt. Is that correct?

      - A failed suicide attempt," Dazai corrected her. - Otherwise I wouldn't have been lucky enough to meet the beautiful part of this hospital," he grinned and pulled a smile onto his face. - What do you think about the paired suicide? Would you like a sov...

      - So, we'll do without an interview and go straight to the acute ward," Yosano interrupted him, not letting him finish the end of his bad joke.

      - Why are you so quick? I'm just kidding. I'm kidding! - Dazai protested. - I'm fine, I don't even know why they brought me here.

      - You're joking badly, that's why they brought you here," Yosano replied grudgingly, pulling out some test and survey forms from a desk drawer.

      - Do they put you in the psych ward for jokes too? Wow! What has the world come to! - Dazai theatrically marveled, placing his palm on his forehead.

       Akiko ignored the notion; she'd seen a lot more than that in her years at the mental hospital. But it's worth noting that Osamu could make an actor as good as a detective, maybe even better.

      - Let's have a little talk with you first. I'll ask you a few questions, and then you'll be tested," the doctor set the forms aside and opened a new notebook, making a note on a blank sheet.

      - I thought you and I were already talking," Dazai winked at her.

      - How often do you feel depressed? - Akiko asked, emphasizing the defense mechanism of his psyche in the form of jokes and laughter.

    - Rarely," Osamu lied without blushing. Usually, his cheerfulness turned into depression and apathy as soon as he was alone. Yosano made a note again.

      - Good. I advise you to give truthful answers, it will help us accurately diagnose and treat. Rate the quality of your sleep on a ten-point scale, where one is poor quality and disturbed sleep and ten is restful, quality and complete sleep.

      - Six. For the most part, I sleep well. Once in a while I get insomnia after a busy day," I lied again. If one were to rate the quality of Dazai Osamu's sleep, it should have been a minus ten. If he did fall asleep, it was only in the morning. As for nightmares, it was better to keep silent, which he did.

      - Are there times when you feel your heart beating faster than usual?

     - Yes. Like when I look at pretty girls like you," Dazai grinned, looking at his doctor, who smiled slightly at first, but then focused and looked at Osamu seriously.

      - Dazai, no kidding. Like feelings of anxiety, fear of the future? Do any of those things sound familiar to you?

     - Who said I was joking? You and the other girls are so beautiful that it's strange if my heart doesn't start beating faster than usual at the sight of them," he shrugged. - And anxiety or fear of the future... I'm not familiar with that, it doesn't make sense to me. Dr. Yosano, tell me, is there anything in this life that actually makes sense? Whatever people do, whatever they do, whatever path they choose, it all leads to the same thing. We will all die: from old age, from illness, or from a car that suddenly comes around the corner. Human existence is an ironic thing, you know. We are given the right to live, though we did not ask for it, we are not explained the rules of this game, and like an eagle to its chick, we are sent into free flight from the heights. And there you either open your wings and learn to fly, or, gaining speed, you crash to the ground. Of course, there's also the option of the eagle saving her chick in time to send it flying at a more appropriate time. - Dazai sighed and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. - I've been distracted. So they give us the right to a life we didn't ask for, saying that it's our life and that we can use it as we please. But if there's a right to life, there must be a right to death. But that's not the case. You decide to cut your own life short and end up in a mental institution because you're a danger to yourself. I find that ironic.

     Yosano had interacted with suicidal people many times before, but few of them had any kind of philosophy. Lack of meaning in life was the base, but they usually saw it as a failure due to the past or personal problems that were beyond them. Osamu, however, clearly had some sort of tragedy behind his musings, making him believe in the meaninglessness of existence. It was striking how he, a seemingly cheerful and flirtatious young man who had already saved more than one life, and had clearly seen how others valued their right to life, so devalued it all and wished to die.

      - What about work? You seem to enjoy what you do.

      - That's true. Fukuzawa is a wonderful man, and Rampo too. If it weren't for them, I'd be in the ground in the city cemetery right now," a soft smile lit up Dazai's face. In his mind, he visualized the picture:

      A calm summer day. A light wind swaying the branches of an old tree. Could it be a willow tree? Yes, a willow tree growing in a cemetery. And under the willow tree are two graves, on the monuments of which are visible names: "S. "Oda" and "D. Osamu"... One thought flows into another, and the body is so relaxed. It must be the height of pleasure to finally die.

      - Do you experience fatigue for no good reason? - The doctor's voice snapped Dazai out of his fantasy, bringing him back to the hospital room, but the sense of calm and peace kept a bright, sincere smile on his face.

      - Yes, no, I don't know. I guess not.

      - Have you ever had the feeling or thought that if you were gone, it would make life easier for someone else? - Akiko's question hit the spot. The one that was so deep inside her mind that it seemed no one could dare reach it except Dazai and his reflection.

      His exhausted arms hung limply, occasionally touching the cold legs of the chair, causing a sharp shudder like the music of lurking terror. But Osamu pulled himself together in the blink of an eye, pulling on a mask of amusement.

      - Nope, there was no such thing. Without someone as beautiful as me, the world will clearly be a poorer place," Dazai shrugged, showing his palms to the ceiling. The doctor wrote something down again, and returned to the test forms, holding them out to the brown-haired man.

      - 'We just need to pass these tests, and we'll go check you in.

      Dazai nodded and began ticking the boxes and circles for the options that "fit" him. Akiko realized even at this point that testing wouldn't yield the proper results. It would be more of a "guess where Dazai Osamu lied and where he got it right" puzzle, but she decided to try her luck.

      Two large orderlies were shackling Dostoevsky rather roughly in a straitjacket. The men looked at Fyodor squeamishly, and with contempt.

      "Typical, insignificant people. Lord, give me strength and humility, lest I fall from sin. Give these people reason," the black-haired man prayed to the Lord, his eyes closed as his body was dragged and dragged under his arms into the isolation ward like a weak-willed, weak-minded puppet.

      What Dazai would have been surprised to see was the isolation ward at Mori Ogai treatment center. After all, compared to it, what was shown in thrillers or horror movies was quite comfortable.

        It was a small room in itself, with a metal bed in the middle of it, and a worn mattress on top of it, not even a sheet. The walls were neither painted nor wallpapered - they were dirty, gray concrete. There were leather straps hooked to the bed to secure her body.

      - Doesn't it stiffen? - One of the orderlies asked Fyodor in contempt, pulling his straitjacket tighter and sloppier, laying him on the extremely uncomfortable bed.

      - She is already like my own," replied Dostoevsky, smiling cynically, and looking with his blank and cold gaze into the eyes of his offender.

      - Well, then I'll tighten the straps to the bed to be sure, - the orderly replied, shivering from the coldness in Fyodor's gaze, fixing his body to complete immobility.

      - God bless you.

      The orderly again grimaced at the patient's words and kicked the bed to which Dostoevsky was strapped. The bed creaked quietly.

      The orderlies locked the doors with two keys and a deadbolt. Quiet. That was what frightened everyone. Dostoevsky rarely resisted, did not use swear words. Calmness was his usual state. A cold stare, and a slight, insane grin. A typical psychopath - that's how he was seen by almost all the hospital staff, and even the patients. But was it really so?

      The only one who really knew the essence of Fyodor Dostoevsky was his attending physician, Mori Ogai, and the latter, frankly speaking, was also afraid of him. But not because of his illness, but because he simply did not understand what his patient would do next time. Maybe later he'd stick that spoon into his skull.

      - What kind of force it would take to stab a spoon handle to pierce through his arm... - Ogai quietly said his thoughts aloud, waiting outside Dostoevsky's room while the orderly who had gone with him went through the psychopath's things in search of the keys.

      Psychos are like dogs. Let them know you're afraid of them, and they'll bite you even if they didn't intend to bite you in the first place. So Maury couldn't admit to himself that he was afraid of his patient.

      Though he realized that even without the demonstration of fear Dostoevsky clearly had intentions to harm him, especially after Fyodor had survived all his experiments. And, to all appearances, he did have God's help, otherwise the psychopath would have been lying on the operating table long ago with his brain picked out, which was of such interest to the psychiatrist-neurosurgeon.

      - Found it," the orderly said, showing the bunch of keys to Ogai.

      - Good. Give it to me," Mori replied, still pondering what he should do with Fyodor Dostoevsky. Taking the keys, he let the orderly go and headed for his office.

      Finishing marking his answers, surprisingly truthful, Osamu handed the forms to the doctor, looking at her playfully. Akiko, sighing heavily, took the test sheets back, running a quick glance over them, taking in only the important points.

      - Okay, now the nurse will take you to the general psychiatric ward and show you to your room. She'll give you a change of clothes, too. Let's go," Akiko announced, putting her notebook in her desk and the test forms in a small white paper folder, then stood up from the desk.

      Dazai shrugged lazily, but obeyed, and rose from his seat, heading for the door and holding it open like a true gentleman for his doctor.

      - So, what about my diagnosis? What are we going to treat? - He asked as Yosano walked past him. She paused for a moment and thought.

     - Suicidal tendencies, self-harm, in other words, self-harm, latent depression, depressed state, sleep problems. We'll start with that, and then we'll see how the treatment progresses," the psychiatrist replied, beckoning a red-haired woman in a nurse's uniform over to her. - Meet Koyo, she's the head nurse of the psychiatric ward where you'll be treated. In case of anything, when I'm not there or I'm with other patients, she'll always help. Koyo, this is Dazai Osamu, our new patient," she introduced them to each other, and handed Koyo a folder with Osamu's test results. - Leave this in the resident's room, I need to see Ogai. - Osamu was about to say something, but Yosano stopped him with a hand, and looked at him softly. - Dazai, wait here for a moment, I have something to tell Koyo, and then she'll escort you out.

      Osamu nodded, and Yosano and Ozaki moved a decent distance away from him so he wouldn't hear them. This caused Dazai to sigh sadly, as he was quite interested in hearing what they were talking about so much that they had to step back.

       As the doctor and nurse stepped away, Koyo was the first to break the silence, casting a quick glance at Osamu.

      - Is something wrong?

      - Not really. Anyway, I don't understand anything, but this guy got here through an acquaintance of Ogai's, and Mori said that Osamu should be kept away from Dost. So, make sure he doesn't accidentally get put next door," Akiko replied, fixing her hair.

      - Maybe we should keep him away from everyone else, too.

      - All questions to Mori, I was just relaying what he said.

      - All right, all right, Fyodor's in the isolation ward anyway, so Mori will worry about them not crossing paths.

      - Dostoyevsky's in the isolation ward? He's hurt, isn't he? - Yosano raised her voice in surprise, casting a quick glance at Dazai, and then glanced anxiously at Kouyo, nodding her head negatively. - It's none of my business, I have to go.

       Akiko walked at a quickened pace toward the stairs, while Koyo turned back to Dazai.

      - Is something wrong? - Osamu asked boredly.

      - It's fine, we should get going. Let's go," Koyo replied with a soft smile.

      Dazai shrugged his shoulders and winked at her with a cheeky smile:

      - Let's go. I can go to the ends of the earth with you, fair lady.

      "Another joker," Koyo thought, and they went to the third floor, where the general psychiatric ward was located.

Chapter Text

Hmm, where to start....

Mental hospital twice,

both times in restraints.

I'm in a straitjacket,

but not in a music video or a fairy tale.

Both times I'm forcibly

intravenous tick.

   Compared to the isolation ward where Mory usually sent his patient, the punishment cell in prisons could seem quite comfortable, more like a recreation area. Shackled in a straitjacket and strapped to a metal bed with leather straps, Dostoevsky lay with his eyes closed. The prayers that occasionally came from his lips echoed through the miniature room, returning to his ears, but what he was praying to God for, it was impossible to tell exactly. Either his speech was incomprehensible or it was a language unknown to the Japanese.

    - I don't think God will help you after what you've done. But I can. – Mory voice was calm and confident. He scrutinized the "harmless" Fyodor, closed the door behind him, and leaned back against it.

      - I acted according to the voice of the Lord. You, a man, cannot understand his higher purpose and design. – Replied Dostoevsky, without opening his eyes.

      - With such thoughts you will not soon leave this place.

      - I am fine here. Calmly. – Fyodor turned his head toward Ogai, half-opening his eyes.

      - Sometimes it seems to me that you're more than healthy, because your delusions and super-valuable ideas don't disappear even under neuroleptics, – the neurosurgeon thought aloud.

      - If I'm healthy, why are you locking me up in the isolation ward?

      - It's just speculation. Your examination results and brain scans show that you are far from sane.

      - So you're just here for a chat? As much as I dislike your company, how's Alice doing? Has she reached the age of consent yet?

      - Stop clowning around. I'm going to make you a deal. You go back to your room, and you

      - My faith doesn't allow me to make deals with the devil," Dostoevsky interrupted Ogai, not letting him finish his sentence.

     - So you don't want to know who came today while you were mutilating yourself? - Mori smirked. Finally, in his conversation with Fyodor, he felt that he now had all four aces and a joker up his sleeve, and Dostoyevsky himself was sitting with a pair of sixes.

      - If it's not Agata, I'm not interested, – As much as his body resisted, it was being drugged with some pretty strong narcotic-based drugs. Fyodor's speech was becoming slower, and Russian words were slipping through the Japanese phrases, making it hard to understand him. His eyes were blurry and it was hard to keep them open.

      - Agata? You think she needs you? You're a biomurderer who's only fit for experimentation. Don't flatter yourself. – The smirk never faded from Ogai's face. In the moments when he truly felt power over his patient, he could be compared to a school bully who could only hurt someone weaker than himself.

      Fyodor Dostoevsky might have wanted to reply something, but his consciousness had finally left him, handing over to a peaceful sleep.

      "We'll have to lower the dosage next time, or it's not even interesting." – Thought Ogai, almost falling from loss of balance, as the support in the form of the door was gone. Mori got to his feet and glared angrily at the visitor to the isolation ward. In front of him stood Yosano, who clearly didn't care about Ogai. She walked past him and stopped at the bound Fyodor, beginning to undo the leather straps.

     - What did you drug him with this time? - She finally paid attention to him.

      - Clozapine. - Ogai replied, watching his subordinate's amateurishness with a raised eyebrow.

      - Since when did he become schizophrenic? How long? - Akiko said indignantly.

      - The rest of it doesn't really work on him. How much?

      - How much clozapine has he been injected with? - She clarified her question, raising her voice to one of concern and nervousness. Finally, she undid all the straps that shackled Dostoevsky to the bunk.

      - Yosano, what kind of interrogation is this? It's not like I'm prying into your patients' affairs. Strap him back in. He's a danger to society. – Mori voice became stern and firm, and his former smugness and cheerfulness disappeared. He was clearly uncomfortable with what was happening.

      - Mori Ogai, I asked how much of the drug was injected into him. - Yosano didn't take her eyes off of Fyodor. Although many people despised the patient, Akiko felt pity and regret for him.

      - 250. Is the interrogation over? Now get out, he can't go out, –Ogai hissed through clenched teeth.

      - Are you trying to kill him? That's more than the daily allowance! What could he do? He's prone to auto-aggression. The only person he can hurt is himself! - Yosano protested. - Or is this your way of trying to keep the new patient safe? Ogai, wake up! Are you out of your mind?

      - You don't need to remind me of the meaning of the term "autoaggression", I remember it perfectly well without you, doctor. You don't know anything. Mind your own business," he warned her.

      - Nobody knows anything. It's unclear where and how you dug up this patient, and you're abusing him, which violates all norms of medical ethics! - The psychiatrist despaired.

      Yosano was right. Fyodor Dostoevsky could be considered the most mysterious person, about whose past was known only to himself, Mori and Agata, who from time to time visited the psychotic. No one knew how he had gotten into the asylum.

      Mori always fulfilled his duties, but if there was an opportunity to shift it onto someone else's shoulders, he didn't miss the chance. Except that when Dostoevsky had been brought to them, he had removed his personal belongings himself, performed the diagnostics, testing, and additional research himself. He even checked him into his room by himself, and then accompanied by two orderlies for an adaptive month, personally carried his medications to him, and sometimes accompanied him to the food service.

      - And what makes you so sure he'd even care about this detective? As I recall, Fyodor's not a socialite. He is enough Gogol, which together with your medication takes away the last of his strength! - The doctor was perplexed. There were so many questions, but it was obvious that Ogai would not answer them.

      - If you so wish, you can take him back in twenty-four hours. But for now, he'll stay here. – Mori cut him off firmly, walking over to the metal bed and returning the straps to their proper place, restraining Dostoyevsky.

      - Go to hell. – Yosano said indignantly, but still left, quietly closing the doors behind her.

      - Do you think she would protect you like that if she knew how many people you had killed? - Asked Ogai to Fyodor's unconscious body, buckling the last strap on his chest.

3 years ago

      There was always some book lying in Mori Ogai's office, bookmarked at page thirty-two, that he had been constantly re-reading for four years now.

      The day dragged on long, the hospital was thankfully quiet. Ogai wanted to go home early, but his office phone rang. A pleasant female voice announced that a tall, blonde-haired man was waiting for Mori in the emergency room. From the description, the owner of the mental institution had already realized who had come, except that it was unclear why.

      He went down to the first floor, looking for the familiar figure, and when he found it, he approached at a leisurely pace.

      - My dear friend, what brings you to the house of insane sufferers?

      - Can we talk in your office? - The visitor asked.

      - Anything for you. – Mori replied, escorting his "friend" out.

      Though Ogai had tried to break the silence between them during the 'walk' to his office, the man who visited him was clearly not a fan of idle talk. When they entered the bright room, Mori was seated at his desk in an armchair, and the other man sat in the chair across from him.

      - You're still as taciturn as ever, Fukuzawa. – Ogai said, gathering his hair into a low ponytail.

      - I need you to examine a man. – Yukichi got straight to the point, ignoring the nonsense that was coming out of Ogai's mouth.

      - Have you decided to heal yourself? I can even provide you with a private room.

      - I'm not a masochist. I need you to recognize the sanity of one of the criminals we caught. – Fukuzawa was serious, but he was still uncomfortable. Even though Mori owed him a debt of gratitude, asking this man for help was the height of desperation that came so suddenly.

      - What had he done? - The psychiatrist asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise.

      - It's a long story. I don't have the time or inclination to have a long conversation," Yukichi cut him off.

      - No, that won't do. I'll only help you if you tell me. – Ogai said.

      - Then I'll go. – Fukuzawa rose from his seat, and Mori exhaled disappointedly.

      - 'Bring him back tomorrow. I'll have free time at 14:47.

      - Okay. Thank you. – Yukichi replied as he left the office.

      - You're welcome, – Mori said to the door, which slammed shut behind Fukuzawa.

      "Something will never change...," Ogai thought as he cast a glance at the book with the bookmark and tucked it away in his desk, out of sight.

      However, Ogai was extremely curious as to who Yukichi would bring to him, who swore he would never turn to a man who had been an underground doctor in his youth, and rather mutilated his 'patients' rather than cured them.

      As he arrived at his workplace, Maury kept glancing at his watch, thinking that he should have made the appointment earlier rather than pretending to be a busy man.

      Time dragged on like honey that didn't want to drip down the spoon into the tea cup. Ogai reached to the table to get a book to kill time, but it remained there. There was a confident knock on the door, but still, remained waiting for approval to enter. Mori glanced at the clock - the second hand had completed another circle, forcing the minute hand to shift, showing the exact time: 14:47.

      "He's as punctual as ever," thought Ogai, turning his gaze to the door.

      - Come in! – He said, resting his elbows on the desk and folding his fingers in a pyramid at his chin.

      The first to enter was a skinny, tall guy whose face was covered by black hair that was almost as long as Ogai's own, leaving a barely visible squint of empty violet eyes and a small smirk that said he was clearly amused by the whole situation. On his thin wrists, a pair of handcuffs could be seen restraining the movements of his hands from underneath his white shirt. The young man's clothing was conspicuous, as was his atypical Asian appearance. He was dressed in a simple two-piece suit, consisting of a white, solid-colored shirt, the cut of which resembled Chinese manners, and simple, white, loose pants. High, black boots and a coat of the same color with a fur collar only added to the unfamiliarity of the image, giving the impression that the boy was not only not from around here, but seemed to be from the past.

      This didn't surprise Mory, as he had met many people over the years at his hospital. Hitler had been here, Napoleon had passed through his hands, even Jesus had visited his office. Yukichi walked in after him, closing the door quietly behind him and nodding a greeting.

       - What people. And who have you brought to me, my friend? - He asked, pointing to a small sofa by the window where he could sit down. However, both guests remained standing. Fyodor just so, and Fukuzawa preferred not to lose sight of the criminal. - What are you, there is no truth in the legs. Have a seat," he voiced calmly but insistently his offer to sit down, which made Fyodor let out a slight, barely audible laugh, but still sat down on the sofa by the window. Yukichi shook his head unhappily, but did not sit down on the couch, but took a seat on the chair by Mori's desk.

      - Fyodor Dostoevsky, the terrorist," Fukuzawa introduced the criminal to the psychiatrist.

      - How interesting. – Mori voiced the thought aloud, causing Fyodor's half-smile to shift from his own hands to the doctor's.

      - No more interesting than you are. – Dostoevsky finally spoke up. His Russian accent was almost inaudible, and he sounded calm and cold, even though the smirk was audible even in his speech. The sound was so melodic and sweet that any mockery seemed like flattery, and one wanted to keep listening to it.

      - Well, if he's a terrorist, he belongs behind bars, – Ogai said.

      - That's why I need you to declare him sane. He pretends to be a righteous man and a messenger of God," Fukuzawa sighed, fixing the hair that had fallen out of its ponytail into his face. - He says he follows the voice of the Lord, and if I bring him to trial like that, he'll probably be acquitted and sent to some unknown place for treatment.

      - And how many terrorist attacks have you, the prophet, committed under the name of God? - Asked Fyodor Mori. He knew perfectly well that no matter how delusional a patient came to him, one must not show that there were doubts about his beliefs, as this could be followed by aggression and interference with treatment. Therefore, he has always been masterful in wagering his belief in what the patients are saying, thus earning their trust and cooperation.

      - These are not terrorist attacks, but the will of God. The world must undergo purification before it can move to a new stage of development for full existence, – Dostoevsky replied calmly.

     - Then I suppose you wouldn't mind a little chat? I find your faith very interesting, – Mori said, glaring at Yukichi to leave the office and allow him to have a private conversation with Dostoevsky, to which Fukuzawa nodded approvingly and left, waiting for the terrorist under Mori Ogai's office.

      What Dostoevsky and Mori talked about remained a mystery, buried in the office of the owner of the psychiatric hospital, in which it already seemed that soon there would be no room or space for other people's skeletons.

      At the same time, Fyodor Dostoevsky retreated accompanied by two large orderlies, and this made it clear to Fukuchi that Mori did not recognize the criminal as sane and kept him for treatment, which was not surprising. But the reason was interesting: what had so caught the eye of the elderly brunet that he, after only one conversation, summoned the orderlies, who, in fact, took Dostoevsky somewhere?

     - What does that mean? - Yukichi asked Ogai, who was standing in the doorway watching Dostoyevsky being taken away.

      - You said yourself that if you put him on trial like that, he'd be sent to a place where he'd be treated. And I don't agree to give up such a beauty to just anyone. – Ogai shrugged his shoulders.

      - You can't just leave him like that. – The old detective said indignantly.

      - Why not? As a psychiatrist, I have that power. If I think a patient needs constant observation and full treatment, I can forcefully keep him in my hospital. – Ogai reasoned and explained his action. - We both realize that he is a danger to society with his super-value ideas, and prison won't help.

      - Since when did you become kind-hearted and help people just like that? - Fukuzawa questioned.

      - He's a valuable individual, but to confirm that, I'll need to do more tests. – Mori replied, his grin indicating that his intentions were not good.

      - Just don't let him out of here.

      - Well, Fukuzawa... I think this kid's going to be here a lot longer than you realize.

Chapter Text

Наши чувства

- бесконечные раны,

и за светским миром

дрожащий от боли

      The human psyche is prone to confusion because people's minds are too limited to understand the world around them. So many variables, so many uncertainties... It's easy to fall into delusion from this, to create the illusion of certainty to protect one's sanity. But that's the human way. We'd be crazy without illusions.

      Does this mean that Mori Ogaya's mental hospital is actually a gathering of healthy people, that they see the world as it is, without fantasies or illusions? Or could it also mean that their illusions have overpowered their minds, creating a different world that is invisible to anyone but the insane?

       There's no definitive answer to all of this, but there are hundreds of opinions that are somewhat similar to each other. Except that most opinions are just delusional fantasy, not truth, but we like to pretend they are.

      - Kouyou-sama, how long have you been working here? - Osamu inquired.

      - Yes," the nurse replied briefly.

      - How many patients are there in the ward?

      - There are two, four, and six-bedded rooms in the psychiatric ward where you'll be treated. – Koyo informed him without thinking. She remembered it well, since she had been assigned to the hospital during her first practicum at the university. And she probably knew the business of the place better than Mori did, and who better than the head nurse to know about it, anyway.

      - No singles? - The suicidal man wondered, causing goosebumps to run down Koyo back.

      "There are. Isolators." - She thought before answering. But the image that popped into her mind was not of a normal isolation ward, but of the exact one that only Dostoevsky had been placed in. Of course, it was clear that Ogai disliked his patient for a reason known to many, but still, sometimes he overdid it....

      - There are no such rooms in our ward. – She lied, not wanting to mention the one room that was next to the general shower room, which was locked not only with a key, but also with a metal deadbolt, over which was a chain and a massive padlock.

      - Where is there one? - Osamu asked again.

      - Here we are, I'll give you a tour! - The head nurse changed the subject, opening the door leading into the busy ward and letting Osamu walk forward.

      As Osamu entered, Koyo closed the door behind him.

      - There are patient rooms to the left, so you'll be in one of them. – She pointed down the hallway. It seemed longer than expected. Dazai raised his eyebrows for a moment, but then returned his cheerful mask, and nodded, as a sign that the nurse had been heard, but still kept his gaze on the white, thin doors that blended into the wall and had a decent distance between them, thinking about something.

      Anticipation and anxiety scratched not only his soul, but his insides as well, causing a mild bout of nausea.

      Dazai Osamu wasn't the kind of person who was intimidated by the unknown. He was used to relying on it without making any plans. After all, the guy considered himself more of a natural improviser than a careful planner. Therefore, the feelings he was experiencing now were new to him. Here he could not hide his gut behind a mask on a permanent basis, protecting himself. He was very worried about the question: would this place really accept him for who he was? A man who doesn't want to live, but who also finds it hard to die.

     - Come on, I'll show you the rest room and the rest of it. – Koyo snapped the suicidal man out of his thoughts, causing him to flinch a little, like a cat stealing sour cream from its master's bowl.

      - Ah, yes... yes, - chasing away the bad thoughts, he shook his head negatively, making the head nurse frown.

      - Is everything alright? - She asked.

      - Sure! Come on, let's go! - Winking at her, he puts his hands behind his head and starts walking forward. The nurse exhaled disapprovingly, but followed. Now it seemed that it was not she who was showing him around the ward, but he had become the tour guide.

      The recreation room resembles more of a hall that interrupted the central corridor.

      - It's a recreation hall, not a room after all... - Osamu remarked.

      - A lounge? - Koyo questioned.

      - Right. Or a rest corridor, but not a room. There isn't even a door or wall that separates it from the point where the medical officer on duty is! - Dazai begins to explain. - And a room. – He draws a rectangle in the air with the index fingers of both hands. – Is by definition a separate special purpose room. Which means that this is the hall part of the corridor that unites the whole department.

      It wasn't just Koyo who was surprised, as Dazai's speech also attracted the other patients who were watching TV, playing checkers, or reading books in the lounge.

      - What we need here is a strangler...– The red-haired guy sighs unhappily, sitting half-turned on the couch with his hand on the back of the couch. Laughs erupted from the other patients.

      - Chuya! - Exclaimed Koyo, to which he raises his hands in a gesture of surrender, and goes back to watching TV.

      Dazai frowns. He wants to reply something in the same manner as Chuya, but decides it's not worth it in front of Koyo.

      - Don't worry, it's fine. Your comment is pretty true, I think I'll discuss the matter with Mori and we'll rename this place. – Koyo informed him softly, placing a hand on Osamu shoulder. - You'll get to know the others later. Right now we still have a few important places to see, – Dazai nodded obediently, following the nurse and making a note in his head about the red-haired guy named Chuya.

      They didn't walk long, less than a minute.

      - This is the art therapy room," the head nurse noted the function of the room, opening a door that was different from all the others. It was painted, most likely by hand, with delicate patterns and lines in a variety of colors, shimmering and flowing from one color to another. - Here, in your free time, you could express your feelings and emotions in the form of drawing, sculpting, playing musical instruments.

      He paid no attention to what was being said to him, his gaze running from one object to another, studying not only the objects but also the people who were there.

      The study itself was quite large. At the far end of the room was a grand piano, behind which sat a skinny guy about Osamu's age who had light colored hair, ash blond to be exact. His hair itself was cut asymmetrically, as long as his ears. There was a table next to the piano, where the person who controlled this creative chaos was supposed to sit, but the place was empty for some reason. Everything else was in no particular order: desks with chairs, of which there were about four, were scattered chaotically, and only one was free, the others were already occupied by the sick, molding something from plasticine, drawing or making origami from paper.

      It was also impossible not to notice several easels with unfinished paintings or empty canvases. Of the musical instruments there was not only a grand piano, but also a guitar and something like drums.

      "With a set like this, you could put together a whole musical group," – Osamu thought, moving his gaze from one corner of the room to another. He stopped at a lonely cello, which even had its own stand and a specially designed chair with a beautifully patterned backrest that was covered in black velvet. This corner seemed empty, there were no patients hanging around it, and there were no extra objects, except for another chair, which looked much simpler.

      - Can you play? - Koyo asked, noticing Osamu's interest.

      - No, I can only listen. – The brown-haired man shrugged.

      - When Dr. Christie returns, she'll be sure to interest you in something. – The nurse smiled softly, remembering her colleague's elegant appearance.

      - Dr. Christy? - The brown-eyed man asked, glancing around the office once more, looking for someone in a white coat, only to notice that everyone there was barefoot or in slippers, and the entire floor was covered with a soft green carpet that mimicked grass. Several cabinets that usually held books were here filled with jars of pencils and felt-tip pens and paints and whatnot.

      - Yes, Dr. Christy Agatha. She runs the place, but she's away for a while. But while she's gone, Ace is in charge. – She pointed to the guy at the piano. - If you're interested in anything, you can talk to him.

      - He's a doctor? - Osamu asked incredulously, which caused Koyo to laugh a little. It wasn't in offense, but something natural that came from the very soul.

     - Are you always this perceptive? No, he's Mr. Mori and Mrs. Christie's personal assistant.

      - I see. – Dazai answered, making a mental note to himself again.

      - We'll have lunch soon, so I'll show you to your room first, and then we'll go to the food hall.

      - I'll go to the ends of the earth with you. – Dazai said, turning on his heels to leave, hands in his pants pockets.

      Ozaki sighed and followed. If she hadn't been a longtime employee of this place, she might have assumed that Yosano was mistaken and Osamu wasn't depressed at all, but the mask of cheerfulness was cracking at the seams, showing the world the facial twitching when the suicidal man smiled, or his trembling hands, which he kept trying to put somewhere else to avoid drawing attention to them. The tired look and the worn glint in his eyes.

      It had always been difficult for Koyo to behave professionally with members of the depressive personality disorder.

      People often attribute to themselves the presence of depression, confusing this state with apathy. But it is unbearable to realize when a person continues to ruin himself, because depression is so ingrained that it consumes all his insides unnoticed neither by the patient, nor by others, until the end....

      "It's a bit like cancer, which hides to the extreme and only becomes visible at the fourth stage. And only a few people manage to get out of it. It's a good thing he has a chance to improve his condition," the nurse pondered, until she was shouted down by the voice of the doctor on duty.

      - Ozaki, he's been placed in room five.

      - Yes, okay, thank you! - She replied.

      - Ward five? - Osamu is interested.

      - Yes, you'll live with two other patients.

      - Who?

      - Atsushi, Poe, and Gogol. –  She listed.

      - You said three names, but you said I'll be staying with two... – Osamu frowned.

      - Gogol hardly ever appears in his room. He moved in with Dostoevsky. – Ozaki rubbed her forehead, as if the memory of Gogol would give her a headache.

      - Oh, I was wondering about that! - The suicidal man began. - Who is this, your Dostoyefsky? - He asked, pronouncing the surname in the Japanese manner, which caused a soft smile at the nurse. After all, the nursing staff used to pronounce it the same way. However, soon everyone learned to pronounce it correctly, because it sounded in these walls with enviable frequency.

      - Patient on ward eight. But nothing special, he's just a rather willful man, that's all.

      - And Gogori? - Dazai asked, again twisting the Russian surname in the Japanese manner.

      - He's willful, too. Each of you has your own peculiarities that we help you deal with. – She replied softly, clearly making it clear that she had no desire to talk about the bipolar, he was manic at the moment, and the person who could calm him down was in isolation.

      "The devil himself sent those two Russians here." – Mory joked on the subject, forgetting that he was the devil himself.

Chapter Text

what could be stupider

than a stupid goody-goody?

       The room was fortunately quiet and peaceful, but that was only because Gogol was busy cleaning Dostoevsky's room, which had been trashed by an orderly looking for the keys.

      The room was spacious and had a separate bathroom with a washbasin. Each wall had two beds and small bedside tables for storing some personal belongings that did not violate the rules of the hospital. Against the right wall from the door were Atsushi and Po's sleeping quarters. The former watched the newcomer with interest, hesitating to speak. Though he clearly wanted to, his inner anxiety was stopping him.

      "Should I speak first? What if I say the wrong thing? What if he gets angry?" - He rummaged among his thoughts.

Atsushi Nakajima

A severe form of PTSD. Acute form.

- Let's get acquainted! I'm Dazai Osamu, but you can just call me Dazai. – The suicidal man walks over to Atsushi, extending his hand to shake, smiling radiantly.

      - P...nice to meet you, just Dazai. – Nakajima stopped talking for a moment as he realized what he had said, and a slight chuckle escaped Osamu's lips. - Oh, I'm sorry, please don't be mad! - Parries the alarmist, feeling a blush of embarrassment rush to his face, making his cheeks redden. He feels like the heating in the hospital has been abruptly turned up to full blast, making the air in the room much hotter and hotter. Dazai winks at him, still holding out his hand for the guy to shake.

      - It's okay, don't worry, I don't bite. So what did you say your name was?

     - I'm Atsushi Nakajima. – The blond man replies, but he doesn't shake his hand. The suicidal man continues to stand until a blond-haired young man bursts into the room, theatrically pretending to be tired and wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead.

      - Oooh, Atsushi! You're the one who's going to help me! You don't know how tired I am of cleaning Doshika's chambers by myself! - Nakajima flinches at the sudden and harsh sound, and his eyes start running around, looking for salvation at the walls, nightstands, windows, beds, but then he comes upon Dazai and asks for help with an almost pleading look. Osamu would have loved to save him, except he didn't understand how or from what. At the same time, a white-haired guy with a fancy hat made of paper, or rather someone else's notes, on which neither language nor handwriting was legible, falls to the floor near Atsushi's bed. Nakajima bounces in place and slides off the bed, making a quick dash for the door of the room, muttering something like:

       - I'm sorry, I have to go, I have to go, I... I have to go, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

      The situation looked very comical and funny in Dazai's eyes, only if you didn't remember where he was and why.

      - Oh, poor me! Poor me! - The unfamiliar blond-haired guy sobbed, but after glaring at Osamu, he jumped up and grabbed both of his hands with his palms. Such unexpected physical contact makes even the tactile suicidal guy's eyes widen in surprise. - I don't know who you are! But clearly God sent you to me! Let's go! Come on! Help me.

       Osamu doesn't even have time to recover from the shock as he is already being led down the corridor, holding both his hands tightly. However, at the moment of realization he stops like a stumbling block, which the activist obviously did not expect and almost flew face first into the floor.

      - What are you doing? - He asks, keeping his balance and turning to face the kidnapped man. Now Dazai had a chance to look at the stranger's facial features; his eyes were multicolored, one blue like a clear summer sky, the other green like a swamp, both glowing with happiness that made the suicidal man a little sad that he looked so much worse than he did. Even his face-grown and cracked mask of cheerfulness didn't save....

      - Would you be willing to explain who you are and where you're taking me?

     - Tz, you're just like him... - The blond man with multicolored eyes tsked. - No time, I'll answer all the questions on the spot! We need to get this place in order by the time he gets back! God must not be angered! Come on, let's go! Please! - He practically whimpered his last words. The white-haired man seemed like a child asking his parent to buy him a toy that was "vital" to him.

      - Are you going to answer everything? - Osamu grins smugly. He realizes that he can't rely on this strange guy's words, but it's something, because there was no other way to find out everything about the place he was brought to.

      - Whatever you want! - He answered, grabbing the brown man's arm again and leading him to room eight, the door of which was wide open. The room was no different from the others, except for the mess that the blond was obviously trying to fix. Books, various records, letters, notebooks - all this decorates the floor. But now it becomes clear what the blond man's hat was made of, which was obviously holding on by a fair word, sliding off to the side.

      - Come in, sit down. Ask questions. – Said the stranger.

     - I thought you wanted me to help you clean this place up. – Osamu marvels, walking over and looking around the room. The heterochromia guy starts to gather notes, trying to restore the order of the pages and answering the brown-eyed man in parallel:

      - Absolutely right. I... I... well, anyway, you know, it's hard for me to do anything alone, so you're going to help by talking to me! No, need another one, one, two, three, seven.

      Things were getting a lot more interesting at this point.

      - As you wish. – Osamu replies, stepping over the books and notes so as not to inadvertently step on something that might have been important to someone.

      - NO! ON THE OTHER BED! - Shouts the guy, only to have the suicidal man lower himself onto the previously neatly made bed, as if everything had been ironed a couple minutes ago. Dazai raises his eyebrows, looking puzzled at the blond who was still looking for the right order of pages, but still moved, rolling his eyes and nodding "judgmentally" in a barely perceptible way.

      - What's your name?

      - Nikolai Gogol.

      - Ah, the one... - Sighing, Dazai replies, snuggling more comfortably on the bed.

Nikolai Gogol

Bipolar Affective Disorder,

current episode of hypomanic state.

      - That one? - Gogol interjects, picking up other scribbled pages of yellowed sheets.

      - Never mind. It's just that it's my first day here and they told me you're my roommate. – Osamu explains, but Gogol doesn't reply; only when he's finished with the sheets does he begin to reassemble the letters.

      - Oh! Found it! - Gogol rejoices when he finds a letter that looks more like trash.

        "He won't even listen to me, and he promised to answer questions..." - Pondering, Dazai lay down on the bed, preparing himself for the fact that Nikolai wouldn't just let him go, and he wasn't in the mood to resist at all, so... Why not just rest?

      - I wondered why I didn't recognize you. I thought I'd lost my mind. Going crazy in a mental institution. Ironic, isn't it?

      - Why are you cleaning his room? - Not that Dazai cares too much about it. In truth, he doesn't care at all, but he hasn't come up with a smarter question yet.

      - Who else but me? People need someone to take care of them just as much as everyone needs someone to take care of them. We, people, are social creatures, and living alone, we can die as hermits. – Nikolai sighed, tying up the letters with black ribbon, and looked at Osamu, who thought that Gogol had even lost the former luster in his multicolored eyes. The blond now seemed extremely calm, which was at odds with his first impression of him. The bipolar smiled sadly and faintly at his thoughts before finishing his speech. - From this I am sure that even God needs someone to take care of him.

       After such a speech, even Osamu's indifference is sidelined, giving way to interest.

      "What kind of relationship these two have..." - A thought slips into his mind, but is immediately lost among the others.

      - Why do you call him God? Is he like someone whose name you can't say? - The suicidal man joked and laughed at his own reference.

      - Why? I don't know. He's just God. He's so out of reach, yet so close you can reach your hand. And God... that's an old nickname around here. He's not a religious man, but he's a believer. But his faith is his own, and it's so beautiful that he's not afraid to die for its advancement. Even on the contrary, if I knew that my death would help somehow, I would give my life without a second thought. - Nikolai talks about it all so enthusiastically, as if he were talking about a favorite book or movie. No, it's as if he's describing the greatest work of art in the whole world. It seemed that even his mental illness was going away, but another one was coming... An obsession, and it was so strong that it was frightening. Fyodor Dostoevsky's frighteningly beautiful power to influence the human mind.

      - It's all very interesting, of course...

      - Isn't it? Are you interested? When Dosik is released, I'll tell him to talk about it! He'll be very happy, – Gogol interrupted Dazai without letting him finish, and began to sort through the mess with even more pleasure.

      - No. Thank you, of course, but it's not necessary. I'm not interested in that sort of thing. I'm an atheist to the core," Dazai protested.

      - Too bad, too bad! - Nikolai sighed. - But it's your choice. Fedosya always says that you can't impose your faith. Who is interested, you can talk to him and discuss it, but if a person refuses, then do not push on his mind. - Gogol thinks for a moment, then adds: - "I can give you faith, but I cannot take away the mind. You are not a puppet to play with," Nikolai quotes the psychopath. - He has reminded me of this so often... And even while realizing that I will not gain freedom in my lifetime, only death will grant it to me. I can't help but nourish the hope that even now I am free to some extent. After all, I have a mind and am not a game piece in a chess game.

Chapter Text

Faithful words are not graceful.

Pretty words are not credible.

trust. Kind is not eloquent.

      The words poured from Gogol's lips, filling the room with an unsettling calm. The way Nikolai perceived "freedom" and correlated it with death made Dazai think about himself. After all, the suicidal man didn't really want to die, but he didn't have much desire to live in this world either.

       "What if I just want to be free too?" - Osamu thought as he listened to Gogol in the background, looking up at the ceiling.

      - Done! - The bipolar exclaimed, rising to his feet, causing his hat to fall to the floor, but he didn't even pay it any mind. Dazai lifted his head lazily, looking first at Nikolai and then at the room, which had become more tidy. Now that the mess wasn't a distraction, he could get a good look at the details.

     There was an old rug on the floor, in an unusual and obviously old style that filled the entire center of the room. The bed was perfectly made, with a wooden bedside table beside it. This part was not unlike his chamber. But looking around the area near the bed, where he was actually sitting, one could see on his right side a large, no, not just large, but a massive bookcase. It looked like it had been dragged from some private library. Each shelf was filled with books of old editions, with the occasional glimpse of the light and sleek covers of modern works.

      Osama had always been attracted by the windows, and this time their appearance struck him: like his chamber, there were two windows here, but the difference was that they were protected by metal bars on the outside, as if to prevent escape.

       The daylight from them fell on a small table beneath the windows, looking more like a desk from an art therapy room. But the clutter on it was untouched by Gogol, sheets of paper, pens, a jar of ink....

       "Whoa. A can of ink?! Someone still uses ink pens?" - Mentally, Dazai was surprised, showing it even with his appearance. He raised his eyebrows to his forehead but said nothing, immediately regaining his carefree expression.

      - But the table is still a mess. - Osamu said, getting up from the bed and walking over to the table. - You must be tired, let me help you. - Osamu was surprised at his own initiative, because if there was an opportunity to avoid doing something, he would take it. Right now, however, he still wanted to examine what was on the other person's desk-desk. He reached for the ink jar, but was stopped by Gogol's voice, making him freeze in place like a child trying to steal candy before dinner.

       - He'll deal with it himself, let's go, it's lunchtime! - Nikolai turned the suicidal man around and lightly pushing his hands against his back led the brown-haired man out of the room into the corridor.

      - Somehow your desire to help has abruptly disappeared... - The brown-eyed one again remarked, not resisting at all, but looking over his shoulder at the table, which disappeared behind the bipolar's back.

      - It's not missing at all. – The blond replied with a shrug. - But there are some things you can't touch in there, and his desk is one of them. - Goosebumps ran down Nikolai's skin, making his body shudder unpleasantly, as if chasing away unpleasant memories. - Okay! Let's go to lunch! - The bipolar headed forward down the hallway, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the suicidal man was following him. Osamu rolled his eyes in frustration and caught up with Gogol, taking one last look at the open door to room eight, which seemed to be inviting the suicidal man to return.

      The canteen was a little farther from the art therapy room, but more precisely, down the corridor straight ahead, then to the left, and on the right side was a large white double door. Nikolai opened one part of the door with his right hand, putting his left hand behind his back at first, but then, bowing like a butler or a porter, he made an inviting gesture inside with the same hand, accompanying it all with a slight chuckle, covering the smile with his white hair. Dazai, on the other hand, also let out a chuckle as he entered the dining room.

      The room, surprisingly, was quite large and spacious, not at all like it was described in books and movies. There were no long metal tables or flat wooden benches.

      "So this is what it's like to see it once rather than hear it a hundred times." – Osamu thought.

       The dining room looked like a suburban cafeteria, except that there were no waiters or other workers scurrying around.

       Small round tables that seat two or three people, large windows decorated with flower pots. The walls were painted not only with patterns, but also with flowers and clouds. The drawings on them were not childish at all, for there was a sense of subtlety and grace in them, and only in some places it grew into something ridiculous and a little rough.

       - Do you like it? - Gogol asked, noticing Osamu's somewhat admiring look.

      - Yes, it's quite beautiful. Did one of the patients draw this? - Dazai asked, walking deeper into the room, studying the surroundings. Many of the tables were already occupied, some were eating alone, focusing on their food, and at some tables the patients and staff were sitting in small groups, chatting and making a low murmur.

     - Almost. - Nikolai grinned, as if the murals were his handiwork. - It's all the work of our sweetest Agatochka! You haven't seen the children's ward yet!

      - Nikolai, Mrs. Christie is one of the most valuable doctors in this hospital. It's very rude of you to say her name in such a vulgar way, - Mori corrected Gogol, stopping next to them holding a tray with food. - Hello again, Dazai. Have you been shown everything? I see you've already met the neighbors.

      - Mrs. CRISTI - Gogol put emphasis on the doctor's surname, his tone seemed quite serious, but changed to childish as soon as he continued speaking. - She herself let me call her that! - He put his hands in the pockets of his hospital pants and swayed from heel to toe, for a complete picture he only lacked to show Ogai his tongue, then Nikolai would really look like a child teasing an adult. The childish patient's face glowed with smugness and joy, as if he had been waiting for the moment when he could boast of this achievement to someone. But he'd obviously picked the wrong person to brag to. Mori, on the other hand, kept his composure and rolled his eyes, ignoring the patient and focusing his attention on Osamu.

     - Mori-san, thank you, it's okay. - Osamu jumped into the conversation, sensing the heat between the two of them. - Would you like to have lunch with us?

      - Well, that's fine, if you have any problems or just want to talk, my office is always open for you, –  the neurosurgeon nodded to himself, – from nine in the morning until eight in the evening. Now I have to go, I promised to visit the pediatric ward today. Enjoy your meal. - Throwing one last unhappy look at Gogol, he headed for the exit with a tray of food.

      - OH, YOU'RE HERE TO SEE ELISE. SAY HELLO TO HER! - With a shout, which was noticed by almost everyone in the dining room, Gogol saw Ogai off. It sent an unpleasant, but barely perceptible to the human eye, shiver down the psychiatrist's spine from the many stares.

Mori Alice

Gorlin-Goltz syndrome¹.

medulloblastoma²,

associated with a mutation in the SUFU gene.

      - Alice? - Osamu was surprised.

      - Yes, the sweetest girl. - The bipolar began to answer, approaching the food distribution area, but stopped for a moment, as if brushing invisible dust off Dazai's shirt collar, Gogol leaned in to the suicidal man's ear and so that no one but Osamu could hear, continued:

      - Mori and Agatochka's daughter. - Dazai's eyebrows furrowed and his eyes looked at Nikolai in an incredulous squint. Things at the healing center were far more interesting than he could have imagined.

      Dazai was the kind of man who liked to listen to rumors and people's stories. He always enjoyed picking out the truth from what he heard. Parsing it into detail was a great help in relieving boredom and testing his mental faculties.

      - Oh, sweet Margaret! Light of my eyes! What are we having for dinner? - Flirting, the bipolar turned to the young girl with blond hair, which was gathered in a neat bundle on the back of her head, and her cornflower eyes did not express any emotions except fatigue and some arrogance and discontent.

      - If you keep playing the jester, you'll be out of dinner. And I don't remember that you and I have ever been on a first-name basis. Next. - Margaret answered coldly, shifting her gaze to Dazai as she put something on his plate.

      - А... - Osamu opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn't keep up with Gogol. He hadn't seen something like this in a long time. Usually, it was the other way around, not many people could keep up with him.

      - My heart is broken again! You will be the cause of my next depressive episode! - The bipolar man continued to theatricalize.

      "What am I doing this for? Oh, we can have a party in the break room! I'm so tired, after all, but it feels like if I act calm, the amount of energy will eat me up from the inside out. Or should I read a couple books at the same time? We should ask Yosano to change or increase the dosage of medication. What if we set up speed dating between the female and male wards? Eh...still while Fedor is away, it's no fun to annoy others with my behavior. I'll only get that I'll get a reprimand from the nurses and... I don't care, after lunch I'll organize a checkers tournament!", - Nikolai reasoned in parallel to the theater of one actor, confused in his own train of thought.

      - Here you go. - Margaret put two plates on the tray with the first and second, then poured tea into a cup and placed it between the plates and handed it all to the patient. - Only get out of my sight.....

      Gogol picked up the tray and let Osama pass forward, bowing respectfully to Margaret and the suicidal man, waiting for the second.

      - The new guy? - Asked the food service manager, pouring soup into her plate, not that she was really interested, but still, knowing the patients was part of her duties.

      - Uh-huh. - Nodded Osamu, taking the tray of food. Remembering that Margaret wasn't a talkative lady, and that a couple of silly words could mean no lunch or dinner, or maybe that only applied to Gogol? But never mind, it's better not to check.

      The suicidal man and the bipolar man take a vacant table. The second of the two of them gets right down to eating, and Osamu has long since gotten used to the feeling of hunger, not counting the rare moments when apathy left him and he ate until he felt sick. The food looks appetizing, but Dazai swirls his spoon around the plate stirring the soup with small pasta and small pieces of cooked chicken.

      - Why don't you eat it? It's delicious! - Finishing directly from the plate liquid remnants of soup, asks Nikolai.

      - I don't feel like it. - Engrossed in stirring the liquid, Osamu replies.

     - It's no good. It's not a matter. It's better to eat, or they'll write you up as a Rpp-ishniki! - The bipolar nods over his right shoulder, telling Dazai to look over there. He obeyed.

Tetcho Suehiro

Selective eating disorder.

Cachectic stage of Anorexia.

      A not-so-pleasant picture appeared before his eyes. A young boy with dry, brittle and sparse brown hair that was out of shape and barely covered his half bald skull. His bangs (if, indeed, it could be called bangs, and not the remnants of them broken off because of their fragility) fell over his pale, earthy-colored face. His thinness was frightening, and even his hospital clothes were too big for him, as if they were held together only by his bones. One hand lay impotently on the chair under the table, and the other, barely touching, clung to the drip, looking for some support in it. He didn't eat, the nurse fed him from a spoon and said something as if she was begging him to eat at least another spoonful. He grimaced, but still took a little broth from the spoon placed in his mouth.

      All he had to eat was a bowl of soup, a glass of water, and something in a plastic cup that looked like yogurt.

     "If I eat one more spoonful, I'll die. I think my stomach is about to burst... Maybe death isn't so bad? The food tastes so bad, and I'm not hungry at all. I'd like to get up and leave... But I don't have the strength to move a finger. Sleep. I want to sleep so badly, but my teeth hurt so much, I hope they won't fall out anymore, there's not much left. But if I don't have teeth, I won't be fed... No, they will put food through the tube in my stomach again, and the stitch has just healed..." - Tetcho  flew in his thoughts, glancing indifferently at the spoon in front of him. The smell of food made him feel nauseous and gave him fits of vomiting.

      The voices in the dining room seemed to be getting louder and louder... He wanted to cry and scream, but there was no strength even to squeeze out a simple "A" sound.

       As he sipped some more broth from the spoon, he bent in half, grunting in pain, almost jamming his nose into the plate, but the nurse managed to push it away, beckoning to the orderlies who were chatting with Margaret.

Auntie folded with the last of his strength, pressing his skinny arms against his stomach, and his spine peeked through his shirt. The anorexic's entire body was throbbing with a slight shiver. His eyes grew dark at times, then everything floated in a gritty, smudged mess. His breathing became heavy causing a sense of panic and that he was about to pass out, but no....

      The food he'd just consumed began to come back up, first bubbling out of his throat, then accompanied by a tugging pain, all the clear liquid he could fit in his stomach began to spurt out, mingling with the orange lumps of bile. Filling the dining hall with sounds of grunting and coughing, as if Suehiro were about to choke on his own vomit.

      The patients paid little attention to it, only the most suspicious of them leaving as soon as possible before the meal was over. The nurses and orderlies fussed around the unfortunate man, trying to help him without hurting the frail fellow even more. After stopping the vomiting, Tetcho was placed in a gurney chair and wheeled away.

      - He doesn't usually eat with everyone, but sometimes there are exceptions. Are you going to eat? If not, give it to me! - Gogol winked at Dazai, reaching for his plate. The suicidal man unconsciously moved his plate closer to him, chasing away bad thoughts, and still ate, casting a frown at his interlocutor. Bipolar smiled smugly, as if he had expected such a reaction from the start.

      In fact, not many people knew, but the appearance of Tetcho Suehiro in the public areas of the ward was one of the adaptive moments for newcomers to the general psychiatric ward.

      It was Mori Ogai's idea. He came up with the idea when he noticed that new patients often refused to eat because they did not feel comfortable in their new environment or for other reasons.

      So he saw nothing wrong in using the example of one patient to show the others what would happen to them if they refused to eat, for one reason or another.

       There were, of course, those who were attracted to such thinness, but they were not ready to lose all viability....

      Dazai Osamu himself was quite thin, which made it seem to him that he was closer to the future of a living death, who could not even bring a spoon to his mouth or move independently, than other people.

      "If I'm going to die, I'm not going to die like this," thought the suicidal man, crossing out another reason for death that he didn't like, sipping his soup with gusto and a certain pleasure. He realized that every spoonful he ate was moving him further away from anorexia, and he remembered with disgust Tetcho throwing up on the table.

Chapter Text

No pleasure

can be complete

without the knowledge of pain.

      Lunchtime had passed, and with it, Gogol had vanished as if he'd never existed. Or perhaps it was just one of Osamu's more pleasant hallucinations?

      - Why hadn't he changed his clothes yet? Do you like to stand out so much? - The suicidal man sitting on the couch was approached by a red-haired guy of short stature.

      - Oh! You're the one who called me a douche. - I remembered Osama.

      - Me, problem? - Interlacing his arms across his chest asked the redhead, clearly ready for a counterattack.

Chuya Nakahara

Emotionally unstable personality disorder.

Impulsive type.

     - Can you arrange it? - Osamu answered with a question, looking curiously at his spontaneous interlocutor.

      - No way. - Chuya replied, clearly not expecting such a reaction. Though anger was starting to fill him, but the sedatives he's taking helped contain everything inside. So he simply waved his hand away from the suicidal man, and went to his room. Completely forgetting that he had originally approached the newly arrived patient to get acquainted.

      "What was that all about?" - Dazai thought to himself. He rested his head back on the back of the couch, tilting it slightly to the side, scrutinizing everything in sight. A small part of the corridor that caught his eye, patients and nursing staff scurrying about. They were all busy, and he was the only one who didn't know what to do.

      - Oh! – He said with only one lip, as if pleased to see the boy whom Gogol had introduced to him as Tatte Suehiro sitting in a wheelchair. But then a chill ran down his spine at the memory of the puking anorexic in the common dining room.

      Dazai Osamu couldn't stop looking for commonalities with the guy who was so exhausted and weary from his illness. He didn't just look for them, he found them, or he made them up, personally striking another blow to his heart with the whip. But what was more eerie was that when he looked at Tatte, it seemed to him that if not suicidal, this was what he would look like in a couple or three years. Just as ugly and having lost his contrived cheerfulness. The same unsustainable burden on his coworkers. Ballast for the dear Rampo and the much-respected Fukuzawa, whom he could have called his acquired family.

      He could have, but he didn't, for he was afraid to take responsibility, much less place that responsibility on these very fine people....

      Osamu got up from the couch and walked toward the Rpp-chanic, because he seemed so lonely and abandoned that the suicidal man's heart clenched in his chest to such an extent that the pain went like an electric shock through his entire body, subsiding so quickly that he didn't even have time to flinch. He just froze for a moment, ready to lose his mind, or, no, his consciousness. Osamu had lost his mind a long time ago, digging through the shards of his past.

- Hi there, I'm Dazai Osamu, nice to meet you. - The brown-haired man introduced himself softly, afraid to scare away the man who looked more fragile than the vial¹ covering the lake near the healing center.

      - Я... Tatte Suehiro. - The wheelchair guy's voice was hoarse and barely audible, more like a muffled whisper than normal speech, causing Osamu to strain his ears to hear every sound.

      - Why are you here alone? - The suicidal man asked, to which Suehiro only shrugged his shoulder bones.

      - Shall I show you to your room? - Dazai asked again, avoiding the awkward silence. To which the anorexic once again did not answer, but only shook his head slowly and negatively.

      Looking at Tatte, the hypothesis that all his movements, nods, or attempts to speak were causing him unbearable discomfort and barely tolerable pain sprang to mind. That, in fact, was probably why he was sitting there like a hunched, motionless statue of a sufferer.

      Osamu wanted to say something else, but a nurse came up to them, giving Osamu a disapproving look, and drove Tatte down the hallway. In the end, the suicidal man had no choice but to follow them with a sad gaze until the nurse drove him to the ward that was the farthest away.

      - Death row. - Someone informed Osamu as they stopped beside him.

      - Huh? – Osamu didn't know what he was talking about and looked up at the stranger, a tall man with black, disheveled hair that covered his face, leaving only the tip of his nose and narrow mouth visible in a tired smile.

      - You've been watching Suehiro, haven't you? He's on death row. - The brunet explained.

      - Death row? - Dazai asked. - You mean he's going to die?

      - Yeah, people like him are kind of suicidal. Both of them are the stupidest people. It is necessary to not value your life so much, to bring yourself to the meeting with death voluntarily and by your own hand. - The brunet pondered in his ear, nodding his head disapprovingly, not even aware that one of those whom he had so reproached was standing right in front of him. - It doesn't matter, we'll all end up there. They're keeping us here on purpose so they can kill us all. - The brown-haired man was a little nervous, scratching the skin on his arm with the only nail on his pinky finger that hadn't been chewed off. - I'm Edgar Allan Poe, by the way, but you can just call me Poe. How about you?

Edgar Allan Poe

Paranoid form of schizophrenia.

Episodic type.

      - Nice to meet you, I'm Dazai Osamu. What do you mean, "we'll all end up there"? - The brown-haired man quickly put Po's musings out of his mind, so he decided it wasn't worth it to pry into the brunet's mind with an excuse and an explanation that he had formed the wrong opinion regarding people with suicidal behavior. However, the brown-eyed man was interested in the words about the so-called death row.

     - You'll find out later. Why did I even come here? Be careful, we're being watched. Even walls, windows, doors and other furniture have eyes and ears. - Po tells Osamu in a whisper.

      - What are you talking about? - Dazai is surprised.

      - Shh. They're watching. It's dangerous to discuss it here. - Edgar replies, putting his index finger to his lips. The brunet turns around and walks away, casting suspicious glances at the staff, the furniture, the patients.

      "How lucky I am to have roommates." - Osamu smirked to his thoughts.

      The day dragged on for a long time. The suicidal man chatted with someone in the recreation room, or wandered the corridors. He got used to the atmosphere quickly, and even made some new, unreliable acquaintances, and not only in the person of Gogol. Who, by the way, never appeared again, but disappeared somewhere.

      In the evening, many of them went to their rooms, but Dazai stood at the nurse's station near the recreation room, waiting for the medication Yosano had prescribed.

      Behind the counter sat a pretty, young girl, with neat facial features and pale, almost alabaster skin, and her long and fluffy eyelashes emphasized the beauty of her gray eyes. A mole under her left one added a certain elegance to it. She had a straight nose, slightly upturned towards the tip, and plump lips. Black, lilac-tinged hair that was gathered into a low, neat ponytail.

      - Why are you looking at me like that? - A little embarrassed, asked the brunette, clearly not used to male attention.

      - You are so beautiful that I can not take my eyes off you. May I know the name of such a beautiful girl? - The flirtatious Dazai.

      - Naomi Tanizaki. Here you go, Yosano-sama prescribed this medicine for you. - She replied, averting her gaze, but then gathering her thoughts, she handed Osamu one cup with a few pills inside and another with water.

      - What a marvelous name. What are the pills? - The suicidal man inquired.

      - And this... - She was about to answer, but she was just in time to recover from the patient's charms. - That's a question for your doctor to answer. Please, drink this and get some rest. The first day is always hard.

      - Here's to you, then! - Dazai shrugged his shoulders, winking at the nurse. He pours the water from one glass into another glass with pills, stirs it with a circular motion of his hand so that the pills come off the bottom, and swallows it in one gulp. Naomi looks at him incredulously. Though all the patients here had quirks, some refused to take their medication, some hid it under their tongue or behind their cheeks, but she had never seen drugs taken in this way before.

      - It's an old habit, and after the last suicide attempt, I can't take my medication in a normal way, it makes me sick. - Explained the suicidal man, noticing Naomi's confusion. - By the way, do not want to commit a double suicide with a beautiful guy? - Dazai winks at Naomi.

      - You're not feeling well? Let me call Yosano-san, you talk to her and she'll help you. Don't worry, everything will be fine. - The nurse was clearly nervous and reached for the landline phone, wondering whether it was better to call Yosano or the orderlies, or all of them at once. After all, things were very different in the pediatric ward. Not that it was easier to work there, but children were always treated differently than adults.

     - I was just kidding! Why are you all so serious? - Osamu waved his hands in front of him, trying to convince Naomi that it was really a joke. - No suicide within the walls of the hospital, I promised Rampo.

      - You'd better go get some rest, you need to regain your regimen... - Tanizaki replied incredulously. - Hospital clothes and pajamas were left for you on your bed.

      - Thank you, my dear! - Sighing, Dazai replied, glad that he hadn't been sent for brainwashing on the first night.

      When Osamu entered the room, he noticed that Atsushi and Po were already asleep, and Gogol was making something out of paper sitting on the bed.

      - OH, YOU'RE BACK! YAY!!! - Nikolai jumped up from his seat, scattering sheets of paper all over the floor. He ran over to Dazai and hugged him. Suicidnik was a little confused by such a sharp display of tactility, from which he froze like a pillar, flapping his eyes, but did not have time to say anything, because Gogol began to flood him with questions. - How was the day? Have you met someone? Have you already taken your medicine? Are you sleepy? Shall we take a shower?

      - Shower? Both of us? Do you realize how ambiguous that sounds? - The suicidal man clarified, letting all other questions pass his ears. Though he should have paid attention to the question about the medication, which was already starting to take effect.

      My body became more relaxed, and the hum of thoughts subsided, and became clearer. The anxiety had almost disappeared. But the former sadness was still bursting out, as if the drugs were not suppressing it, but rather bringing it up from the depths of his soul where Dazai Osamu had locked it away.

      - Either way, it sounds pretty interesting! You still don't know where the communal shower room is! And I'm so kind, I'm willing to lend a friendly shoulder of help, and continue the day's excursion! - Gogol grabbed a pair of clean towels and pajamas in an armful: his own and Dazai's. Started to lead him out of his room along the hallway until they reached a dead end.

      - What's that? - Osamu asked, pointing to a metal door that was locked with a deadbolt, with a chain and a massive padlock hanging over it. It seemed that cells in prisons were not as well protected as this door, which was opposite the communal shower room and led to nowhere.

      - God is there! - Sadly replied Gogol, touching the lock, but then sharply pulling his hand away as if from an electric shock. - Never mind! Let's go! Or we won't make it to bedtime!

      - God? Stand down? Wait, what? - Osamu couldn't keep up with Nikolai.

      - Never mind, come on, let's go! - If it wasn't for the effects of the drugs the nurse had given the suicidal man, he would have tried to resist. Throwing one last glance at the mysterious door behind which "God" was located, he followed the bipolar into the communal shower room.

      There was nothing special about it. A tiled floor in a blue and white checkered pattern. On one side of the wall were several washbasins with one large, long mirror.

      On the other side were shower stalls that had no doors, but were only separated from each other by wall-like partitions, and polyester multi-colored shower curtains blocked the view of the person being washed.

      Dazai Osamu was a lover of riddles and puzzles, so if it weren't for the effects of the drugs, he would definitely not be fixated on his inferiority and self-pity, but on the mysterious door.

      The hot water burned his skin, but it brought peace rather than pain. From the numerous cuts on the suicide victim's body there were no places without scars. Even his back, which he had scratched with his own hands during his neuroses², was covered with scars.

     - Pa-parara-param... Pa-para-para-para-para. pararam-param-param. - Gogol hummed the motif of some song while taking a shower in a nearby stall, which didn't distract Dazai from his negative thoughts at all.

      "Does this make sense. If the pills help improve my condition, why do I want to die more than before? If only I had more strength.... Except I'm sleepy. Maybe that's what Poe meant when he said we'd all end up on death row. I can't take any more medication, I'd rather kill myself than let myself be killed..." - Reasoned Osamu as the water ran down his body directly onto the tiles.

      After his shower, Dazai returned to the room in the company of an awake Gogol. Immediately falling into bed, he tried to sleep. But the disturbing thoughts never left him. And when the light suddenly turned off, he shuddered from the intensification of inner fear.

      - Lights out. At the nurses' station, there are switches that are connected to all the wards, and every time they turn on and off the lights in the wards, so that we do not break the regime - Nikolai explained, in a cheerful voice.

      - What if someone doesn't want to sleep? - Dazai asked, pulling the blanket over himself and turning onto his side.

      - His problem. They stopped giving me sedatives to avoid addiction because I'd been taking them for so long, I can barely sleep if I've gotten enough sleep during the day. Entertaining myself by making up different scenarios from my life that will never happen. - Gogol's voice was calm and quiet, as if he was talking about something intimate. - But if you plan to do that too, don't mention it to Yosano, as she might attribute additional symptomatology to you, or get used to imposing the delayed life syndrome on yourself³. Try to sleep. It will really help you. - Something like this from Gogol Dazai hadn³'t expected. The bipolar seemed sincere and a little sad.

      - How about you? - Osamu asked with a yawn.

      - At my age, BPA can't be fully cured, but only intermissions⁴ can occur, and they don't last forever. For me it lasts no more than two months, and then I go on a roller coaster ride again, with downs during the depressive episode, and ups during the hypomania. - Gogol rolled over onto his back and stared up at the white hospital ceiling.

      - A depressive episode? - Dazai was surprised - So you're not always so active and cheerful?

      - Huh, of course not, that's why I understand you as well as any other patient with symptoms of depression. The only difference between us is that you still have a chance to live a happy life as a mentally healthy person. Dazai Osamu, I beg you very much, do everything you can to make sure that you and I never meet again in this place. - Nikolai's voice sounded enthusiastic, but he was talking to himself, because the suicidal man fell asleep under his chatter. The bipolar man himself fell silent after a while, tired of talking aloud, he dived into the world of his fantasies, where he was happy and healthy.

      - Are you asleep? What's it like to fall asleep before midnight? - Someone's voice is cold and angry. The suicidal man doesn't answer anything and opens his eyes, but in front of him is not the room where he fell asleep, but the bathroom where he was supposed to die. It is as if he has traveled back in time.

      Dazai looked around. Yes, that's right, this is the moment, everything is in its place, and he's lying all shivering, in the cool water, in the bathtub. The floor is strewn with blades, but only one of them hasn't fallen and Osamu holds it in his hand, preparing to make the first test cut. Except his mind wasn't clouded at all by the analgesic overdose, but clearer than ever before.

      The brown-haired man considered the blade in his hand.

      - What am I doing? Rampo's coming home now! - Dazai put the blade on the extreme corner of the bathroom and glanced at the door.

      - He's not coming. Nobody needs you. Go on, go on, straddle your body so that there's nothing left alive. - Said a dark figure that blended in with the interior, sitting on the sink of the washbasin.

      - Who are you?" Dazai's eyes widened with fear.

      "This is a dream. Just a dream. Just an ordinary nightmare. I just need to wake up." - Dazai thought, pinching his arm, but it didn't help.

      - Wrong question. Better to think not about who I am, but who you are. - The shadow jumped off the sink, and the suicidal man went limp. In front of him stood a complete copy of him, except that in place of the scars, there were fresh cuts all over his body that bled, changing the color of his clothes to a purple hue. The most blood was pouring from the cut on his neck, and then he felt himself gasping for breath.

      He was no longer lying in the bathtub, staring at his reflection in the mirror, who was laughing at his bloody appearance, pointing a finger at Osama. That in turn was grabbing at the cut on his neck, trying to stop the blood.

      The laughter began to spread throughout the empty room, echoing. Fukuzawa, Rampo, Gogol, Yosano, Mori. Figures appeared one after another from the void, pointing a finger at Dazai and snickering at him. The last of the figures to appear was Po.

      - They're gonna kill us all! We're all gonna die! Ahahahahaha! You see, we're all going to die because of them! Murderers! - Screamed Edgar, laughing hysterically, but laughing not at Dazai, but at something else.

      A nasty, loud scream and laughter snapped Dazai out of his sleep, making him realize that the sounds were not coming from inside his head, but from outside.

      He stood up abruptly, shaking his whole body and looking around. Atsushi was crying sitting up, curled up on the bed. Gogol was reading some book, glancing up from time to time. And the source of the sound, Edgar Alan Poe, in a state of psychosis, continued to laugh, scream and break free from the grip of the orderlies who tried to calm him down and inject tranquilizers.

      When the orderlies managed to do their job, the skinny body collapsed in their hands, the noise stopped, and the schizophrenic was taken somewhere.

      - Whoo, minus two for the morning. What fun! - Gogol said, clapping his hands after the orderlies.

Chapter Text

Talking about death

only the dead can speak knowledgeably

only dead people can talk about death knowledgeably.

     Before people die, they mostly think about their past. It's as if they're looking for proof that they really lived. That's how Tatte Suehiro spent his last night.

      He was confused in his thoughts, and trying to figure out where, and when he took a wrong turn.

      Perhaps it started back in his early childhood. When he refused to eat foods he didn't like the look, color, smell, or name of. Or maybe it was when he first encountered and learned how cruel children, or rather classmates, could be, who tore his heart and soul to shreds by mentioning and joking about his sick mother. Or maybe it was a little later, when death took his gastrointestinal cancer-stricken mother, whose suffering he had watched throughout his childhood.

      A feeling of bloating, fullness, satiety after eating small amounts of food. Painful sensations under the spoon. Persistent nausea and a significant decrease in appetite. These are all primary and basic symptoms of cancer... But why does he feel the same, and perhaps even worse.

      Finally lost in thought, Tatte noticed that the odors in the room had become more pungent. But now, in addition to the smell of drugs, disinfectant, and freshness (which the clean bedding smelled like), there were the smells of putrescine¹, ammonia², cadaverine³, and water.

      "Water? Does it have an odor? I'm so thirsty. I should reach for the nurse call button." - He thought, except he couldn't even lift his arm. He stared at the ceiling with his eyes wide open, his pupils running from side to side. Fear, anxiety - these feelings began to consume his mind under the influence of the new flavors. Particularly putrescine, which is the main component of the smell of death - triggering an unconscious defense reaction in humans, causing their bodies to prepare to flee or fight for their lives.

      The human body is a reservoir of a large number of pheromones, which easily give away all the secrets of our body. As soon as there is a malfunction in the life-support systems, our odor is the first to report about the "malfunction". There is one rather interesting receptor in the human body that has been preserved since ancient times. We are able to detect and interpret the smell of death. However, most often it happens on an intuitive level, and does not get the appropriate reaction.

      The moment a person dies, their body "breaks down" and during this process, many scents are released that they can smell - one of which was specifically putrescine.

      Everyone will die one day. Some lucky ones will do so quickly and painlessly, but for most, the process is long and agonizing. Suehiro was one of the majority. Did he know he was going to die that night? No, he thought he would just fall asleep, exhausted from the pain.

      No, not just pains, but pains that could be rated 9.9 out of 10, from which even analgesics did not save him. It was not only the constant weakness and nausea that brought suffering, but also the bones that pressed into his internal organs, because he no longer had a protective fat layer. But the disease was not enough. It demanded more.

      The final symptom of anorexia was death. And in case anyone's forgotten, there's no cure.

      Amidst the commotion in the ward as the orderlies carried the rampaging Poe away, Dazai stepped out into the common hallway. Where things were almost exactly the same as yesterday.

      Patients were sleepily moving about the ward, some already heading for the common room, some returning from the showers after their morning water treatments, some standing at the nurses' station waiting for their medications to be dispensed. Apparently, only Allan Edgar Poe was concerned about what was happening, and he had become psychotic⁴. Even the nursing staff was more calm, only whispering occasionally, discussing something beyond the earshot of others.

      But Osamu could smell the odor that filled everything around him. The sweet smell of death-he'd encountered it many times before when he was on the verge of death. The suicidal man found it disgustingly beautiful.

      He walked down the corridor toward the "death chamber," but before he reached it, he stood frozen to the floor. A gurney was wheeled out of the ward, with a body covered from head to toe with a white cloth. All that was visible was a bony arm that peeked out slightly from underneath it.

      An orderly wheeled the corpse past Osamu. He wasn't fearful, and he'd seen a lot of human deaths, but still, he pressed his back against the door of someone's room.

      The suicidal man stared at the dead Tatte until he was taken to the elevator, which he hadn't even noticed yesterday when he was looking around the ward.

"It's sad, and so frustrating to watch people die. But there's nothing I can do to help." - Osamu thought. There it was - another reminder that human life walks a foot in step with death.

      "Is it nice to look at yourself in the future?" - The suicidal man's inner voice echoed back, interrupting any thoughts.

      Dazai's body no longer rested against the door of the room, but slid downward, no longer feeling the support of the floor beneath his feet, making it rustle. In the room itself, something rumbled and fell, but no more sounds came from there. The suicidal man doesn't pay any attention to it at all.

      He presses himself even harder against the door, covering his ears with his hands to stop hearing the voice. The voice that was eating away at his mind, telling him that Dazai Osamu death was inevitable.

      - Rough morning? - Someone talked to a suicidal person, making anxious thoughts subside, ready to give way to a cheerful Dazai.

      This is the main problem with laureate (hidden) depression. Not only that, during depression, brain functioning changes, the balance of neurotransmitters⁶, brain-derived neurotrophic factor⁷, and synapses⁷ is altered. And also: fatigue, mood swings, depression, insomnia, desolation. But it's all covered up with a mask - "you need to look energetic, cheerful, cheerful. After all, everyone has bad days."

      Osamu lifted his head and looked at the slender guy with medium-length black hair and bangs that fell over his face, covering it to the bridge of his nose. But even it couldn't hide the bags under the brunet's reddened eyes. The sight of him was not that he was unpleasant, rather, caused pity.

Fyodor Dostoevsky

Paranoid psychopathy

introverted look

     - Never mind. He was already a living dead man, all that was left was to count the days until his demise. - Without hearing a reply, the brunet said, leaning with his back against the door of ward number eight, from which Gogol's loud protests could be heard:

      - Oh God! How could I have known that those writings were so important! Let me out! Look what a marvelous hat!

      Fyodor did not react in any way, it seems that he was more than accustomed to such antics, but now he simply did not have the strength to bear Gogol's presence.

      - Can you let him out? - Asked the suicidal man, continuing to sit on the floor, propping the door of someone's room with his back, as if that was the plan.

      - Early. Later. - The brunet nods negatively, frowning with a headache.

      - Early? - Osamu wondered, accidentally banging his head on the door behind him, causing some noise to reappear behind it, which didn't subside soon enough. It felt like someone inside was panicking, trying to figure out what to do.

      - Get up, and you better not bother Cathay, or you won't be able to handle a second death in the morning. - Smirking at his own words, and continuing to lean on the door, not to keep Nikolai behind it, but more for a sense of support, Dostoevsky said.

Katai Tayama

Isolated Sociophobia.

The heperolized type.

      - What? – Dazai blinked, picking himself up off the floor. There were too many things happening too fast in the hospital. Clearly not what the suicidal man had expected from this place.

      - Don't mind him, you'll soon get used to it. - A warm and soft smile seemed to play on Dostoevsky's face. His image could be taken for friendly and open, and his tired appearance could be explained by the effects of the narcotic drug and the night spent in the isolation ward. Although outwardly it was impossible to say that he was experiencing any physical discomfort, but if Fedor could show the world how bad he felt, he would tell about the feeling of stiffness in his muscles, about the fact that the feeling of dumbness still does not leave his body, and especially his hands, after they were fixed by the death shirt without being able to move.

      - I guess it's impossible to get used to it! Just imagine, we're in an asylum! - Dazai chuckled, looking around at himself in his hospital pajamas, Fedor in his hospital robes, and the medical staff in white coats. He looked around rather quickly, until his gaze stopped first at the elevator, and then slid along the corridor, where somewhere in the distance was the death row ward.

     - When he first came to us, he was more lively, and miraculously, I even had a conversation with him. - Dostoevsky reported, noticing the interest of the bandaged brown man.

      - And what did you talk about, if it's not a secret? - Osamu asked, still digesting the information that the man in whom he saw himself from the future had died suddenly.

      - About life, or rather, what awaits us after it. Quite an interesting topic of conversation. - Fyodor's calm voice tuned the conversation, conveying a sense of peace to the interlocutor.

      - Oh, how interesting it must be. - The suicidal man thought. He, like no one else, was close to this topic.

      - More than that. Then I asked him what he wanted to do before he died. - Saying this, Dostoevsky wrinkled his headache, hardly noticeable. Coming off the drugs Ogai had given him had become a habit. But that didn't change the fact that after the neurosurgeon's experiment, all he wanted to do was die, not go through withdrawal after an overdose of narcotic-based drugs.

      - Is that how you memorize everything you're told? What did he say? - Interest flared inside Dazai, and Fedor knew it. Though the psychopath couldn't say that Dazai was as simple as everyone else in this hospital, but the ability to assume a logical course of thought, action, or to simply adjust even to a stranger, was something he knew how to do on a natural level.

      - He said he just wanted to live. That was more than enough for him. - Fedor grinned, feeling Gogol outside the door calm down. - What would you like to do before you die? - Unexpectedly, Dostoevsky asked.

      - Whatever I wish for, it will only continue my suffering in life. - Osamu began to reason. He knew he wished to be understood. Before his death, he would most want to do everything he could to be understood and not judged. - Man fears death, and at the same time longs for it. What in big cities, what in literature - death is omnipresent. Only this moment in life cannot be avoided. It is the one I wish for. - Shaten at first lowered his gaze to the floor, he did not want to show his weakness to the man who had carried him away with his speeches and was now digging into his head. Therefore, he stretched a smile, and winking at Fedor, asked a counter-question. - What do you want to do before you die?

      - Interesting reasoning you have. But isn't death meaningless? - The psychopath answered the question with a question.

      - In this world, everything is a killing of time on the way to imminent death. However, it is more meaningless than life. - The suicidal man continued to ponder, shrugging his shoulders. Dazai Osamu was right. Life makes it possible for things to happen, for things to change. If the only purpose of humans was to create their own kind, without making progress in the world, then life would have the same meaningless significance as death. For death is the end of everything. And only by living can you change the world by solving its mysteries and riddles. - You never said what you wanted to do before you died. - Osamu remarked, to which Dostoevsky grinned tiredly.

       "Amazing man." - A thought slipped through the psychopath's mind. After all, despite the fact that people claim that among them there are those who would rather listen than talk, he realized - it's all lies. Everyone likes to talk, just not on all topics. That's why it had become commonplace for him that in dialogs, even with Mori, interlocutors did not listen to each other, but simply waited for their turn to speak.

    Many people were interested in Fedor's character, but no one got into his soul, because there was nowhere to go. A psychopath, according to public opinion, neither heart nor soul. However, there was only an old closet, where was kept a little boy who believed that even a monster deserves love, but the kid himself never understood, and did not know what this human feeling looks like.

      - I don't want something special. I know that before I die, I will change the world. I will do everything possible and impossible to make it flawless. - There was a note of enthusiasm in Fedor's voice, but it was covered by apathy, anger, and even indifference, which due to his tired body was heard the loudest.

      "So that's why he's 'God'." - Osamu began to mentally correlate Gogol's words with the brunet who had never introduced himself, but everything pointed to the fact that this haggard man with the bandaged arm was Fyodor Dostoevsky, whom he had heard of more than once.

      - Those who believe that a perfect world exists begin to hate the imperfect one and bring pain to those around them. In the name of the ideal of justice, such people always hurt the weak who are caught in their hands. To demand justice from the world is to hold a knife in your hand. You can only stab with it, but you can't protect or save anyone. - Dazai Osamu never believed in an ideal world, he was a realist who grudgingly accepted everything around him. Therefore, he always found idealists amusing. And having realized that Fyodor Dostoevsky was exactly like that, the suicidal man lost all interest in the psychopath, though he could not dispute that he was an interesting interlocutor. - Ah, okay, well, I've got this... Gotta go. - Osamu glanced at the invisible watch on his left arm and quickened his pace to his room, glancing over his shoulder as the psychopath gave a slight chuckle, which was echoed by a pain in his head.

      He took the headache as a sign that he should go back to his room and get at least a few more hours of sleep. Still, Mori had really overdone it this time. He hadn't felt such painful effects in a long time.

       Osamu returned to his room, and how his soul rejoiced when he was able to be alone and digest the whole situation. He'd only been in the mental institution for a little over a day, but he'd already caught death, and felt trapped talking to an idealist. Dazai wasn't a coward, but he felt in his gut that he should stay away from the brunet. After all, he didn't have the same opportunities here as he did at the detective agency....

      "Rampo! Right, I'll have to ask to call him." - Thought Dazai, sitting down on his bed.

      Fyodor Dostoevsky, for his part, opened the door to the chamber, stepping aside as if he knew that Gogol had been standing at the door all this time, and would surely fall down on him. And he was far from being able to hold the weight of a bipolar. And so it happened, Nikolai fell to the floor, Fyodor threw a tired look at him. And nodding his head negatively, he stepped over the bipolar's legs, entering the room.

      - What were you talking about? - Asked Gogol jumping to his feet, but instead of answering, the door closed in front of his face.

- Fedosya! That's not fair! - Nikolai protested, opening the door and entering room number 8.

      - What do you want? - Asked Dostoevsky, not even looking at the blond, laying down in bed.

      - Is he funny? Yes? Well, tell me! I liked him, though. - Bipolar clapped his hands, drawing attention to himself and drawing an image of a suicidal man in his head.

      - Quiet. I've got a headache without you. - Fedor frowned. - There's nothing special or interesting about that guy, though the smell of his emotions is something. - Emitting a slight chuckle Dostoevsky took a more comfortable position, lying on his back.

      - Smell? - Gogol was surprised, raising his eyebrows to his forehead. - I didn't hear any odor...

      - With his face and demeanor, he just reeks of pain and despair. That smell is insanely beautiful. No incense can compare to it. I can't name it specifically, but people smell different things depending on their state of mind. Pain and despair smells like bitter resilience. - The psychopath explained, which caused mixed feelings in Nikolai, and he glanced incredulously at the brunet, who had already fallen asleep.

Chapter Text

I'm erasing with an eraser

the point of no return,

In its place I put c omma

     There is nothing worse than wallowing in the destructive part of your mind. Self-reflection - quite often doesn't bring you out of a bad state, it buries you even deeper.

      Is that really fair? Osamu didn't understand what was happening to him since last night. It seemed like he should be feeling better, but no. It felt like the antidepressants were only making him feel worse. Not only was he more sensitive emotionally, but he had diarrhea and tearfulness. He really wanted to die now. Except the sedatives made him feel like a vegetable, unable to even try to kill himself.

      He had no appetite, and he ate with abandon. As soon as he closed his eyes, or simply thought of refusing to eat, the picture of  Tetcho vomiting would appear before his eyes, and then, as if in fast-forward, he would be taken from the dining room not in a wheelchair, but on a wheelchair bed, covered with a snow-white sheet.

     After lunch, Osamu sat for an individual consultation with the suicidologist doctor Yosano had assigned to him.

      - Good afternoon, my name is Ango Saguchi, a physician suicidologist. I will help you deal with self-harming and suicidal behavior. - Informed Ango to Dazai, getting straight to the point.

      Dazai scrutinized the man who was sitting on a chair next to the couch the suicidal man was seated on. Sakaguchi seemed rather tall, with short dark hair and round-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose. A mole above his lip on the right side of his face also caught his eye. The suicidologist was dressed in a white hospital gown, which covered a shirt with a brown tie. His pants were a pale brown shade and his shoes were about the same color as the tie.

      Osamu liked to pick up on the little details of people to see who was in front of him, and he was happy to use the information gleaned from his observations when necessary.

       "People are books. All are inherently different, and yet some can be understood by looking at the cover alone. Someone keeps all the important information with spoilers in the annotation. But there are those people-books that even if you read to the crusts, you still can not understand the meaning. The opposite of those, though, are the ones where you can't get further than one chapter even under torture." - Osamu reasoned, forgetting where he was and why. Another newfound symptom was absent-mindedness combined with concentration problems.

      - Can you hear me? Is everything all right? - The suicidologist asked worriedly, who had earlier clearly been saying something other than introductions.

      - Yes, yes, I'm all ears. - Smiled Dazai, who had clearly intended to listen rather than speak.

      - My dear friend, I am the one who is all ears. - Ango said, adjusting his glasses, which were slightly off the bridge of his nose. - Are you satisfied with your life?

     - If you don't count the fact that I'm in a mental institution now, then more than enough. - Laughing at the irony of the question, the suicidal man lied.

      - What about trouble? In your personal life? At work? Domestic? How often do you encounter such things?

      - Oh, personal life! There's a restaurant in the building where our detective bureau is located. There's the cutest waitress there, only she won't respond to my advances! I even offered her a suicide pact, but she ignored me.... - With feigned sadness, Osamu told Osamu about his unrequited "love", evading an answer that didn't escape the doctor's attentive gaze.

      - Do you often have a depressed mood? - Asked Ango again. He wanted first to understand the patient himself through evaluative and leading questions to understand where to dig and look for the problem and the cause of the suicidal behavior.

     - When I'm alone. - Osamu answered honestly, looking up at the ceiling. He stopped tossing and turning on the couch. It didn't really matter to him whether he got help or not, because what he needed most, no one could give him....

      - How often are you alone?

      - At night, or in the evening, sometimes in the afternoon or morning. To tell you the truth, I'm alone quite often.... Sometimes I even have a lot of people around me. Rampo, Fukuzawa and other colleagues, but even among them I get lonely. I think I was just born at the wrong time. No matter where I am, no matter what I do. I'm alone all the time. Do you know what it's like to be misunderstood? - Dazai was surprised at how frank he'd suddenly become, even though he'd planned to have fun and fool around. But now he didn't want to clown around, he wanted to go back to the bathroom and finish what he'd started, or hang himself in a noose. - They started me on pills. I didn't have time to discuss it with Dr. Yosano, but maybe you know why, after I started taking them, I got much worse....

       - In case of admission with symptoms of depression, self-harming behavior - antidepressants are prescribed, which give side effects during the first week, which leads to deterioration of not only mental but also physical condition. Diarrhea, nausea, lack of appetite, dizziness, drowsiness, mood deterioration, emotional sensitivity to external factors. This increases the risk of suicide, as the person gains more strength and determination, so they are given together with either sedatives or tranquilizers, which block the physical possibility of self-harm. - Explained Ango.

      - You mean I'm that bad from the treatment? - The suicidal man frowned, looking at the doctor.

      - It will last no more than a week. After that you will feel your condition start to improve. - How long ago did you start having thoughts of wanting to end your life?

      Osamu felt a chill inside, but he didn't let it show.

       "When did it all start? That's a funny question. I guess I was born without the will to live." - The suicidal man thought, but answered something completely different:

      - I don't know exactly, maybe a year or three, maybe 10 years ago. In fact, it's so boring that it's become the norm of my being. - Shrugging his shoulders Dazai replied, Sakaguchi in turn writing something down.

      - How many times a week can you have suicidal thoughts? - Ango was quite serious in his manner of speech, his demeanor. His every gesture seemed to be honed to perfection.

      "I see. "Pedantic and boring." - The patient characterized the doctor in his mind.

      - A week? Well... - Osamu thought about it and started counting by curling his fingers. When there was nothing left to bend on both hands, the suicidal man smiled radiantly, showing both hands with all fingers bent. - A little bit, more like 10. - Dazai was silent for a moment, wondering if he should elaborate, but there was something about Ango that made him feel comfortable. - More than 10 times a day!" he said, as if it were some kind of achievement for which he should be given a medal so that a suicidal man could hang himself with it. Although a medal isn't necessary. A noose was enough for Dazai Osamu.

      - What causes such thoughts? Why would you want to cut your life short? - Ango moved on to more specific questions. His face softened in understanding, but there was no pity in his gaze at all. Perhaps that was what played a major role, and Osamu narrated.

       - Quite often I feel like an unlucky and inferior person. With my luck, at times when I think of suicide, I realize that it's only a temporary solution, after which a series of new problems will arise. - Dazai chuckled, shaking his head negatively, laughing at himself and the absurdity of the situation. - Ango-san, look at how my 21¹ attempts to kill myself ended! I'm in a mental institution. I live in a ward with an anxious, schizophrenic and bipolar person who runs around and praises what to me is not the nicest person, and calls him "God". One of his patients died this morning, and that would be all right, but when I first saw him, I thought, "Here I am in a couple years." But how can I die here like this, all exhausted? It's so funny, it makes me want to cry! - Dazai exhaled, quieting his laughter and swallowing the lump of pain that rose in his throat. It felt like it was the first time in his entire life that he was being so honest, not with anyone, but with himself. - I may not really want to die. But I don't want to live. Is there anything in this world that makes sense? Tell me, is there any meaning at all? - Dazai mouth curved into a downcast smile. He seemed to have become a fifteen-year-old teenager again, searching for the one, the cherished one, the answer to his question. The inner corners of his eyes were filled with tear drops that he couldn't quite bring himself to let out.

      - I understand what you're going through. It's okay. Tell me, why do you think nothing in this world matters? - Ango asked in a calm voice, handing the tissues to the patient.

      - You don't understand a damn thing. - Osamu gave the suicidologist a disdainful look, as if he were a traitor. Switching to a more informal form of address and rising from the couch. - Can I go now? - Asked Dazai, feeling betrayed and abandoned once again. The sad glint in his eyes disappeared, just as the tears that found no outlet to the outside world evaporated.

      - Yes, if you're not ready to talk, we'll continue this at the next reception. But Dazai, you are welcome to come here at any time. I'm always at your service.

      - Thank you. - Osamu replied briefly, leaving the office. He wanted to collapse into his bed and never see anything again.

      "Here I am, a man who from the beginning would have preferred not to be born, and cursed the day it happened. Here I am, wretched and misguided, knowing no happiness and consumed with fantasies of death, and hopes of suicide. Still, I really shouldn't have been born." - Osamu pondered, wandering as if in a fog between the corridors of the hospital.

      One of the privileges of observation in the general psychiatric inpatient ward was the ability to walk around the hospital, not counting the locked floors where special or violent patients were housed. Only the nursing staff had access there. And of course, one could only go outside if remotely accompanied by the nursing staff. In all other respects there were no restrictions.

        On the far side of the first floor of the emergency room, Osamu came across an unremarkable door with a sign that read "LIBRARY". On reflection, since his favorite book is "The Complete Guide to Suicide" by Wataru Tsurumi, which details 10 methods of suicide, including hanging, electrocution, and self-immolation. The book compares these methods in terms of pain, speed, and injury. The book contains recommendations for choosing a suicide site and advice on how to avoid detection. Information on famous suicides is provided. The very book he had read to death was confiscated before the end of his stay in the hospital. It would be nice to find something in the local repository of fine writings.

      "Of course, it would be helpful to ask Gogol to borrow some books from room number 8. But messing with that weird kid is not something I want to do at all." - Dazai opened the door to the library while pondering, and was greeted by the pleasant yellowish light of the room, which contained not only shelves of books, but also a small reading room.

      - Good afternoon, can I help you? - Osama was greeted by a pretty, short, fragile girl with turquoise eyes and short, wavy, light blond hair. On her face she wore round, thin-rimmed glasses. She was dressed in a white shirt, a long brown skirt and half boots, and on her shoulders was a long coffee-colored cardigan with a patterned hem.

      - Hello, I'd like something to read. - Dazai tucked his disheveled hair behind his ear, and leisurely walked over to the bookshelves looking them over, putting his hands behind his back.

      - Perhaps you are interested in a particular genre? - Asked the librarian, studying Osamu. In fact, this part of the hospital wasn't frequented by many people, and it was rare to find people who liked to read among the mentally ill. So it was either the oncology department or the doctors, or in rare cases, other patients, but she knew those as "regulars".

      - It all depends on what you have, my dear. - Osamu winked at her, making her face blush. She reached over to the table beside them and grabbed the first book she could find.

      - Here, we recently got some new books, Japanese classics from the twenties. You might be interested. - She handed Dazai a book with a monochromatic cover with a male silhouette on it.

    - "Confessions of a 'flawed' man?" - Questioningly, he read the title.

      - Yes, Shuji Tsushima¹, has a good syllable. - She went through a couple more books on the table and handed the suicidal man another tome by the same author. - The Setting Sun, one of my favorites. - She, embarrassed, smiled looking down at the floor.

      - Oh! Can I have both of them? - Osamu asked.

     - Yes, of course! But you haven't visited the library before, and I need to fill out a form first, so that if you forget to return it, we can remind you. - the girl thought for a moment. - Not that I doubt your honesty! Not at all, it's just for convenience! - She excused herself.

      - It's alright. - Osamu winked at her. - If I had a soul, I'd give it to you for the books without a second thought! - Osamu noticed that his playful mood had returned, or was he just imagining it?

      - If you want a soul, you'll have to go to Mr. Mori. - She made a barely audible joke and began to fill out the paperwork. - Your first and last name?

      - Dazai Osamu, what's yours? - The suicidal man kept his gaze on the girl, making her blush.

      - You can call me Louise. What ward are you being treated in?

     - The general psychiatric ward, or whatever it's called. - Dazai wondered if he'd said it right.

      - That's right. Room number?

     - Ward number five. - Osamu answered, glancing across the table at the papers the librarian was filling out.

      - Okay, here you go. - She handed him a small rectangular piece of cardboard that showed an inked seal. His last name, first name, and other information he'd given her.

      - Thank you, most beautiful! I'll be sure to return everything! - Declared Osamu, smiling radiantly and getting ready to leave with the books.

      - Put them down! - She stopped him. - We usually give you two weeks to read, so if you're late, come over for an extension.

     - I'll come back to see you, Louisa, before my appointment. It is too pleasant to be in the company of such a beautiful lady. - With those words, Osamu left the library.

      As he walked down the corridor, he looked at the books.

      - Shuji Tsushima, then. - Osamu was talking to himself. - It's strange that I haven't heard of this writer before.

Chapter Text

Who loves beauty, 

is for that reason alone

is incapable of loving ugliness.

     Mori Ogai didn't just choose neurosurgery as something he wanted to devote the rest of his life to. This decision was made in his younger years, when after graduating from high school he was faced with the question of enrollment.

      The structure, peculiarities of functioning, and the prohibition of direct study of the human brain interested Mori from a young age.

      As a fifteen-year-old teenager, when other boys were playing with hormones and hiding intimate magazines under their beds or in nightstands, chasing after female classmates, self-pleasuring themselves when they were alone at home, Mori hid books on human and animal anatomy, considering his hobby something that was not normal for his age.

      Indeed, there was something strange about it. Childish games in those days were quite strange and, in some ways, cruel. For example, it was considered quite fun for yard boys to inflate frogs through a tube, but the amphibian's torment did not end there.

     For fun, the children made a primitive device that was similar to a fishing rod. It was a short stick with a diameter resembling the handle of a baseball bat. A fishing line was attached to one side of the stick, to which a previously inflated frog was tied and struck against a pole or tree with a swing, as if with a whip.

      Teenagers watched as the frog burst, and its insides, legs, head with a second explosion scattered in the air like a salute, then fall to the ground leaving behind a lot of hardly noticeable, colorful traces of the dead amphibian.

      Mori Ogai had never participated in such a thing. Such games made him disgusted at the stupidity of his peers. After all, frogs are living creatures, they certainly do not have consciousness and subconsciousness, but still - well suited for the first steps in the study of the structure and components of living organisms.

      From this he sat at the edge of the opposite shore of the lake, catching frogs in a small jar, to then go to the yard, for the realization of the plan.

××.××.××××

Was able to catch an adult frog today.

Test subject #9

There are no particular differences in appearance.

The subject has intact paired five-toed limbs typical of terrestrial vertebrates. The body is broad, short and simplified. The specimen has no tail, indicating that it is an adult and has undergone metamorphosis; the caudal spine is modified into a urostyle; ribs are absent. Possesses well-developed limbs; hind limbs are longer than the front, have more powerful musculature and are usually adapted to jumping. H aving thoroughly studied the appearance and features of the subject, I proceed to autopsy. T he subject lacks a system of muscles (abdominal, diaphragm and intercostal). The heart is three-chambered (which is characteristic of reptiles).

Oxygenated blood from the lungs enters the heart through the left atrium, while carbon dioxide-enriched blood from the tissues and oxygenated blood from the skin veins enters the heart through the right atrium. Thus, the subject has arterial blood in the left atrium and mixed blood in the right atrium. А special valve regulates the flow of blood from the ventricle of the heart to the aorta or to the pulmonary artery, depending on the type of blood.

The anatomy of a frog includes: Right atrium, lungs, aorta, calf, colon, left atrium, heart ventricle, stomach, liver, gallbladder, small intestine, cloaca.

The object has pedicellate teeth, located in the upper jaw. Most likely, they were used by the animal to hold the food before swallowing it, however, the teeth are not strong enough to bite or catch the victim. The frog's tongue is sticky, bifurcated. In the passive (dead) state, the tongue is coiled in the mouth. It is attached in front to the jaws. The excretory system of the individual is similar in structure to that of mammals. It has two kidneys (mesonephros) that filter urea and other waste products from the blood. The resulting filtrate is concentrated by the kidneys into urine, which then passes through the ureter and accumulates in the bladder. From the bladder, the body's waste products pass into the cloaca and from there to the outside. The nervous system of the frog consists of the brain, spinal cord and nerves, and peripheral nerve ganglia. Many parts of the frog brain correspond to parts of the human brain. The cerebrum consists of two olfactory lobes, two cerebral hemispheres, the pineal body, two visual lobes, the cerebellum and the medulla oblongata.

!The features of the brain should be tested on the following subject by attempting to keep her alive while opening the cranial cavity!

       However, dissecting frogs and cutting them into pieces is the most harmless thing that was created by the hands of young Ogai. The list of animals dissected included a yard dog named Ame, a neighbor's cat that had gone for a walk, a squirrel that had fallen for nuts offered by the child, mice bought at the local market, rats that had carelessly fallen into a sticky trap in the fruit room of their house, and hamsters bought by their mother.

××.××.××××

Today I managed to catch a squirrel in the woods near my house.

Test subject #35

There are no particular differences in appearance.

Starch was used to keep the fur free from contamination. I sprinkled it over the incision sites, exposed muscles, and fresh blood stains on the fur.

I laid the subject with her back on the film, her head against my left hand.

For the usual preparation, an incision is made not in the abdomen, but in the skin, trying to preserve the integrity of the object, dividing the fur cover into a parting. For experiment #35, it is required to open the abdomen to examine and remove the viscera.

Making a scalpel incision along the abdomen, we separate it into two sides with tweezers. Along the incision, I carefully cut the skin from the end of the breastbone to the anus, cutting through the thin abdominal wall, causing the intestines to prolapse and blood and feces to be discharged. The edges of the abdominal incision with the fingers of the hands spread apart, for greater convenience fixed in this position with wood sticks, and blotted the places of bleeding with cotton swabs, sprinkling them with starch. The structure of the squirrel is usual, not differing in any way from the anatomy of the cat, therefore, I skinned the trunk and hind limbs.

The thigh had to be pulled out from under the skin of the abdomen by pulling the skin off the front of the leg. I inserted forceps between the thigh and the skin, pulling the skin away from the musculature, and cut it with scissors at the knee joint. With my left hand I clamped the tibia and carefully pulled off the sheath with a stocking to the fingers, taking care not to tear the limb from the hide (which could cause unnecessary bleeding and skeletal damage). The thigh remains with the meat carcass, the shin bones with the hide. In the same way, the second limb was dissected. In the place of separation of the hind limbs from the skin of the back and the muscles of the trunk fingers separate in the area of the spine and pelvis skin to the base of the tail.

Having finished with the lower part of the torso, I proceeded to the upper part, more precisely, to the head. I had to accept the fact that the skeleton, however, will not be left intact (otherwise the brain will not be accessible)....

      Spending his free time experimenting on animals, taking notes in his scientific diaries, Mori Ogai only fueled his interest. However, as time went on, no animals could satisfy his curiosity. It must have been only through some sort of miracle that the teenager kept everything a secret.

      After graduating from high school, the young giraffeur entered the medical university at the department of "Medical Business", having previously passed three exams (biology, Japanese, chemistry), for the highest score. It was then, at the age of nineteen, that Mori Ogai first came to a place he jokingly called "a paradise for experiments", but, to put it in more understandable language, he got to the practice of studying anatomy in the morgue.

      However, the future neurosurgeon did not manage to fully enjoy the learning process. Unexpectedly started war in Japan, took not only many lives, but also broke the future of those who wished to realize their dreams.

      Of course, this did not affect Ogai, conscription as a military neurosurgeon to the front only opened up new opportunities for him. Some operations he performed in good faith, curing soldiers, but those whom he believed - not even worth trying to save, the man operated for his own comfort, learning and improving his skills, passing residency in hot spots.

     Soldiers died by the thousands, and Mori's experiments were ignored almost to the very end. There was one man who found out about the neurosurgeon's shenanigans, but Natsume Suseki, commander-in-chief of the military group, ordered the Silver Wolf to stay out of Ogai's business, as he saved more lives than he ruined.

      Fukuzawa found Mori's actions so repugnant that he kept silent only out of respect for the commander-in-chief of the military group, who was also his mentor.

       On one of the darkest nights of the war, Yukichi was brought on his back to Ogai (for there were no other doctors in the infirmary), half dead, with a hole in his skull, covered with a dirty rag. Unable to even look at the despicable military doctor, Silver Wolf even wanted to stay and watch to make sure Mori didn't do anything stupid to his coworker. However, Ogai kicked him out of the medical station (or rather, a small swamp-colored tent).

       - Don't even think about it. - In a stern voice, clenched his teeth, Yukichi warned him, for they both knew exactly what Fukuzawa meant. However, in response, the Silver Wolf only noticed the good-natured smile of the hunter, who was effortlessly pulling the prey out of the previously set trap, which caused an unpleasant feeling of nausea and disgust.

       What was going on inside the tent remains a mystery to this day, but what is known is that the soldier died, but whether it was from injury or from Mori Ogaya's experience is a mystery covered in blood and gloom.

      The neurosurgeon walked out of the tent, wiping his washed hands with a white towel, looking smugly at Fukuzawa.

      - Outrage. - The Silver Wolf threw it briefly. Grinning in annoyance and disgust, he began to walk away from the devil's hut. It wasn't the first time he had to lose a coworker, but a pinching pain pierced his good heart every time like the first time.

      - That's right. That's right! It's an outrage, my most important calling in life! - Ogai exclaimed in his wake.

Chapter Text

if you take the kindness and love

out of the human brain,

there would be nothing left

but the will to win

      Many people associate the term "psychopath" with maniacs, thank Hollywood for that. But psychopath does not equal criminal. There are plenty of psychopaths in everyone's environment. And not all of them commit crimes.

      If we plot the distribution of people by empathy level, the far right end is occupied by super-empaths. People who are able to feel the emotions and experiences of others. At the far left end of the distribution will be psychopaths. People who are unable to understand what another person is feeling, but are able to logically assume it.

      Paranoid psychopathy is characterized not by paranoia as such, but by a constant inadequately overestimated or underestimated assessment of one's properties, the significance of positive and negative external (social) factors affecting the interests of the individual, a pronounced tendency to supervalue ideas with appropriate behavior.

     But do not think that it is easy to recognize such a person. Paranoid psychopaths are not always outwardly brightly manifest their pathocharacterological features. They often rub into the confidence of others, creating the impression of humiliated and offended, but driven to justice, conscientious, honest, unselfish and decent people.

      Often, they deliberately for a certain period of time "grow" sympathetic, close to them in spirit or dissatisfied with something, willingly listening to arguments about "undeserved offenses from scoundrels", about injustice, outrages committed by their family members, neighbors, officials.

      Fyodor Dostoevsky was no exception. Rather, a direct example. The psychopath is quite sensitive to situations that, for the most part, infringe on personal interests. Stubborn assertion of his own rightness and importance often prevented the patient from restraining his anger. But despite this, he gave vent to his true feelings only when he was all alone. If he did something in public, the whole picture would collapse, and he would no longer be able to feel so free. In circumstances where he should have been at a loss, he had wealth.

      Giving up the bipolar that was always clinging to him, Dostoevsky finally felt every cell in his body, and how much it was all wearing him down.

      "You were wrong to think that this fucked up doctor would be able to change my plans." - Thought the psychopath, recalling the image of Fukuzawa.

      With a strong desire, Fyodor could escape from this damn hospital. Some of the staff offered to help him, for they could not bear to watch the martyr and Ogai's atrocities. However, he refused. After all, it was not enough to leave this place. He wanted to wipe it off the face of the earth, with the greatest damage to Ogai.

      In the moments when Dostoevsky was alone, for the most part, though he seemed completely calm, he was completely consumed with anger. He kept his emotions in check, trying not to show his rage. Fyodor knew that he must not allow his emotions to influence his decisions.

      He realized that emotional reactions could distort the objectivity and rationality of his decisions. But worst of all was to give in to the inner impulses that guided his mind in those moments. The abundance of negative emotions felt as if they were tearing at his nonexistent heart.

      The feeling of long-suppressed impulses could be compared to a black hole that was about to explode, bringing with it indelible consequences....

      Fyodor paced back and forth in his room, biting the pad of his thumb almost to the point of bleeding. For a moment he froze in place, realizing that the usual rituals were no longer helping to suppress the inner impulses that were overwhelming him with hatred for the whole world, for everyone in this damn ward, and especially for Mori Ogai and his faithful nursing dogs.

     "What am I, a man who carries within himself a divine essence, and yet forgives such nightmarish deeds to men?" - He mentally berated himself - "I must punish the guilty. Who but I, Fyodor Dostoevsky, will do it?"

      - It's not time yet. Not yet... – He whispered, calming the agitated mind.

      The nature of psychopaths is that they are able to resist their inner urges, hatching the most elegant and perfect plan of revenge. And the fact that the patient knew this only made it worse. His every desire for something resonated in him as the very impulse he suppressed, in fear of being finally defeated by a specific personality disorder.

      "Do I really want to eat, or is it an impulse? Am I genuinely interested in people because of my human nature, or is it merely for profit? Do I feel nothing, or am I faking it?" - And many other questions occasionally visited Dostoevsky's head, or rather, when irritation and frustration began to take over.

     In scientific literature one can often find descriptions, typologies, subspecies and characteristics of this disorder. But the whole problem is that no one talks about what a person who tries to cure this disorder goes through, and more than fully realizes his "peculiarity", which in the eyes of other people makes him not a man, but a monster, a monster, a spawn from the underworld.

      Fyodor was distracted from his reflections by the opening door. Who it could be, there were only two possibilities, and it was certainly not Gogol, whom he had sent to the dining room to eat, and to warn Margaret that Fyodor himself would come later.

      - You're pathetic, and you know it. Surely you're the one people should appreciate and respect? - Maury started throwing words at me right from the get-go. - But you're despised and hated by everyone. You think you're worthy of love and good treatment? That's ridiculous You're ugly, I'm the only one who wants you, and only because of a peculiarity in your brain. You are of no value on your own! - Ogai finished his speech as he walked through his patient's room. To which he only stared blankly. But there was something else behind that indifference.

      "What a bad time he's had." - A thought slipped through the psychopath's mind.

       Did the neurosurgeon's words hurt Dostoevsky? No, not at all. Rather annoyed him. For he didn't understand how this animal could even afford to speak to him.

      - Are you talking about me, or about yourself? - A psychopathic grin spread across Fyodor's lips, and sparks flickered in his empty eyes. No, not even sparks, but flames of anger, hatred, rage. The very emotions that the psychopath had so carefully kept locked away, but now they were free, or was it the other way around?

      "Worse," thought Ogai, fumbling for his cell phone in the pocket of his medical coat, in case Dostoyevsky moved from words to action.

      - In your carotid artery, there is still no scalpel in your own scalpel only because God is merciful to you and to me. He keeps me from falling into sin, because I have yet to change this world before it turns to ashes from the fires that men themselves have started. - Fyodor looks directly into Ogai's eyes as he continues to grin. He takes a deep breath through his nose. - You are afraid. What a lovely smell of fear. Your phone isn't in your right pocket, it's in your left pocket, and your tranquilizer syringe is in your breast pocket. Mori Ogai, you're extremely mediocre, as usual. - Dostoevsky took a small step to the side, taking the book from the cabinet, but Mori didn't flinch. Or rather, he didn't flinch outwardly. But his heart was beating in a way that could jump out of his chest at any moment. - Are you sure you'll be able to call for help or give me a shot if I really decide to kill you? - His inner anger was fading, turning to cockiness. The psychopath found it amusing to watch the rat corner the cat.

      - You wouldn't dare. - Ogai declared. He was sure he knew his patient well. But was it really so?

      - Of course, I'm a madman, not an idiot. It's too early to kill you. Later... - A chuckle escaped Fedor's lips, he decided that it was not worth continuing his thought. - If that's all you've got, I think I'll go to lunch. - Without waiting for an answer, the brunet headed for the door.

      - Stop, I didn't give you permission to leave. - The neurosurgeon stopped the psychopath with a stern tone.

      - Do you want to keep me company? I'm gonna have to say no. I'm planning to have lunch at Revenge in Godziyingahara. - The psychopath showed the book to his doctor and fled, slamming the door behind him. He headed for the food hall. He had no appetite, but he knew that he had to eat to ease the withdrawal from the tranquilizers.

      In worlds with highly developed civilization there is an opinion that they are ruled by invisible super-intelligent beings - some super people, whose intellectual power is beyond human comprehension. Unfortunately, or fortunately, this is not true.

      Superintelligent beings are occasionally found in the vast expanses of the universe, but all of them, without exception, are fixated entirely on themselves. They suffer from various depressive delusions and numerous paranoid complexes.

      Complete psychopaths and schizophrenics. Often, these superminds are extremely hostile to the outside world.

      However, the great boon, the vast majority of them by nature - philosophers, and usually, from birth to death indulge in self-contemplation, seeking to find the meaning of life in the depths of their own "I."

      Any drugs that affect the nervous system, distort human consciousness. And this leads to the fact that even the most intelligent person begins to doubt who he is in reality, and whether he is at all.

      However, it is not only medications and drugs, but also life experiences that affect the neural connections in the brain in this way. By inflicting trauma, it can make one feel like an inferior human being.

     Despite Dr. Yosano's recommendation that he stay in the room and communicate with his new surroundings, Dazai sat on the hospital bed, reading one of the books he'd borrowed from the library.

      Written by Shuji Tsushima, it echoed the nagging pain in the black hole that Osamu had in the aftermath of the neglected depression that resulted from his traumatic past. Distorting his conscious personality beyond recognition, to the point where Dazai couldn't remember or imagine a different self or life. He had already forgotten that the physical pain caused by psychosomatics could disappear, and that nightmares might not happen every night. But that's not the point. After all, why talk and think about something you not only don't know, but don't understand or imagine.

      After the last meeting with Ango, the suicidal man tried to avoid therapy sessions with suicidologist, too unpleasant residue left the attempts to dive into the essence of the problem, prompting thoughts of escape.

      "From all of this it was clear that I had no sense of human purpose whatsoever. My understanding of happiness was at odds with the way other people understood it, and this became a source of anxiety that kept me up at night, driving me crazy. So still, how do I feel: am I happy? Or am I not?" - Read Osamu in a whisper. And then the realization hit like a hammer hitting an anvil.

     - Am I happy? - He asked himself. He put the book down and got up from the bed where he had been sitting. He was still tired, still getting used to the drugs, and this book, which from the first pages seemed to have been written about him.

      Lazily stretching his neck, Dazai headed to the shower room to wash his face with cool water and clean himself up, warding off the extraneous thoughts that were turning his head into a beehive.

      Thankfully, neither Gogol, Atsushi, nor Poe were in the room. Edgar was unlikely to be there, though. After all, a breakdown like that was more than enough to get him transferred to the riot ward.

      Dazai Osamu reached for the doorknob, but froze dumbfounded. As soon as he tried to pull the smiling mask back on as usual, his lips began to twitch faintly but firmly and perceptibly, bringing his cheekbones together as the mask continued to crack, falling apart after a few agonizing seconds of being on Dazai's face.

      "Are you happy? Are you happy? Do you know what happiness is?" - The fear from his own thoughts drove the suicidal man into a stupor. And not just a stupor, but the ability to breathe. His hands were trembling. It was like he was about to die.

      - I don't know...please...- He didn't understand what he was saying or asking for, the suicidal man took a step back, tripping over his own foot, and flew to the floor with his eyes squeezed shut.

       He didn't land on the floor, however. Opening his eyes and trying to catch his breath and calm his racing heartbeat, Osamu realized that he was not on the floor at all, but on a hospital bed, and in front of him was a book that had been opened to the 13th page, which at this point already seemed insanely disgusting to him, but which beckoned him to continue reading it.

      - You look pale. Are you all right? - Atsushi asked, stopping at the front door of the room, examining the 'carefree' Dazai, who was absorbed in his own thoughts.

      - Sho is fine. - Osamu replied yawning, getting up from the bed.

      - Are you sure? Shouldn't we call someone from the medical staff? - Nakajima, for whom such a state was normal, was worried.

      - No, no, I don't think so. - Osamu protested, waving his hands in front of him.

      - If you say so. - Atsushi hesitated at the door for a while, pondering whether he should report his roommate's sickly appearance or not. However, he decided to listen to the suicidal man's protest and walked to his bed, pulling out a phone from the nightstand, causing Osamu to look at the alarmist in surprise.

      - What's that! - Osamu wanted to move closer, but the anxious man flinched, expecting some kind of danger. So Dazai stayed where he was, realizing that by violating Atsushi's personal space, he might lose his friendship.

      - Phone. - Blushing slightly in embarrassment, as if he had gotten something illegal or forbidden rather than a phone, Nakajima replied.

      - Yeah, I'm not that stupid... - The suicidal man remarked. - I can see that it's a phone. But where did you get it from? It was taken from me with my personal belongings. - Osamu frowned, finding the situation unfair.

      - Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. - The alarmist started to justify himself. - The phone is returned when the patient gets better and is on the mend. - Nakajima explained.

      - Oh. - Osamu thought, thinking not of escaping but of pretending to be healthier.

      The phone wasn't anything special to Dazai Osamu, nor was the suicidal man addicted to it. It was just a good way to pass the time. After all, sometimes you need a break from reading, especially when the book is hard to read.

      He had a couple of games on his smartphone, something like "Snake" and "Traffic Rider," which Dazai played during meetings at the detective bureau, and on nights when insomnia wouldn't leave him (and alcohol didn't help him sleep).

      - Have you had lunch yet? - Atsushi asked, finishing writing something on his phone.

      - It's still early. - Osamu shrugged his shoulders.

      - What, early? - Atsushi furrowed his eyebrows, tilting his head slightly to the side. - It's almost one o'clock in the afternoon. Lunch is about to be over.

      - How will it be over? How long have I been asleep? - Dumbfounded Osamu looked around as if looking for a wall clock or something to indicate the time.

      - Weren't you notified? - Nakajima asked incredulously.

      - Nope. - Answered Dazai briefly.

      - Strange, the nurses usually go through the wards at 12:00, announcing lunch. - At the last sentence, the anxious man sighed. Thanks to the medication the nurse had given him, he could feel more relaxed remembering the morning incident. - There was a commotion in the morning, they must have forgotten. Better go quickly, Margaret-sama doesn't like to linger longer than usual.

      - Alright then, I'll run! - Reported Dazai as he left the room. Although his gait couldn't be called running at all, it was more like a calm, measured stride.

      Dazai Osamu knew perfectly well that the only thing that saved him from destructive thoughts was being with other people. As soon as he was alone, his thoughts returned to him, as if he were a character in Shuji Tsushima's book "Confessions of a 'Incomplete' Man".

      The suicidal man realized that he was completely ignorant of human nature and what it means to be happy. There was a kind of fear inside.

      Fear that he was the only one who was different. He thought he was completely unable to communicate with the whole world. Except, to communicate with the whole world? Too bad that hadn't occurred to him.

      "If you think about it that way, I've never reasoned or spoken sincerely with anyone besides Oda. But even that one died... Died through my fault. What a talentless person I am, not being able to protect something so precious. What am I supposed to talk to people about? How? Why? I don't know..." - Reasoned the suicidal man, still under the impression. Even though he had only read 13 pages, he was still pretty much hooked.

      - Boo! - Gogol, clearly in a good mood, jumped up to Osamu, which frightened Dazai to some extent, but he tried not to show it. - Are you going to lunch? - The bipolar man asked.

     - Yes, and you were released? - Dazai grinned, looking at the paper hat on Nikolai's head, which had been kept on its fair share.

      - Well, as you can see! I'm here! In front of you! And in all my glory! - Replied Gogol, putting one hand on his side, and walking a little forward in a "model" gait, showing off.

      "At least something in this place does not change" - thought the suicidal man, and nodded to himself.

      - Oh, I know! Do you know? - Asked Gogol, stopping abruptly and stopping the imaginary fashion show.

      - Know what? - Answered Dazai with a question for a question, almost crashing into the bipolar.

      - So you don't know... - Nikolai saddened, but in an instant his multicolored eyes lit up as if he was about to reveal the secret of the whole world. Which caused even more incomprehension from Dazai. - Well don't worry, I'll tell you everything. Let's eat first!

      - You know how to keep things intriguing. - Osamu remarked.

      - I know! – The blond replied as he let the brown-haired man enter the dining room.

      ...Which caused Osamu to get his food before the bipolar man did, so as not to listen to Gogol's pointless conversations with the ignoring Margaret.

      "You should talk to the wall. It would be more interesting to watch." – Dazai made a joke in his mind and laughed as he took a free table in the far corner.

      There were plenty of other empty seats, but this one gave him a view of the entire dining room.

      After receiving another threat from Margaret that next time Gogol would be left without food, the bipolar retreated and took a seat next to the suicidal man.

      - So what was it you wanted to tell me? - He asked, in a bit of a hurry to finish eating, remembering what Atsushi had said earlier - Margaret didn't like to linger. Although Osamu liked to annoy people and enjoyed it, he didn't want to do that right now. She didn't seem like the kind of person who would let him get away with his mischief if he got naughty.

      - What's your hurry? Relax! Come on! We have plenty of time. - Gogol said, spreading his hands in front of him and glancing at Margaret, who was humming something to herself and, surprisingly, was even in a good mood.

      - Now I'm even more interested. - Osamu looked at Nikolai incredulously, and sipped his tea from his cup. - What's wrong with her?

      - It's all God's power. - Gogol smiled smugly, beckoning the suicidal man closer to him as if he wanted to say something in his ear. Dazai tilted his head toward the blond, and the other whispered something in his ear.

      - Now it doesn't make any sense at all. God-this is your Fyodor, not Dr. Christie.....

      - Quiet! It's a secret. - Leaning back in his chair, Gogol waved his hands, as if someone could hear them in the almost empty dining room.

      - Intrigue was more interesting than information. - The suicidal man sighed, going back to his food.

      - That's not all! - Nikolai jumped up from his seat, theatrically putting the back of his palm to his forehead, and then raised that hand in the air, making a circular motion of the bone. - Before you is a great schemer - Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol! And I guarantee you a full day and evening of amazement! - The bipolar looked contentedly at his only spectator and sat back in his chair.

      - Oh, yes, of course. Dear! How could I have forgotten. Please pardon me. - Osamu played along.

      - Execution is not pardon! - Repeated Nikolai. - You decide where the comma should be. - So, here's the to-do list. First lunch, then checkers, then group therapy! And then ar... - Gogol had no time to finish, as the door to the dining room almost silently opened.

      Fyodor Dostoevsky did not linger long in the aisle, not paying attention to anything, and went straight to the place where the food was given out. Someone perceived the psychopath's hunger strike as a protest, someone as an asceticism, and someone called Ogai called it a super-valuable idea. But only Dostoevsky himself knew what exactly was behind the hunger strikes.

      - I've been waiting for you, I was afraid the food would get cold. But I'm glad you stopped by. - Margaret chirped as she put the food on the plates.

      - Our "favorite" neurosurgeon delayed. - Fyodor answered briefly.

     - Act one. Bon appetit. - Gogol whispered to Dazai.

     - What are you talking about? - Whispered the suicidal man asked, still playing the bipolar man's games.

      - Hush, just watch. - Nikolai nodded toward the food service manager and the psychopath. Osamu shrugged, glancing first at the satisfied Gogol, who was sipping his tea, and then at the two conversing.

      Fyodor Dostoevsky stood waiting for Margaret to put food on his tray.

      - I thought you'd starved to death by now. - Margaret grinned at her words, which surprised Dazai, who was watching while picking at his plate with a spoon.

      She usually looked tired and indifferent, but when she looked at the psychopath, there was a glint in her eyes.

      - My dear Margaret, abstinence from food is as necessary to the body as solitude is to the mind, and just as ruinous if it lasts too long. - Fyodor said, watching his companion, who in turn poured tea for the patient, but not from a common pot, but from a small porcelain teapot.

      - Something about this hospital will never change..... - She sighs, assuming her usual indifferent look, holding out a tray of food to Dostoevsky. He shrugged and was about to leave for a vacant table, but Margaret called out to him. - Will you let me know when you go to music?

     - I'm sure you'll hear about it from Dr. Christy when she gets back. - The psychopath replied with a half-smile, looking at the woman over his shoulder.

      - All right, enjoy your meal, take your time. You know where the keys to the food court are. You'll lock up when you leave. - Margaret answered him, watching the psychopath sit down and eat without answering her.

      - Why aren't you with him? - Asked Osamu to Gogol

      - He doesn't like to talk while he's eating. That doesn't stop me, of course, but... - Bipolar took the hat and papers off his head. He twirled it in his hands - But I've already done enough to get on his nerves today. Let him rest before tonight.

      - What's going to happen tonight? - Dazai asked.

      - You'll find out tonight! - The bipolar exclaimed, catching the disgruntled, cold gaze of the psychopath who sat at the other end of the dining room, and the interested pair of eyes of the suicidal man across from him.

Chapter Text

Our feelings

are infinite wounds,

and they are behind the secular world

trembling in pain.

      Trusting someone with your feelings is not as scary as having thoughts that can be used to control you. Sometimes it feels like we're lugging around feelings that are just playing tricks on us. And yet, we keep looking for them as if they were the key. A key to a lock that doesn't exist. We've searched every nook and cranny, but the answer still eludes us. Maybe we've made a mistake somewhere in the initial exploration of life.

      - You're very silent! - Nikolai was indignant, moving a simple checker diagonally on the neighboring one.

      - I'm surprised myself, before I got here I was different... - answered the suicidal man without hesitation, making his move, thus reaching the last row of the board horizontally.

      - Really?! - Surprised bipolar, but for a moment thought, continued in a calm but cheerful tone. - Ah, I see, it was the same with me. In moments of aggravation, be it mania or depression, I'm a frequent guest here. It'll get easier soon, just you wait. - Gogol rearranges one of his remaining checkers again.

      - It's easy to say "just wait." - Dazai responds by making a move forward with the acquired "queen" to capture one of Gogol's white pieces, and then, due to the availability of a nearby piece, the move continues and another is taken.

      - There you go! You're winning again! I don't want to play anymore! - Declared Gogol, shuffling all the pieces on the board. - Consider it a draw. - Smirked bipolarnik.

      - But after all... - The suicidal man was indignant.

      - You can not thank me, I know that I am kind. - Nikolai replied with a chuckle, causing Dazai to sigh and get up from his chair.

      - Where are you going!!! - The blond jumped up from his seat as well, grabbing Osama's arm and stopping him.

      - We're done playing, which means I'm going to bed. I don't have any energy at all. - Shrugging his shoulders, the brown-haired man tried to get out of his grip, but the attempt was unsuccessful.

      - No, no, no. No sleeping! What are you going to do at night? А? Especially since you haven't seen my main surprise yet! - Nikolai reminded Osamu.

      - I'll sleep at night too. It's no longer interesting to look at surprises. I'm really tired. So, let go. - Dazai once again tried to get rid of the hand holding his own.

      - Please! It'll be fun. The office isn't far away!

      - What office? - Suicide frowned his eyebrows.

      - Well, I told you in the cafeteria, we have a schedule! First lunch, then checkers, and now group therapy! This is gonna be fun! It's where everyone shares their thoughts and experiences!

      - Pah, I'd rather read. - Replied Osamu.

      - Nah! Well, who, if not you, will keep me company? - Asked Gogol, looking at the brown-haired man with puppy eyes.

      - Go to your God, he'll keep you company. - Osamu grinned. He thought it was strange that Gogol was following him around and not the object of his adoration.

      - You don't have to come to me, I'm already here. - There was a calm, monotone voice that gave Osamu goosebumps, and Gogol's face lit up with an ear-to-ear grin that showed off all 32 of his teeth.

      Dazai turned his head, and saw standing in the hallway - the strange guy with the black hair.

      "How embarrassing." - Suicidnik thought, but did not have time to answer, the brunet was the first to speak, breaking the second silence.

      - But Nikolai is right for the first time in a long time. Group therapy - a very interesting event. - Noted Fyodor.

      - That's great! Go there together! I have things to do! - Dazai took advantage of the moment and tried to jump out of the offer to attend the event.

      Of course, he had been put there for treatment. But did Dazai look like an 'idiot' who would talk about his worries, thoughts and worries in front of some crazy people?

      - The book can wait. - Fedor called out to the departing Osamu.

      - How did you know? - Osamu was stunned, turning to the psychopath.

      - Yes, that's right! She won't run away! - Gogol gave a nod to Dostoevsky, to which the other nodded approvingly.

      - I'm not interested. - Dazai said firmly.

      - You want to leave this place, don't you? - Fedor grinned. - And attending such events demonstrates your desire to heal, which means....

      - If Yosano sees my eagerness, he'll think I'm on the mend. - Dazai himself continued Dostoyevsky's thought, moving closer to the psychopath, and the bipolar standing next to him. - My friends, what are we waiting for? - The suicidal man's mood changed dramatically, from negative to positive. This caused Gogol to laugh, and Fyodor only nodded approvingly, smiling softly.

      Still, under such circumstances, Dazai Osamu, was not against becoming an "idiot" who would talk about his worries, thoughts and worries in front of some crazy people.

      The group psychotherapy room was really not far away at all, namely the next door to the art therapy room.

      The room turned out to be spacious, made in neutral colors. The walls were blank, only one of them showing a board with schedules and information. Three large windows filled the room with daylight. The entire space of the room seemed empty. However, this emptiness was filled by the patients who had already arrived, taking seats on chairs that stood in a semicircle. Only one stood opposite this semicircle, clearly not for the patients, but for the therapist.

      - You'll like it! - Gogol winked at Dazai.

      Looking around, the suicidal man noticed the ones he already knew - a funny, short, red-haired guy named Nakahara, the jocular but friendly Atsushi. He didn't know the others, but had seen them earlier in the corridors, the recreation room, and the mess hall.

      "I doubt it." - Osamu thought, but didn't answer anything, just shrugged, sitting down in the chair between Gogol and Fyodor.

      The psychopath grinned, but made no comment. At that moment, a middle-aged man with either gray or white hair slicked back, thin eyebrows and mustache, and a short goatee entered the office. He had a monocle over his right eye. He was dressed in dark pants with a white dress shirt, the collar of which was adorned with a black bow tie.

      - It's good to see you all, please keep the noise down, we'll start now. - The man's voice was calm and hoarse due to smoky vocal cords. He took his seat, holding a notebook in his hands. - Today we will work on the group discussion system. Who would like to speak first? There are no restrictions on topics.

      While the man was speaking, almost no one made any noise, expressing their respect for him. Only Gogol gently nudged Dazai in the side, hinting for him to volunteer. To which the suicidal man snorted unhappily, and looked around. Osamu was surprised to see how many people wanted to talk about something or discuss something, without fear of their words being used against them. No one was afraid of being judged or anything like that.

      - This place is open to any controversial discussion. It doesn't matter what you say, as long as it makes you feel better. - Whispered Fyodor, explaining to Osamu the reason why there were so many people willing to do so.

      - Hirotsu! Can I do it! Please! - Shouted Gogol, for he was tired of holding his arm in a raised position.

      - Nikolai, it's very good to see you. Yes, of course, if no one minds, you can be the first. - The therapist replied. There were claps in the semicircle in support of the bipolar, no one objected.

      - Thank you, how wonderful you are! - Nikolai exclaimed.

      - What's troubling you? - Asked Ruro.

      - Recently I had a conversation with Fedenka. - Gogol began. - And here, he told me a rather interesting thought, which I would like to discuss.

      - And what did our esteemed Dostoevsky said to you? - Hirotsu asked.

      - Well, as he said... - A little embarrassed bipolar pulling out of his pocket a crumpled paper hat, written in words, and began to unfold it carefully. - Ryuro, can I speak standing up? I can't sit still at all!

      Hirotsu nodded approvingly, getting up from his seat and pushing his chair aside, making room for Gogol so that he could be seen and heard by everyone.

      - Please, Nikolai. - The man stepped aside, and when Gogol took his place, the psychotherapist sat down on the chair where Gogol had been sitting earlier.

     The first thing Osamu noticed-and it wasn't the smell of tobacco smoke that came from the man. It was the aura of calmness that came over him as soon as he was near him.

      - And so. Fedya and I never had long conversations, except once, when he helped me out of a depressive episode. - Gogol spoke with a tremor in his voice, as if he were telling me something intimate.

      Everyone listened in silence, absorbing the funnyman's confession. Osamu looked around at everyone, catching sight of the disgusted look on Chui's face, who was clearly unhappy with the way things had started.

      - So, one of the days he was in that very place... - Gogol mused for a second, lowering his eyes to the floor, afraid to meet his gaze with the person he was talking about. - I accidentally found his old notes. According to the dates, I assumed that then he was a child, about 13 years old, but already in those years he had thoughts that I never thought of... - Nikolai unfolded one of the sheets, which had been a hat before, and began to read the Russian text in Japanese. - All people need to be loved, or at least understood. If someone says they don't, you are most likely being lied to. All of us who deny the importance of socialization, sooner or later find ourselves in that damn hole, looking for a ray of light in our darkened world.

      - That's a pretty good point. - Ryuro nodded approvingly, glancing at the bored Dostoevsky, and then looked at the bipolar again: - And what struck you about it?

      - That this is really the essence of a person, but no one talks about it. - Nikolai began to walk from side to side, thinking at the same time. - Imagine if we were told about it from an early age! Just imagine! All my life I was sure that nothing could make me happy. But then I met someone who understood me! He understood me without a word! - Gogol froze in place and ran his eyes over everyone, as if he realized something important. - Ryuro, we don't just come here to try to heal ourselves! We all want to be understood. We all have the stigma of being insane! But that just makes it harder. If you say the wrong thing, you're out of your mind and you're delusional. It's so unfair! - Nicholas waved his hands.

      - Well, your thoughts are quite interesting. - The therapist noted. - I think the topic of understanding is quite good for discussion. Let's first listen to the author of the quote that Nikolai used, and then we'll get everyone's opinion. - Hirotsu suggested. Many nodded in response, and only Nakahara rose from his seat in protest.

      - What's the point of listening to him! He'll start preaching his "thou shalt not kill", "thou shalt not steal" and other heresies again! - Chuya was clearly dissatisfied with what was happening, but it was not about Fyodor, because he never promoted his faith to the masses, but kept it deep in his heart, believing that it is he who can change the world. It was the words themselves, and how deeply they penetrated him. And the realization that they were written by a man he had once trusted, and had been trampled by him, made it impossible to keep silent.

      - I understand, Chuya, but let's take it easy. - Hirotsu said softly. Nakahara was about to resist, but Dostoevsky raised his voice.

      - It's all right. I can explain what I've written later. I don't mind waiting. Chuya, go on. - Fyodor knew perfectly well that after such a gesture Nakahara would refuse to speak and sit peacefully waiting for his turn. He was too stubborn.

     - Oh, my gosh, thank you! I've been waiting for your permission. - Nakahara replied sarcastically, sitting down in his seat. Just as the psychopath had suggested.

      - Fedor? - Shouted Hirotsu, insinuating that he still explain the essence of his words that were written by him in his childhood years.

      - It was really written by me, but not at 13, but at 12, but it does not change the essence. I've been interested in people's essence ever since. And I've been digging into it till I was tired, but I still didn't understand anything. - Fedor's voice was melodious and calm. - But it was tantamount to forcing a colorblind person to choose cherry-red among all the other shades of red. - Dostoevsky thought for a moment. - It would be more accurate to say, I have always been a man who knew the words, but not the melody, which flows with humanity. I don't think I can add anything else, it's been about 10 years since then, and now, I wouldn't write something like that.

      - Okay, thanks for the reply. - Hirotsu turned to Dazai. - And you, young man, could you tell me your name?

      - Dazai Osamu. - Answered the suicidal man

      - Great, and you Dazai, what do you think about that?

      - I don't understand how the creature called "human" works. - Dazai wondered if he should continue talking, but Hirotsu's interested gaze made it clear that he wouldn't avoid the dialog so easily. - I don't know if a person needs a person and love. But I guess they do. In fact, each of us can say 'I understand', but who really understands each other? - He sighed tiredly. - When something unpleasant happens, it's customary to get angry. But here's the thing... A pissed off person seems scarier to me than a lion or a dragon. But when I think that this ugliness is a sign of a human being, my heart sinks into despair. I don't realize there is a person, and a lot of things just scare me. But to make sure no one finds out, all I had to do was play the jester. It doesn't matter how, the main thing is to make me laugh. Basically, you attract people. Women fall in love with you. But it doesn't make you happy. And no matter how much you play, no matter how much you pretend to be human, you end up being you. And then there is a stigma that says you are a flawed human being. - Dazai stopped talking abruptly, realizing that he had said too much and decided to change the subject in hopes that his earlier words would be forgotten. - Hirotsu, and everyone else, tell me, do you know... What good is it, even if you know the other is right? Reason was given to man to make him realize that he can't live by reason alone. People live by feelings, and feelings don't care who's right.

      - You have an interesting train of thought, what a skillful thread you've had in that in essence, many things have no right and wrong. It simply is what it is. And by the way, mind you, you seem to have just realized how the creature called "man" works. And you, Nakahara, perhaps you could state your position. It would be of great interest to all of us. - Hirotsu turned to the red-haired man, to which he nodded reluctantly, casting a look of contempt at Dostoevsky.

      - Since we're having a free discussion. - Chuya grinned, realizing that he couldn't use physical violence and show the accumulated aggression, so as not to end up in the ward for the violent. It would be better to push morally then. However, to tell the truth, he was not a fan of such methods, but what can you do when circumstances force you to? - I'm troubled by the thought: how can someone not have a particular feeling? Hirotsu, maybe you know what it's like to live as an emotional invalid who doesn't know what love, compassion, regret is? - Chuyu was tugged by the sleeve of his hospital shirt, but he only got up from his seat, walking to the place where Gogol was standing, who, anticipating a very interesting performance, gave up his seat, hiding among the observers.

      Nakahara's gaze was directed at Dostoevsky, not at Hirotsu, to whom he had asked the question.

      - Well, you know, it's just a matter of having empathy or not. - The therapist remarked.

      - Do you love someone just because you're an empath? - The redhead looked at Ryuro in surprise.

      - No, it's also a matter of affection and a number of other feelings that are triggered by the release of hormones. - The man explained, adjusting his monocle.

      - But emotional invalids can't do that. Right, Fyodor? - Chuya grinned, feeling as if he was hiding a couple of trumps up his sleeve.

      When Fyodor heard himself addressed, and in such a matter, he rose from his seat, but not in a hurry. His movements did not seem abrupt, he did not attack, but only observed his victim. The psychotherapist realized that now, Dostoevsky's distorted consciousness was not suppressed by the drugs, and it would be a bad thing if the psychopath could not cope with the reproaches in his direction. He anxiously took the patient's hand, from which Fyodor brushed it away.

      - Do you want to talk about personal matters and our feelings? Well, go ahead. - The psychopath grinned, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

      When it came to comparisons and reproaches about the abnormality of his reactions, the Lord himself could not predict what would happen next. It was beyond his comprehension, and we are not talking about Dostoevsky. After all, he was perfectly aware of what he did and said. He was able to answer for his every word and action. Even more, he could "logically" justify it.

      And now, Chuya Nakahara had stepped into his territory, where a step to the left or the right would result in a firing squad.

     - You miserable bastard! How can you know how I feel? There are no people more worthless than you, you yourself do not even feel anything! - Enraged by Fyodor's words Chuya clenched his fists, so as not to snap in a burst of aggression. A couple drops of sweat appeared on the redhead's forehead as his eyes met the cold gaze of his interlocutor. Dostoevsky's nonchalance and indifference irritated him even more. After all, if the psychopath had yelled at him or tried to hit him, Nakahara would certainly have gotten into a defensive stance, but then, anger didn't hold so much sway over him either. After all, seeing Fyodor in anger was pure fear with a dash of surprise. - That situation made me stronger and more intelligent, and if it hadn't been for that, I'd have smeared you on the fucking floor by now! Got it? - The redhead hissed, clenching his jaw until his teeth gritted. He was on edge.

      - You were a kid, and at that age you should have been stronger for it, not for the backyard brawls, the consequences of which you're still here today, and you're not likely to get out of here. - Fyodor's words cut harder than a knife. - And milk and vegetables. How come your mommy and daddy didn't look after their offspring? Now you're not even in prison, but in a mental institution, after which all roads are closed to you.

      At the words of Dostoevsky Chuya in a couple of steps overcame the distance between them, and raised his fist, intending to hit him on that idiotic, self-righteous and disgusting face of the self-proclaimed God.

      He stopped, barely touching the psychopath, and when he noticed Hirotsu standing next to him, he pulled his hand away from the abomination next to him.

      - The session's over for today, everyone can leave. You two will stay. - Ryuro announced, and many of the patients disappointedly began to rise from their seats, not daring to challenge the therapist's decision.

      - We're done, and don't get in my face, I'll kill you. - Chuya bellowed, deliberately touching the psychopath's shoulder with his shoulder and leaving the general psychotherapy room so quickly that he didn't even pay attention to Hirotsu standing next to him.

      - Yes, of course. - Fedor grinned to himself and looked up at Hirotsu, who was a little confused, not realizing whether to follow Nakahara or deal with Dostoevsky first. Except that the psychopath made the decision for the doctor. - Good evening to you, Hirotsu. - Said the psychopath, clenching his jaw in anger.

      - Fyodor! Stop! - The therapist called out to him, realizing that if the psychopath goes after Nakahara, he'll do no good, because the redhead had touched the most important thing.

      - You must be so tired, you should not worry. - Fyodor's voice was so soft and soothing that he wanted to give out all his sorrows and worries in one breath. But for a moment he closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, trying to recover from his illusions, remembering that he was a psychopath and a patient of Maury's, so let the old man deal with it himself.

      - I'll inform Mori to do some more personal counseling. - Warned Hirotsu

      - You're his personal secretary now? It's a shame you've been demoted. - Fyodor joked. The psychopath's stride was firm but relaxed. He strode confidently toward the exit of the therapy room, causing the doctor to step forward and the observers to sharpen their ears so as not to miss the opportunity to spread more gossip.

      Hirotsu was about to reply, but Fyodor beat him to the exit, stopping and glancing at Hirotsu over his shoulder. Ryuro prayed to Okuninushi, hoping that Fyodor would go to the ward and not to Nakahara's soul.

      - Replace coffee, it doesn't make you feel invigorated, it only wastes your body's energy processing it. Drink green tea, it has more caffeine. - He said, disappearing through the doorway, making Hirotsu feel even more dissonant about the situation.

      "What kind of God is he? 'Devil' would suit him better. Mori. Right, I'll go see him right away..." - Hirotsu pondered as he waited for all the other patients to leave the room so that he could close the door and make his plan a reality.

Chapter Text

The goal of narcissists and psychopaths

- is to hurt.

     The human world is the only place that can be violent for no reason. Unlike healthy people, psychopaths do not respond to emotional words faster than neutral words. This proves that psychopaths "know the words but not the tune." In other words, they know the meaning of the words "love", "hate", but they do not feel the affective impact conveyed by these words.

      Dostoevsky left the group psychotherapy room, heading toward the wards. The mind was separating from reality, obscuring that reality with white noise. However, for all that, Fyodor was aware of each of his actions. And now he had a goal, before which any obstacle did not matter.

      For ordinary people, being different from society, in most cases - a compliment. But you don't poke a psychopath directly in the face of his differences.

      Behind Dostoyevsky, Gogol slipped out quietly, dragging Dazai with him.

      - I don't understand anything. - Suicidal Bipolar reported, looking around the office.

      - Me too, but it's fun! - Nikolai remarked.

      - How can I put it? – Osamu glanced at the psychopath walking with a wide and confident stride ahead of him.

       - Tz, just watch, we'll figure it out! - Gogol encouraged, holding Dazai's hand, still following Dostoevsky but at a safe distance from him.

      - So, what about him? - Osamu asked.

      - Angry. - Gogol answered briefly, looking at his "friend". The multicolored eyes glittered with glee and amusement. The bipolar seemed to be enjoying what was happening.

      - No, you don't get it. What is his diagnosis? - The suicidal man clarified his question.

      - Oh, that! Fedya! Fedosya! - Called Gogol Dostoevsky, but he did not even pay attention to him.

      - Are you out of your mind?! I was just inquiring! - Dazai yanked the bipolar, freezing in place.

      - Well, our diagnoses aren't a secret, but it's like, with this what's-her-name... Something to do with secrecy and doctors... - Gogol replied, hesitating. But he didn't stop, and continued dragging the suicidal man behind him.

      - Doctor-patient confidentiality? - Assumed Osamu.

      - Yes, that's right! What would I do without you! - Nikolai froze as Chuya first entered one of the rooms, slamming the door behind him. But, then, the psychopath also entered the same room, already closing the room. Extremely carefully and without making too much noise. Gogol looked at Osama with a slightly confused look. - Each of us knows the diagnosis, except that if you want to know who suffers from what mental illness, you have to ask in person. Ethics, or whatever. - The bipolar man thought for a moment, and then turned back.

     - I thought we were going after Fyodor? - Osamu is puzzled.

      - We were, but it was better to call for help now. - Nikolai's cheerfulness subsided a bit, and he rubbed his neck, which showed a small, red handprint.

      - Is it that serious?! - The suicidal man was dumbfounded.

      - No, but we'd better not waste any time. - The blond waved him off, heading towards the art therapy room. Dazai followed him.

      - Aren't we going to Mori's? - Osamu asked while Gogol was opening the door, but he didn't answer, instead acting sad and sorrowful.

      - My dearest Agatochka! You're back just in time! - The bipolar wiped a non-existent tear from his cheek.

      - Nikolai! What happened? Something with Fyodor? - Agatha became alarmed, dropped the papers on the table. She approached Gogol, while maintaining an outwardly calm demeanor.

      - You are, as always, perceptive! Only, there's no time at all! - Gogol's words made her anxious and assume the worst.

      - Is it Maury? Did he do something to poor Dostoevsky? - Anxious, the golden-haired woman asked the blond, placing a hand on his shoulder. Dazai, on the other hand, felt like a third wheel in this whole mess.

      "I'd better really read a book." - The suicidal man thought.

      - No, Fedenka was a little angry, and there, in Chui's room.... - Gogol informed the doctor in a half-whisper, realizing that the less people know, the better.

      - No, that was the place to start! - Christy walked out of the office in quick, shallow steps, barely breaking into a sprint.

      Gogol sighed, shrugging his shoulders and glanced at Osamu.

      - How about you explain it now? - Asked the suicidal man, realizing that Gogol would not be the first to speak regarding what was happening.

      - Come, you'll see and understand. So to speak, the continuation of "act two". - Informed Nikolai, leaving the psychotherapy room

      - I like riddles a lot, but you're overdoing it. - Noticed Osamu, walking down the corridor next to Gogol.

      - You still like them, don't you? I knew it! - The bipolar was clearly emphasizing the wrong thing.

      The door to Chewie's room was open. In the center stood Fyodor, clutching the redhead's neck in his hand.

      - Fyodor! You're a smart man, please! I was just wiping your cello! Leave him alone! Come and play! - Agatha tried to calm him down verbally, at the same time, afraid to come closer. But the psychopath skillfully ignored her. He spoke to Nakahara.

      - It may be true that I have a touch of madness in me, but I'm certainly not stupid. In many ways, watching people like you, Nakahara, I can even, at times, understand your emotions better than you do. - Fyodor remarked. His face froze in a wicked grin, with contempt in his eyes.

      - A man who learns from books has learned nothing, for he knows only what others think. But when a man listens to his heart, he is truly wise. - Chuya was frightened, but it was not the first time he had been in such a situation, and he knew perfectly well that the only way out of such a situation was to drive Dostoevsky even harder.

     And the effect of adrenaline, which came into the bloodstream from the situation - too unstable. Impulsive personality disorder, characterized by explosiveness, intemperance, conflict and a tendency to severe affective outbursts. Chuya waited for Fyodor even for a moment to give weakness, and actually put him on the floor with his shoulder blades, writing his fist in the face of a psychopath.

      - Chuya! Please! - Agatha cried out, realizing that it was impossible to call the orderlies, because in this situation Fyodor would get more, and if they also brought Mori.... It's even frightening to imagine what awaits the unfortunate psychopath. But both Dostoevsky and Chuya ignored the doctor.

      - Shouldn't we call Mori after all? - Asked Dazai to Gogol, who was standing next to him in the doorway.

      - No. - Christy answered him, quickly and clearly. - Come in, and close the door. We'll decide.

      The bipolar and the suicidal man glanced at each other, but went in nonetheless, closing the door behind them. It would seem that Agatha should have sent them back to their wards. But. She needed witnesses who weren't prone to delirium and, if anything, could confirm that Nakahara had provoked Fyodor.

      - So you're a wise man, then? - The psychopath sneered mockingly.

      - I'll be smarter than you. Does granite have a brain, or consciousness? - Chewie's eyes glistened with fear, but his mouth was still not shut. In response to the redhead's words, the brunet squeezed his neck even harder.

      - That's it. I'd believe you. Except, I know how scared you are. I know you're waiting for me to loosen my grip so you can hit back.

      - But you don't feel it. - The redhead makes a good point. - You know the words, but you don't feel their meaning. What's it like to know the notes but not know how to apply them?

      - What's it like to blame yourself for the death of your brothers? - Dostoevsky answered the question with a question, knowing exactly where he shouldn't go. - I wondered, what was so wrong with your relative that you beat him to a pulp? - The psychopath nodded negatively and laughed, purposely letting Nakahara go. - That was hilarious.

      The outburst of aggression reached its peak. Chuya yanked off his hospital shirt and swung his fist in a punch. Except he didn't hit Dostoevsky, he retreated to his side in time, causing Nakahara to punch the air.

      - Don't we need to do something? There's going to be a fight. - Quietly, Osamu counseled the blond man.

      - Just count to ten and we'll see. That usually works for me. - The bipolar replied in a whisper.

      "Count to 10? What is this nonsense?" - The suicidal man thought, but started counting to himself.

      "1..2..3...4...5..."

      - How predictable. Couldn't you come up with something more original? - The psychopath mocked, provoking the redhead for something.

      "6...7...8...9.."

      - That's it. To hell with you! You asked for it! - Said Chuya, attacking Fedor, but then four orderlies flew into the room, pulling away Nakahara, who was ready to kill Dostoevsky on the spot. The psychopath in turn did not resist, and no longer grinned. Rather, he was saddened. He pressed his lips together as if to keep his fear from showing outwardly, looking sadly at Dr. Christie. The orderlies continued to twist the two patients, but Agatha intervened.

      - Let him go! You can see he's innocent!

      - Christy-sama, we understand, but Mr. Mori ordered Chuyu to be sent to the ward for the violent, and Dostoevsky directly to him. - One of the orderlies started to justify himself.

      - I won't allow it! - Christie said, approaching the orderlies who were holding Dostoyevsky. - Let him go now. He's scheduled for art therapy! Or are you going to interfere with therapy?! - Christy persisted, adjusting Dostoyevsky's wrinkled hospital gown.

      - Christy, I did! You saw that he provoked me! - Nakahara was outraged.

      - I saw you provoking him, on the contrary. - Christie replied, distracted by Dostoyevsky.

      - Great! Have you all lost your minds? - Disappointedly protested the redhead.

      - And these two? - One of the orderlies glanced at Osama and Gogol.

      - Oh, they were looking for me. We're in therapy! Come on, we gotta go! Boys, let's go. - She glanced at her wristwatch, then took the psychopath's hand with one palm and Dazai's with the other. - Nikolai, keep up. We're already late.

      "I won't mess with those two again. First they bring me to group psychotherapy, and now art therapy! This is definitely surreal!" - Osamu pondered, hesitant to get out of the doctor's gentle hand that held him.

      When they got to the art therapy room, it was empty, only Ace was sitting at the piano, but when he saw Christy in the company of the patients, he bowed his head in respect and left the room without further ado.

      - Now, you three, explain yourselves! ...Wait, who's that with you? Do you have a new addition? - Agatha asked, taking her place at the desk.

      - Mother, don't tell me to execute, have mercy! - Gogol exclaimed, winking at Dazai. Fyodor, in turn, took his place behind the cello, but only tuned it, holding it carefully and gently, as if it were a bar of gold or something more precious. Dazai, on the other hand, froze in place. His life had not prepared him for this. - It was me! Bringing us a baby in my hem! - Gogol fell to his knees, feigning remorse.

      - Nikolai, stop this circus. I just got off the road. So, let's get right down to business. - Sighing, replied the doctor.

      - All right, all right! - He jumped to his feet. - This is my best friend!

      - I'm Dazai Osamu. - The suicidal man introduced himself. - I was just put here a while ago.

      - That's it. I'm Christy Agatha. I'm a psychotherapist, and I run an art therapy room. Nice to meet you. I hope you're happy here. I apologize for what you've witnessed today. - Agatha, a little ashamed, lowered her head.

      - Don't be! Don't be! Please, it's okay! - Osamu assured her, even though he knew it was no good.

      - Really? Actually, Fyodor's not a bad person. Agatha wanted to say something else, but Fyodor interrupted her.

      - Christie, stop making excuses. It's sickening to watch. - Fyodor glanced tiredly at the golden-haired girl and the brown-haired man, returning the cello to the stand without playing it. - Dinner is coming soon. We need to go, and you get some rest. I'll see you tonight. - When he finished, he smiled softly, walked over to her, and stroked her hair.

      - But! - Agatha and Gogol said in one voice.

      - No buts. Nikolai. Dazai. We're leaving. - He stood up, heading for the exit.

      Dazai and Gogol followed him.

      - It was nice to meet you, Christie-sama. - Said Osamu as he was the last to leave the office.

      - Dazai! Did you hear that? God is having dinner with us! What a joy. - Reported Gogol.

      Dazai didn't know how he should react. It would be polite to rejoice, but he didn't have the energy to portray joy.

      - No. - The psychopath answered, causing Dazai to feel a sense of relief inside.

      - Why? Please! - The bipolar begged.

      - No. You talk too much. - At the psychopath's words, the bipolar took offense. In fact, he had no appetite at all. He often refused to eat dinner. And now he had the perfect opportunity to escape, because Dostoevsky was not a man who would beg him to go to dinner.

      - Then I won't dine at all! - Showing his tongue to Fyodor, Gogol began to run away like a child, not expecting to be caught up.

      - Huh? - Osamu was surprised.

      - Don't mind him. He doesn't like dinner. Just give him an excuse not to go to the food hall in the evening, and he'll use it. - Explained the psychopath.

      - Oh, well, I guess I'll be going too.

      - Never mind, consider this my apology for today's scene. Do you like black tea with bergamot? - Dostoevsky asked, entering the dining room first.

      - To tell you the truth, I like coffee better, but you can't get it here. - Osamu was saddened.

      - If you like coffee, you'll get coffee. - Fyodor said, taking the line.

      - How's that? Margaret told me it's not here. - Dazai hesitated.

      - Not for patients, it has a detrimental effect on the nervous system. But it is for the staff. So you'll have coffee. - Dostoevsky promised, shifting his gaze to Margaret, smiling sweetly.

      - Thank you... - Mumbled the suicidal man, finding at least some benefit in communicating with this dubious man.

      - Good evening. How are you? - Fyodor asked Margaret.

      - Even came to dinner, what a miracle! Is it going to snow today? - The head of the food service winked at the psychopath.

      - More like warming up. - Dostoevsky remarked.

      - I heard about the Chuya incident. Thankfully, Agatha's here, so she can calm her husband's fervor. I'm sorry. - She looked sympathetically at Fyodor, pulling something from under the table. - I was in my favorite pastry shop this afternoon, bought you a piece of cake.

      - Thank you, you're like a guardian angel. -The brunet winked at the girl, and glanced at Dazai standing next to him. - You have coffee, right?

      - You don't like coffee. - Margaret eyed her companion suspiciously.

      - For me, as usual, black tea with bergamot, but for him - coffee. - Dostoevsky clarified, pointing with his hand at the suicidal man.

      - ... No sugar. - Osamu hinted, which brought a barely perceptible grin to the psychopath's face.

      - One black coffee, no sugar, please. - The brunet turned to Margaret.

      - You know. - The girl hinted at something.

      - Come to the art therapy room tonight. I'll play. - The psychopath announced.

      - Coffee, coffee it is. - She put the plates on the guys' trays. - Go on, I'll get tea and coffee.

      - Thank you, Margaret, you're a marvel. - Fyodor smiled at her, and nodded towards a vacant table for Dazai to follow him.

      - You've made yourself comfortable. Usually, she's extremely cold with everyone. - Osamu remarked, taking a seat across from Dostoyevsky.

      - There's an approach to every person. Margaret is very fond of classical music in live performance. - The brunet replied, adjusting the bandage on his arm, which covered the still unhealed wound from the spoon. Dazai just nodded and began to eat, and Fyodor did the same.

      After a while Margaret came up to them, holding a porcelain tea kettle and a cup of coffee.

      - Only to no one. - She turned to Dazai.

      - Thank you. - He replied, taking a long-awaited sip of the tart and bitter coffee.

      - Phew, don't thank me. - She threw the last of her words and went back to her workstation.

      - Are you really so good at this game that you've turned her head? - Osamu asked in disbelief.

      - I don't know, I wasn't interested in that. - Fedor's face did not express any emotion, he did not try to play the usual politeness on his part. Especially since Osamu had already seen enough for today, and there was simply no point. You may have already seen such a facial expression amongst your entourage. That kind of facial expression was akin to a good poker player. It was most noticeable when you asked a psychopath if he cared about anything.

      A typical example of that worry is obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). OCD sufferers worry about something all the time; for example, that they didn't shut off the gas when leaving the house. Eventually, it can get to the point where the sufferer can't leave the house because he or she worries too much, causing him or her to have to keep coming back and checking to see if everything is okay.

      If you ask a psychopath if he or she is worried about leaving the gas at home unplugged, you will see this blank expression in question.

      Psychopaths don't understand what "worried" means. Psychopathy and obsessive-compulsive disorder are on opposite ends of the spectrum.

Sure, they may portray some anxiety about one situation or another in order to appear normal. But it would all just be the play of a good actor.

      - Don't you care at all? What about that situation in the ward? Are you and Chui going to have problems? - Osamu wondered, savoring the coffee that made the psychopath's company seem not so bad. Much better than not keeping up with the ever-active Gogol.

      - Should he? - Fyodor glanced at the suicidal man, assessing him. - Other people's feelings, experiences, and expectations are not my problems or my area of responsibility. - He sighed, pouring tea from the kettle into a cup. - Chuya will be fine, just prolong the treatment and sit in the ward for the violent for a while. For his own good.

      - For his own good? - Dazai hesitated.

      - He's not cured yet. If the situation had arisen when he got out of the hospital, he wouldn't have been sent back here, but to jail. So it's a good thing I got in his way. - Fyodor shrugged.

      - So, instead of getting back at him for hurting you, you helped him? Why?! - Osamu was perplexed.

      - "But whosoever shall strike thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also; and whosoever shall sue thee, and take thy shirt, give him also thy outer garment; and whosoever shall compel thee to walk with him in one walk, walk with him in two." Gospel of Matthew, 5 chapter 39 row - Fyodor quoted the Bible.

      - What about you? - Dazai asked again, ignoring the brunet's religious preoccupations.

      - Me what? – The psychopath clarified.

      - What's going to happen to you? Christie-sama wanted to keep it a secret from Mori-san for a reason. - The brown-haired man explained.

      - Pha, it's nothing. It won't be a big deal, she'll either lock you up or threaten you with an operation. It's nothing. Passed. - The psychopath grinned.

      - As you say. - Negatively nodded his head suicidnik, taking Dostoevsky's words for the ravings of a madman. After all, could Fukuzawa's friend be capable of such atrocities? - I don't know if this is appropriate, but what's wrong with you? Why are you here? You look pretty normal.

      - I'm a paranoid psychopath. I came here on my own. I realized that I'd run my health too badly and needed to correct my behavior. - Dostoevsky lied partially, without blushing.

      - By yourself?! - Surprised the suicidal man.

      "I didn't realize that crazy people could come forward and declare their insanity themselves." - Pondered Osamu, believing his interlocutor.

      - Well, yes, the super-precious ideas, refusals to eat and the like started to occur. I couldn't keep living like this, could I? - Fyodor spoke based on how Mori had characterized him earlier. He didn't think that cleansing the world of sinful people by any means was an overrated idea, because that was his mission.

      - You talk about it all so much, I can't believe you're a psychopath. – The suicidal man thought.

      - What about you? - The brunet changed the subject.

      - I have some kind of depression with suicidal behavior. - Dazai laughed. - A laugh, that's all. Come to think of it, there's a few near-successful suicide attempts in there. And so, Fukuzawa and Rampo decided to send me here. - Osamu accepted the psychopath's sincerity, and decided not to lie either.

      - Fukuzawa? - The psychopath asked, hearing a familiar name, the owner of which was partly the cause of his troubles.

      - Ah, yes! That's my boss. Perhaps you've heard of the Armed Detective Bureau. Our office is practically in the center of Yokohama. - Osamu started talking. - I could probably talk about him forever. Such a fine man, he got me out of the slums, and thanks to him, I can do what I love. - A soft smile spread across the suicidal man's face, bringing back warm memories.

      - That's it, I confess, this is the first time I've heard of your bureau. - Dostoyevsky lied. - But now I'll know where to turn in case of emergency. I am extremely grateful for the information. - Fyodor grinned, now it became clear to him why Mori cared so much about this seemingly uninteresting man.

      "What luck that I still haven't left this place. To kill two hunters with one hare." - Fyodor mentally began to speculate on the right way to use the suicidal man, finishing his tea.

      - You're welcome, but hopefully you'll be fine after you're discharged and won't need to contact us. - Osamu remarked, placing the empty cup on the table.

     - I don't doubt it. - Smiling, the psychopath replied. - I think we should go. What better way to relax the mind and clear out the garbage than with music?

      - You know, you're a nice person. I'm not even gonna resist! After Margaret's reaction, it's too interesting to hear you play. - Osamu noticed, and they headed to the art therapy room.

Chapter Text

The mask that people wear in society,

is always more interesting than the face

behind it.

      Things exist insofar as we see them, and what we see and how we see it depends on the origins of the external world that have influenced us.

      Looking at something and seeing it are completely different things. It begins to exist when, and only when, its beauty becomes visible to us. Nowadays people see fogs, but not because fogs exist, but because poets and artists have taught them the mysterious charm of such phenomena.

      Fog for mountainous areas, or for places where humidity is high, is a common phenomenon, and Japan is no exception. But few people paid attention to it, so we don't know anything about it. Fogs didn't exist until art invented them. These days, it must be admitted, they are taken to the extreme.

      Fogs are like human lies. A beautiful lie is nothing but a proof in itself. If a person is so lacking in imagination that he backs up a lie with evidence, he might as well be telling the truth.

      The disgusting, unhealthy habit of telling the truth, of testing the truth of everything one hears, of objecting without hesitation - lost somewhere among Dazai Osamu's sick mind. The incredible comfort that had begun to envelop him in the presence of a man he had previously disliked. That's why he believed all of the psychopath's ramblings, absorbing every word.

     Entering the art therapy room, the suicidal man noticed that the sun was already setting outside the windows, almost disappearing over the horizon. A soft yellow light illuminated the room. Many of the patients had arrived early and were already seated at desks, by canvases, or just on the floor.

      The place seemed like a paradise of carefree relaxation after such a hard day. It was as if he was in the most pleasant dream. Dazai froze in place and looked away, but what he saw beside him was not the revitalized Oda, but a black-haired psychopath with a soft smile playing on his face.

      - Did you ever play musical instruments? - Fyodor asked, catching the suicidal man's gaze.

      - Nope... - Brown thought for a moment. - Although, once, tried to bang on the drums.

      - And how? - Dostoevsky grinned, finding it interesting.

      - No way. - Shrugged the suicidal man. - The neighbors were too fond of sleeping at night. They took away my opportunity to become a great musician. Eh... What a star the world has lost. - Laughing, added the suicidal man, while trying to play serious.

      - Well, there's no drums, of course. But you can try your luck on the piano, or maybe the guitar? - Suggested the psychopath.

      - No, no, no. Thank you. I'd rather watch. - Osamu waved his hands in front of him.

      - Then I'll give you a seat in the front row tonight. - Fyodor grinned, walking past the suicidal man to the side where his instrument was stored, and a seat for the cellist.

      - You're the polite one! - Dazai winked, putting his hand over his heart and bowing his head for a second in a gesture of gratitude. - By the way, I was wondering, why the cello?

      - I started playing the cello when I was four, and the piano when I was seven. - Fyodor smiled sadly, barely noticeable, and thought for a moment, as if reliving memories again. - My acquaintance with the cello is connected with a funny story. When I was three and a half years old, I was walking with my father through the city, and suddenly, I heard a sound that completely enchanted me. - Dostoevsky sat down in his seat, gazing mesmerized at his instrument. - I looked around, and I saw a young musician in the window of an antique store, a girl who was taking a cello lesson. And that shocked me so much that I then pestered my father for a long time until he agreed to let me play the cello myself, so I started, really, at the age of 4. You could say that then, on Peter Street, I fell in love with the cello at first sight, and since then it has been my main passion in life. - Fyodor grinned

      - Can I try it? - The suicidal man asked, sitting down on the chair next to Fyodor. Of course, it was nothing more than a joke.

      - No. - Dostoevsky answered sharply raising his voice, then, coughing, and returning to his usual, melodious manner of speech repeated. - I'm sorry, but, unfortunately, no. - Fyodor tried not to look at his interlocutor. He looked away, as if ashamed of his sudden abruptness.

      Osamu was a little taken aback by this reaction, which seemed to snap him out of the psychopath's spell. He remembered the marks on Gogol's neck, followed by the scene in the ward, where Fyodor was clearly not the sufferer he had been seen as. Osamu swallowed his saliva nervously.

      - I was just kidding. - He justified himself.

      - I understand. It's just been a nervous day. So I apologize for being abrupt. I hope it's okay. - The psychopath explained in a calm, soft voice, realizing that he had almost ruined part of his plan in such a stupid way.

      "Still, he's a strange man." - Osamu thought, sitting back in his chair, looking around the office. The room was filled not only with patients, but also with nursing staff who had taken a moment to listen to Dostoevsky's music.

      Many of the people were whispering among themselves, but their barely audible conversations were interrupted by the first stroke of the cello. Osamu shifted his gaze to the psychopath. He was sitting upright, the instrument upright and held between his legs. His hands were positioned in a way that made it comfortable to play the strings.

      Against the background of the big instrument, Dostoevsky seemed even skinnier and more exhausted by his hospital life. His face was almost completely covered by black hair, through which peeked a soft smile and closed eyes. A melody poured throughout the room from the rhythmic strokes on the strings. It seemed that Fyodor's cello had a perfect tone that gave its sound a special sincerity.

       Dazai looked around the room again, someone was creating, expressing their feelings and emotions in an appliqué or drawing. Some were staring mesmerized at the psychopath, but Osamu was also catching interested glances at himself. Clearly the seat he had taken should have been occupied by someone else.

      The evening felt very different. It couldn't be compared to the past few days, which had passed with the disgusting nightmares, diarrhea, death wish, and lack of energy. The feeling of a certain unreality did not leave the suicidal man. Even with all the desire, he would not be able to describe this feeling accurately, and in words. It is something supreme, something incomprehensible and accompanied by anxiety, but so light and sweet that it induces shivers.

      "It's like I'm the protagonist of a movie being directed in the moment." - A thought flashed through Osamu's mind.

      And it wasn't clear whether it was the psychopath's charisma and his understanding of what defective people lacked, or the influence of antidepressants and sedatives on the neurons in the suicidal man's brain, which prevented him from putting the whole situation together and assessing it sensibly. And run, run, run as far away as possible.

     Something inside said this man was dangerous, and for good reason. It was an opinion based on facts, and what I had seen with my own eyes. But it was so nice and peaceful to be around him. The music penetrated every part of his body, making him feel that long-awaited release.

      The melody gradually picked up the pace and the bow moved faster, taking away the calm. Why do we need people for emotional swings? Classical music handles it more than perfectly.

      Suddenly, Mori walked through the door of the art therapy room, glancing around at everyone present. Some ignored his behavior, but the staff who had left their desks to enjoy the music seemed to vanish into thin air, leaving the room and returning to their work. But Ogai didn't care about them.

      The neurosurgeon's gaze went straight to Osama and Fyodor. Feeling the stranger's gaze on him, Fyodor didn't even twitch, continuing to play. However, the smile of calmness turned into a psychopathic, evil grin, his eyes half-opened, and he glanced at the suicidal man with a half squint, like a wild animal at its prey. Only Ogai noticed this glance, taking it as a sign of declaration of silent war.

      The smile on the psychopath's face grew broader and broader as the melody quickened, until at one moment, without warning, it faded away, leaving behind the hum of human whispers that it had previously blocked out.

     - What do you think? - Smiling sweetly, Dostoevsky asked, ignoring Mori's presence and pretending to concentrate only on Dazai.

      - It's not bad, it's okay. - The suicidal man lied. He couldn't admit that Fyodor's acting had made him excited. That made Dostoevsky let out a slight chuckle.

      - Dazai, it'll be all right. You'll be fine. - It wasn't clear why the psychopath had changed the subject. After a few seconds of eye contact, Fyodor looked away, setting the cello back on its stand.

      - What are you talking about? - Osamu couldn't understand why this psychopath was talking nonsense.

      - You'll understand later. Now, I gotta go. The plague doctor doesn't like to wait long. - The psychopath nodded his head toward Mori, who was standing at the exit with his arms folded across his chest, watching the two patients. Dazai didn't have time to respond as Dostoevsky walked over to Ogai, taking the observer's seat.

      As soon as the psychopath left the suicidal man and walked away with the neurosurgeon, the illusion of that comfort and unreality of what was happening vanished, vanishing into thin air, making him wait for a new one to experience the feeling again.

     Both were silent as they walked toward Ogai's office. Except that Mori was annoyed, and the psychopath was smug, which he didn't show by pretending to be a poor sheep on its way to execution. A man who realizes his own insanity is more reasonable than most people.

      Entering the study, Ogai seated himself at his desk, and Fyodor in the chair opposite.

      - What is it, friend of nature and books, that you have become interested in human beings as well? - Asked Mori, looking at his patient, the first to break the silence.

      - Ernst Kretschmer said it was a schizoid personality disorder. I have only a partial manifestation of it, so, Maury, I hope you will someday be able to quote other intelligent people appropriately. In the meantime, you're not smart enough to express your thoughts or quote them, and your....

      - Stop clowning around. - Mori interrupted Dostoevsky, preventing him from continuing his insulting speeches in his direction. - Still, in our counseling sessions, I prefer to talk about your mental faculties and about--

      - And my brain. - Fyodor continued instead of Mori, interrupting him. - If I didn't know Alice existed, I might think you had more than a scientific interest in my brain. - A small, smug grin spread across Dostoevsky's face. He knew exactly what topics could throw Ogai off balance.

      The psychopath didn't care that Alice was Ogai's daughter.

      It was much more interesting to hint to the man that he looked like a pedophile who had chosen the lucrative position of a mental hospital owner to "take care" of his patients.

      This kind of hint or statement can not only throw many people off balance, but also make them emotional. Especially when it comes to a dying daughter. Exactly what was needed from time to time is a person who suffers from an emotional disability.

      If you don't have some kind of feeling yourself, why not watch others do? It's not just visual pleasure, after all, it's understanding how you yourself can play out a similar emotion to appear "normal".

      - At first I assumed it was due to social anxiety, but there are other reasons. For example, your growth in communicating with people looks pretty busy. Also, your persuasion and leadership skills can impress others. And you use that skillfully. Except, I'm wondering, what do you want to get from Osamu? - The neurosurgeon pondered aloud.

      - Can't I just be interested in someone, for example, out of sheer curiosity? - Dostoevsky suggested.

      - You? No. - Ogai answered as soon as Fyodor said the last word. - Your personality is such that you will never do anything that does not benefit you, or that contradicts your beliefs. And Dazai Osamu is completely contrary to your super values. So I'm asking you nicely. This guy is very important to someone close to me. - Mori stopped talking abruptly, watching as he handed the already loaded gun into the psychopath's hands with his own words. Except, Ogai hadn't even realized that Osamu had given the psychopath the upper hand in this battle before him.

      Both of them realized it, but Fyodor, his smile spreading across his face, once again felt himself in a winning position. However, his eyes were burning with excitement, which made the neurosurgeon realize that the psychopath had already thought of a plan. Something like a new puzzle game.

      - Or what? You can't put me under the scalpel without Agatha's permission. - Leaning back in his chair Fyodor reasoned.

      - I think that taking out your brain would be the most harmless thing that could be done to you in that case. Anyway, I warned you. - Ogai fell silent, folding his fingers in a pyramid, resting his elbows on the table.

      - Mori, you know how to make things interesting, better than anyone in this hospital. - Dostoevsky sighed, putting his foot on his leg. - To tell you the truth, I never cared for your Osamu before. - Fyodor clarified, interlacing the fingers of his hands, and leaning on this lock with his chin, he leaned a little closer to the doctor. - You see, Gogol is extremely interested in it, and now he is going everywhere with Dazai, which is even better for me, for once I can enjoy a book at lunch, or call my room - my own. - Explained the psychopath. - Only, after this conversation, I'm now really wondering what I can squeeze out of this poor, grief-stricken man. - A chuckle escaped his lips. Fyodor decided to wait for a more appropriate moment to tell Mori that he knows who this person close to him.

      - I've warned you. And now, to business as usual. I was informed that you started eating. Why would I do that? Is the asceticism over? - Ogai asked.

     - Ascesis? - Dostoevsky interjected. - Oh, yes, that's right, I forgot that you like the idea so much. I'm just thinking of adopting a new ASKESA, and stop talking to you.

      - It's not funny. I'm your doctor, and you need to treat me with more respect. - Maury's voice was stern and serious.

      - Who said I was joking? And I don't owe you anything. - Fyodor remarked.

      The neurosurgeon, more than anyone else, understood that patients with damage to the paralimbic system of the brain¹ are generally characterized by problems with aggression, motivation, empathy, planning and organization, impulsivity, irresponsibility, lack of intuition, and poor behavioral control. In some cases, patients have delusions of grandeur and aimless lying. But to correct such behavior at a conscious age, it was almost impossible. If Fukuzawa had brought him a psychopath a few years earlier, it would have been easier to take him under his thumb and mold Fyodor into whatever Ogai wanted.

      - Okay, fine. - Ogai sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. - What did you and Chuya fight about again?

      - What do you mean? - If one followed the psychopath's facial expressions, one would think that he really didn't know what Ogai was talking about. Such genuine surprise, at times, was frightening. It was as if Dostoevsky was a psychopath with a bad memory. Except the neurosurgeon knew he wasn't.

      - Don't play dumb. You know what I'm talking about. - Ogai looked tired, but he was trying to hold it together.

      - Oh, come on. Ogai, you should be thanking me. - The psychopath smirked, hoping to give Mori the same nonsense as the suicidal man.

      - Thank you?! - The neurosurgeon asked again. - He was a week away from discharge. And now, because of you, he'll spend a week in the psych ward, and then another month in the general psych ward!

     - You're welcome, Ogai, you're welcome.. - Fyodor spoke in a serious tone. In fact, he was more than sure that he had done a good deed. - That's right, a week. And he was the first to provoke me in a session of general psychotherapy. Of course, I don't care what he says. He's just a stupid man.

      - Of course, we ordinary people don't care about the great God, Fyodor Dostoyevsky. But if you don't care about his words, why did you almost kill him? - Ogai was indignant, looking intently at the patient.

      - I, too, am an ordinary man, but to a greater extent, unlike you, I am like God. - Fyodor corrected Mori. - I don't think you'll understand, but I'll explain. - Fyodor sighed, leaning back in his chair.

      - Try it. - Negatively nodded the doctor, clearly not believing, but knowing that the psychopath will be able to justify his actions, based on his logic and his own beliefs.

      - So, Chuyu out of equilibrium can take out of balance just my presence, or the discussion of a topic related somehow to me, and not even directly, but indirectly. - Fyodor began to explain. - And so it happened this time. Which means that nothing prevents him from getting angry with anyone after discharge. It means that it's too early to discharge him, he hasn't been properly treated.

      - And you can't just walk up to the nursing staff and tell them? Is this circus necessary? - Ogai doubted the patient's words.

      - Ogai, I'm a psychopath that Chuya can't stand. Do you think you or anyone else would believe me? I'm a psycho in your eyes. - Dostoevsky grinned, clearly not agreeing that he was out of his mind.

      - That's true. But that's no reason to act that way. If I ever see you near Osamu or Chuya again, I'll never let you out of the detention center again. Understood? - Threatened the neurosurgeon.

      - Does the straitjacket come with the isolation room? - Smirking, asked the psychopath.

      - Not without it. - Mori shrugged, keeping his gaze on the patient.

      - Then I'm in. She's like a second skin to me. You know, it's a cold winter, and I can't do without my skin. - Fyodor accepted Ogai's terms, rising from his chair.

      - Get out! - Ordered Mori, covering his face with his hands from fatigue and hiding a grimace of anger.

      - I'm already leaving. - The psychopath grinned and headed for the exit, shrugging his shoulders. In principle, his judgment sounded quite logical, and it was hard to object to it. But for all that, the methods he had chosen were far from moral and gentle.

     "If it's his behavior when Chui's words didn't hurt him, then what would he do if Fyodor really got angry?" - Pondered Ogai left all alone in his office.

      During the war years, Mori had seen a lot of cruelty, and he was not the kind of man who had a soft temper. Especially when it came to the end, because the end justifies all means. But when it came to the distorted consciousness of his patient, he could not imagine what he was capable of doing here, locked up.

      After all, it was one thing when he was free and led a terrorist organization, sweeping away everything and everyone who contradicted and prevented him from creating an "ideal world". But he couldn't do that here.

     - A perfect world. - Whispered Ogai shifting to hysterical laughter and talking to himself. - He's definitely an idiot. It's impossible to create a perfect world in our society. People will destroy everything themselves in a short period of time. - The neurosurgeon was thinking in his voice, and it was really a pity that he couldn't say all this in the eyes of the psychopath himself. No matter how, but the doctor's ethics are important, as well as his own life.

      But really, what's with all this perfect world nonsense? Think about it! It's really impossible. Humans were created to live and die. To create and destroy. It's no wonder they say history is cyclical. The present generation will face the same fate as the past. And the future generation will repeat the fate of thousands of years ago.

      Even destroying the current political system will not change anything. People must live in tyranny, understand, and take responsibility for all their deeds and actions. For as long as society is not fully controlled, wars and anarchic behavior will be the norm.

Chapter Text

I've been through hell. 

I can recognize the demonic.

     As soon as the psychopath left the suicidal person and left with the neurosurgeon, the illusion of that comfort and unreality of what was happening disappeared, vanishing into thin air, making him wait for a new one to experience this feeling again.

      Leaving the art therapy room, the suicidal man felt a headache, which he unconsciously associated with the absence of the psychopath. In reality, though, it was about the coffee he drank at dinner.

      Basically, we see what we want to see. And we believe what we want to believe. And it works. We lie to ourselves so often that after a while we start to believe it ourselves. We, time and time again, deny everything, that sometimes we can't recognize the truth, even when it's right in front of our noses. Sometimes reality creeps up unnoticed and bites us very painfully.

      The strange effect of being calm next to a psychopath struck Dazai to the point where it evoked all sorts of thoughts and memories of the past. For some reason, Osamu associated comfort not with Rampo and Fukuzawa, but with the dead Oda. The only person who understood him. The words his only, old friend had said to him remained carved with a knife on his heart.

      "You told me you could find a reason to live in this world. You won't find it. Surely you know that already yourself. Nothing you expect will appear on the side of those who save. Nothing in this world can fill the hole of loneliness in your chest. You'll wander in the dark forever. Yeah, that's what he said. He's right. But then why can't I get rid of the feeling that this strange man named Fyodor, will be able to understand me to some extent?" - Pondered Osamu, wandering the corridors after taking his medication. Peering through the doors of the ward and offices, the brown-haired man noticed a sign on one of them. "Mori Ogai. Head of Hospital." Thinking immediately, he perked up his ears, and tried to listen to the soft voices that came from Ogai's office.

      "So he's still there." - Osamu thought, silently walking closer to the door to overhear the conversation, not even noticing that the pills had already taken effect and the headache was gone. All he could hear, however, was Mori's stern "Get out!" command, which made the suicidal man flinch and bounce to the middle of the hallway, pretending to be walking rather than trying to eavesdrop before the door opened.

     - Oh, you're alive! - Osamu said nonchalantly, turning to face the psychopath and putting his hands behind his back.

      - And you're supposed to be dead? - Fyodor was surprised, raising his eyebrows to his forehead.

      - No, it's just the way you talked about Mori-san.... I thought I'd never see you again. - The brown-haired man remarked.

      - I got off with a slight scare. - The brunet replied, sighing.

      - You or Ogai? - Osamu asked, studying his companion. For some reason, the feeling of calmness returned. It felt so light and good. Osamu realized that he was obviously minding his own business, but in addition to all the other feelings, the suicidal man had a sense of excitement. Excitement about how far he could go with his conversations, but not repeat the fate of the short redhead.

      - Both of them. - Fyodor grinned. After a moment's thought, he added. - I think I'll be going, Mori didn't appreciate you being in my company at all. - Fyodor said, walking around the suicidal man, which surprised him. As he took a few steps away from Dazai, a grin played on Dostoevsky's face.

      "One, two, three, four..." - The psychopath counted in his mind, estimating how long it would take for Osamu to digest what he'd heard. It didn't take long.

      - Wait! – The suicidal psychopath called out, both eager for him to explain why Mori didn't appreciate it and unwilling to let Dostoevsky go too far. Because then this effect, which he didn't understand, would pass before Osamu could figure out why it was happening.

      - What? – Dostoevsky was surprised, looking at the brown-eyed man. His face expressed absolutely nothing, neither interest nor lack thereof. There wasn't even any indifference in that expression. Just emptiness and small-mindedness, but so pleasant that it was hard to tear his gaze away.

      Staring at Dostoevsky uninterruptedly, Osamu tried to understand why he was so pleased to see his indifference. As he stared at him, the suicidal man had the feeling that Dostoevsky was an anchor that kept all his feelings under control. He pondered this for a few seconds and seemed to realize.

      "This is it. He's just like me. He just hides his feelings behind a mask so he won't get hurt!" - Thought Osamu, before repeating his question. However, he still pushed that assumption away. As calm as he was with this strange man, Dazai realized that Dostoyevsky was not as simple as he might think.

      - Why is Mori against our socializing? - Osamu took a step forward toward the psychopath. The latter, in turn, turned fully towards the suicidal man, but still, stepped back. It seemed as if Ogai's words mattered to him, and he was really going to avoid Osamu.

      - You see, I'm a bad person, and a bad influence on people. - Dostoevsky tried to explain.

      - Somehow the hospital staff doesn't think so. Everyone loves you. Even Margaret-sama. - Answered the brown-haired man without thinking for a long time. - What you're saying contradicts what's really there.

      - I don't think it's a good idea to discuss it here. - Fedor reported, glancing at the door of Mori's office.

      - I don't see the problem. But if it pleases your soul, then let's go. - The suicidal man agreed, striding forward down the corridor toward the wards. Osamu was clearly determined to learn and understand everything at once.

      - Dostoyevsky didn't understand, watching Dazai walk past him.

      - If you don't like talking in the hallway, we'll talk in your room. - Dazai walked relaxed and unhurriedly down the corridor toward Ward 8. The psychopath, acting bewildered, followed him.

      - It'll be bedtime soon, let's postpone the conversation. - Dostoevsky didn't look like a man who followed rules or rules of thumb, so his reminder to call it quits caused Osamu to be a bit confused.

      - No. You're too weird. - Dazai protested, which caused Fyodor to chuckle, but he didn't answer anything in capitulation.

      The Streisand Effect¹ doesn't only work with the media. A similar trick can be applied to interpersonal relationships. This phenomenon is a rather interesting social phenomenon. It consists in the fact that an attempt to remove certain information from public access, or simply to keep people away from the subject of their interest, only leads to its wider dissemination, or contributes to increased interest. For example, an attempt to restrict access to a file, text, or number most often leads to duplication of that information or other replication.

      It is the same with people. If an object is shielded from something by force, then, in most cases, it does not help, but only increases interest.

      Dostoevsky's every move was flawless. He knew and realized every action he took. Fyodor could have directly harmed Osamu exactly the moment he learned of his connection to Fukuzawa. But that wouldn't be interesting, and it wouldn't do much harm to Dazai, Mori, or Yukichi. He'd rather be at a loss than make his situation in the hospital worse.

      The first to enter Dostoyevsky's room was Osamu. Dazai sat down on Fyodor's perfectly made bed, forgetting that Gogol had warned him not to do such a thing. But the owner of the bed didn't care where he sat and what the suicidal man was doing. The main thing was to keep him away from his desk.

      - I'm all ears, Dazai. - Fyodor leaned against the wall by the front door. Osamu shivered from the cold, but it was an internal one, because the room was quite warm.

      Though this room was different from the one where Chuya and Dostoevsky had clashed, Dazai was reminded of the smug and self-satisfied face of Fyodor, who clearly knew how to keep any situation under his control. Though the feeling of coziness and unreality was comforting, but still, Dazai tried to keep his mind clear of Fyodor, and not succumb to the sedative that began to take effect a little later than the analgesic.

      - It's me, all ears. - Osamu clarified. - Is that why?

      - Why what? - Fyodor rolled his eyes tiredly. - My answer won't change. I'm a bad person who carries nothing good in me. I think that's enough information for you.

      - No, it's not enough. I just can't understand. You're like a sheep, but for Ogai, you put on a wolf's skin. Why do you have to be so indifferent? - Osamu wondered, constructing his own portrait of Dostoyevsky.

      Fyodor was about to answer something, but there was a knock at the door.

      - Just a moment. - Said Dostoevsky, opening the door, through which first a light-colored head poked through, and then a young man entered the room.

      The boy had short, blond hair, almost chin-length with a parting in the middle. There were three asymmetrical dark strands on the right side of his hair, like black piano keys. A wide, cheerful smile shone on his face.

      He was a little taller than Dostoevsky. And in his hands with thin fingers, he held some object, but it was difficult to see what it was. He was dressed just like all the patients in the ward. A white, solid-colored shirt with a shallow v-neck and short sleeves, and the same color hospital pants. On top of all that, he was wearing a white, medical gown, with the name "Mori Ogai" prominently displayed on his nametag.

      - I hope I'm not interrupting, but it doesn't matter. Fyodor, you don't know how glad I am to see you in good health! You've made a new friend. I told you that your illness is nothing, and you will recover! - The man gibbered, looking at Dostoevsky.

Piano Man

Delirium. Fabula Syndrome

     - Where did you steal your robe already? Ogai will be angry. - Dostoevsky remarked, ignoring the ravings of the entrant.

      - My dear patient. How could I steal my own robe? And be angry with myself? And Ogai, you know, is a difficult case. Imagine! Changed my name on the badge to his own! What nonsense! - The blond was a rather impulsive and talkative man, with whom it would be impossible to argue. - Well, well, well. Who's that? The new guy. What a marvelous idea it was to put you two together. You'll be healthier. Socialization is everything! - The pianist let out a chuckle as he looked at Osama. The suicidal man, on the other hand, shivered, but he too looked at the sick man in Mori's medical gown with interest, barely containing his laughter.

      - Doctor, tell me, will I live? - Osamu decided to play along. Dostoevsky rolled his eyes.

      - No way, my dear! Of course you will. No one's ever died of insanity. - Piano Man made a good point.

      - Hasn't he? I've heard scientists say otherwise. - Osamu continued to amuse himself.

      - Those scientists of yours are useless! They write all kinds of nonsense. You're still alive. Look at Fyodor, he's still alive. - He pointed at the psychopath with his hand, then leaned toward the suicidal man, and switched to a whisper. - Except, I see you're a good man. Keep an eye on him, please. He's a schizophrenic, and they can be violent. - The blond man spoke in all seriousness, and Osamu couldn't stand it, and he laughed, falling onto Dostoyevsky's bed with his whole body, burying his face in his pillow.

     - I think the inspection is over Atsushi's waiting for you, it's been a while since you visited him. - The psychopath came up with the idea, hoping this circus would finally be over.

      - That's right I wonder how my little tiger cub is doing. I'll be right back. - The blond man said, walking happily out of the room and winking at Osamu, who was pressing his face into the pillow, trying to stop a fit of laughter.

      Suddenly, he noticed that the pillowcase didn't smell like laundry detergent at all, but rather like smoke from burnt herbs and something else that smelled like incense or something ecclesiastical, which was as comforting as Dostoevsky's presence. In that same moment, Osamu realized how tired he was today, that he was ready to fall asleep the second he did, but he didn't want to be left without answers. He reluctantly pulled his head away from the pillow, looking at Dostoyevsky, who was no longer standing by the door, but by the bed, looking at the suicidal man with a puzzled look.

      - If you're going to sleep, then go back to your room. - The psychopath reported. Dazai nodded negatively, and stomping and muffled shouts could be heard from the corridor.

      - How dare you! I'm the head of the hospital! And you're playing catch-up! - There was a protesting cry from a delirious patient who was moving away, followed by the slamming of the door.

      - Hold him! - There was a shout, probably from some orderly who was trying to catch the Pianist. Then, again, the door slammed.

      - It's noisy in there, I'm not going in. - Lazily stretching and getting under the blanket, the suicide replied, yawning.

     - Where do you think I'm going to sleep? - Dostoevsky asked unhappily.

      - You have another bed, so sleep there. - The suicidal man replied, falling asleep with his face buried in the pillow.

      The psychopath took a step toward the hospital bed, contemplating how best to kick Osama out of his bed and the room. Still, however, he waved his hand and backed away, looking at the sleeping man with disdain.

      "Lord, please give me back Nikolai..." - Thought Dostoevsky, realizing that the bipolar, although pestering, but exactly know the boundary of permissible.

      Fyodor tried not to take pills and any other drugs that Ogai prescribed him. Therefore, insomnia was his eternal companion at night. Sighing, he made his way to his desk, and started going through his old notes, making new ones at the same time, while the suicidal man sniffled peacefully on his bed.

      Soft, green grass enveloped Osamu's body, tickling his face. Suddenly, someone gently squatted down beside him, taking him like a father taking a child's hand.

      - Get up. - A soft, smoky male voice that Dazai recognizes among millions of others.

      - Odasaku? - Not believing his ears, the suicidal man took a sitting position, gazing into the translucent features of his friend's face.

      An atmosphere of calm reigned around them. Surrounding them was a vast, green, flowering field. Butterflies flew in the air around them, occasionally settling on flowers, eating pollen.

      - We don't have much time, let's go. - Sakunosuke rose to his feet, beckoning Dazai over to him. He obediently got up, but he didn't move from his seat, only looking at Oda, who was as alive as ever.

      - Where to? – Osamu asked. - I'm dying and you've come to take me away? - There was hope in his voice. He wanted to believe that his old friend would say yes.

      What could be better than dying in your sleep? No pain, which Osamu didn't like. No suffering. Just falling asleep, and not waking up.....

       - Let's go to our place. - Oda held out his hand to the suicidal man, shattering his hopes of such an easy demise. Dazai obediently placed his palm in his friend's open palm. He realized that now they would go to the Lupin Bar, where they would sit and talk about everything and nothing.

       - I miss you. - Osamu sighed with relief and sadness.

      But as soon as he said that, Sakunosuke's image began to blur, and it was no longer Oda standing in front of him, but Fyodor, not holding his palm, but standing at arm's length, open for a hug.

      - Dazai, it's going to be okay. You'll be fine. - Dostoyevsky repeated his words that he had said to Osamu earlier in the art therapy room. This caused the suicidal man to take a few steps back, tucking his hands into his pockets. He couldn't believe his eyes. Where had Oda gone? And what is that psychopath doing here?

      - Why? - The brown-haired man asked, not meaning anything specific. A simple, general question that meant so much. Why did Oda show up? Why did he disappear? Why had Fyodor appeared? Why was all this happening to him? Why can't he be happy with his friend even in his dreams?

      - What a troublesome soul you are, I'm only showing you mercy, but it's as if you're misinterpreting my intentions. - Fyodor's image spoke in a soft, monotone voice. - I only want to hold you, and help you feel better. Maybe the reason you're so cold is because you've never felt the warmth of someone else's embrace. Please don't worry that I'm mad at you. I'm not going to hurt you....

      "Cold? Am I cold?" - Osamu thought about it and realized that he was actually cold. His hands felt like they were frozen, and he felt like he was in a freezer, not in a clearing.

      Except that the flower field and the bright weather began to dissipate in small particles, revealing the true essence. The cold raging sea, the rocks that looked more like glaciers.

      Suddenly, Dazai had the urge to enter this sea, which he did. The cold wasn't frightening at all, but on the contrary, it attracted him.

      Everything seemed so real that the suicidal man was afraid to even blink, and, instead of sleeping, to find himself in a cold bathtub, with a blade in his hand.

      Fyodor took Osama by the hand, leading him farther from the shore, forcing him to dive in almost headfirst. For a moment, the water felt completely different, as if it wasn't ordinary water at all, but a sea of lies that had been created especially for him.

      - You can get out before it's too late. There's a storm coming. - Dostoevsky warns Dazai.

      - But I feel so good, I don't want to leave. - Dazai protested, being up to his neck in water. Can I stay? Please.

      - Only if you're willing to weather the storm. - The psychopath warned, grinning.

      - I'm staying, if I face the consequences, it's my problem, which I fully deserve. - Confidently replied the suicidal man. - Especially, you haven't explained to me yet why Ogai is against it.

      - Suit yourself. But it's time to wake up. - Says Dostoevsky, diving headfirst into the water. Osamu waits for a few minutes, but seeing that the brunet does not surface, he himself falls into the sea of lies, trying to reach the bottom, which is not visible at all. And all around is impenetrable darkness.

      Osamu feels that the air is running out, but he can't understand where the top is and where the bottom is, and how he can get out.

      Dazai opens his eyes, assuming a sitting position on the bed, he gulps air greedily.

      - Nightmares? - Without taking his eyes off his notes, Dostoevsky asks, making Osamu's heart sink. Dazai had completely forgotten where he was, trying to adjust to reality after such a strange dream, which surprisingly left only some pleasant feeling. No fear or terror. On the contrary, a desire to fall asleep again, and to comprehend the bottom of the sea.

      - On the contrary, a very good dream. - assured the suicidal man, yawning.

      - It's the first time I've seen people wake up gasping for air from a good dream. - The psychopath remarked, finally turning to Osamu.

      - Didn't you sleep? - Dazai wondered.

      The psychopath nodded silently.

      - Can you really only sleep on your own bed? Are you that picky? - The suicidal man smirked.

      - It's not that. I rarely sleep anyway, insomnia. So, it's not about that. - Fedor explained.

      - Can't you ask Maury for sleeping pills? - Surprised sleepy voice shaten.

      - I'd rather die from lack of sleep than drink what Ogai prescribes me. - Fyodor replied in a joking manner.

      - So that's it... - Osamu thought.

      - If you're not going to sleep any longer, then go to your room. - Dostoevsky grumbled, clearly not wanting to have such an early conversation.

      - You're a grouch. I'm going back to sleep... – Dazai fell back into the bed, trying to find a comfortable position. After turning around for a while, he realized that he had slept well, but he didn't want to leave. - Fyodor, are you angry with me? - Remembering fragments of the dream, he asked.

      - Why should I be angry? - The brunet was surprised.

      - I don't know... - Osamu thought about it, he really hadn't done anything wrong, he had just fallen asleep in someone else's bed, someone else's room, and now he was asking stupid questions. It's nothing. - You're not gonna hurt me, are you?

      - If you don't stop talking nonsense, the next time you fall asleep, I'll strangle you. - Replied the psychopath.

      - Then, do you mind if I move in with you? - Rising up on his hands, jokingly asked Osamu, looking at his interlocutor.

      - So, you want me to kill you? - Answered Dostoyevsky's question with a question.

      - Nerd. - Osamu was indignant, not losing his cheerful attitude. Dostoevsky ignored him and went back to his own business.

      "Lord, I pray you, give me strength and patience. Don't let me ruin this poor soul before its time." - Fyodor prayed in his mind as he went about his business.

      - Are you the only one in the ward with bars on the windows? - Dazai sighed heavily. He looked out the window, where he could see the blue sky and the full moon. But the bars spoiled the view.

      - I don't know. Unlike some people, I don't go to other people's rooms. - Fyodor was clearly unhappy with the violation of his privacy.

      - I didn't notice it this afternoon. - Suicidal man remarked.

      - It was a forced measure. - Fyodor sighed, and closed his notes, realizing that the rest from the activists of the department is over.

      - So it was a forced measure for me, too. - Osamu smiled, sitting down. - Anyway, thanks for reminding me. Why is Ogai against it? It's not that I really want to socialize with you. I'm just curious.

      - You're so restless. - Dostoyevsky turned around to face Dazai. - I was just kidding. I had a bad conversation with Ogai, so I wanted to go on vacation. - The psychopath lied, realizing that Osamu wouldn't accept the truth anyway.

      - So that's it... - Suicidal thought for a moment. - This isn't interesting, think of another answer.

      - To hell with you. Get out. - Fyodor's tone of voice was not angry or stern, just tired.

      - So he's with me. Right here at the table. No, you look more like a demon. - Osamu made a joke. - I'll call you "Demon-Fyodor." - Dazai chuckled, clearly proud of his new nickname for Gogol's God.

      - Not funny. - Rolled his eyes at the psychopath.

      "Revenge is a dish served cold, but I'll serve it to them in such a frozen form that even your new friends, acquaintances, and loved ones will have their teeth chattering from the cold, and their hearts will beat so slowly from fear that it will seem as if they are about to die..." - The psychopath calmed himself mentally, outwardly expressing nothing but a polite smile.

      - Why did you want to die? - Unexpectedly for Osamu asked Fyodor.

      - Why do you want to live?

      - Question for question? - Dostoevsky said. - All right, as you wish. Death, unlike life, has no meaning. What matters to a man is the very fact of his existence and what he can bring to this world, thereby changing it. - Fyodor rose from his chair and walked over to the bookcase. Dazai looked at him questioningly, but decided to wait for the psychopath to continue speaking. - Have you read the Bible? - Dostoevsky asked, picking up a large black leather-bound book from the shelf.

      The book was old and, most likely, had been read to the ground, as evidenced by the many bookmarks.

      - I'm an atheist. I'm not interested in your sermons. - Disappointed, Dazai lay back down, deciding that it was better to stare at the ceiling than to talk to a religious fanatic.

      - You shouldn't. It's good for people like you, too. - Fyodor looked at the book with a smile. - God is too distorted in the world. I would even say that people worship an ugly, and made-up God. - The psychopath sighed, and returned the book to its place.

      - I'm still not interested, and you dodged the question.

      - Neither are you. - Fyodor remarked.

      - I'd better be going. - Dazai got up from Dostoyevsky's bed. In fact, he wouldn't mind talking about religion and faith if the psychopath continued the topic. However, he wasn't ready to pour his soul out to this strange man. No matter how comfortable and cozy he was in his presence, Osamu remembered that the psychopath in front of him was a psychopath.

      Fyodor, on the other hand, didn't hinder the suicidal man's departure in any way. He gave him a chance to start drowning in cold loneliness again.

Chapter Text

Being a dying man h

has its advantages.

When you have nothing to lose

- you're not afraid of risk.

  Dazai left room number eight, leaving the psychopath alone in his chambers. It was enough for Osamu that Ango was extremely interested in why the suicidal man wanted to die.

      Except that Dazai didn't want to explain himself or give any reason why he didn't really want to die, but he didn't want to live either. In his mind it was simple and obvious, but when he tried to explain it to someone, everything became complicated and confusing.

     After all, if you think about it, there is no meaning in life, as well as in everything else in this world. All people have to do is go through a lot of suffering to eventually die and find peace.

   Suicidal man sincerely did not understand how people so calmly accept this world with its shortcomings, which are more than advantages. Of course, he was not particularly interested in the growth of taxes or other economic problems.

     He ate mostly in the cafe that was located under their detective office, and there he was in debt. But not the point, the main thing is that there is a bottle of sake and a pack of cigarettes. Those are the only things that "saved" him when he was all alone. However, others don't need to know that.

    Dostoevsky, on the other hand, was not surprised by Osamu's reaction, but rather thanked the Lord God for saving him from sin.

      Psychopaths have an extremely delicate mental organization. They may appear cold, rude, and indifferent, but this is only in relation to others.

  Fyodor had a small range of emotions and feelings, but all of them, with the exception of destructive anger, were directed at the patient himself.

      It doesn't take much effort to get such a person out. Often, a simple denial of his or her rightness, reproaches for his or her difference from others, or violation of personal space is enough. At first, it may seem that psychopaths do not react to such things at all. It doesn't seem to matter to them. However, that's the problem. Psychopaths, unlike sociopaths, can to some extent control their impulses and direct them in the right direction, preparing the most delicious "poison" for the offender.

      Blow for blow, rage for rage, death for death - and all this with the extraction of abundant profit. The purpose of this action, is - to become a horror for his opponent, going his way. But of course, it's not all done for its own good. Having received a lesson from the psychopath, the offender will gain enough experience to reflect on. This will make the enemy respect the patient in all manifestations of life.

      Dostoevsky hated his enemies with all his non-existent heart. And if someone dared, in one way or another, to hurt him, it was considered a direct duty to destroy the enemy, for self-preservation is the supreme law.

      This makes one wonder whether it is possible that the psychopath and the saint are in a sense two transcendental sides of the same existentialist coin. Is it possible, admitted or not, that for the most evil, completely incorrigible psychopaths, murder becomes their path to grace? Achieving purity through terrible means? Changed through the difficult and severe trials to which the psychopath subjects others, is his spirit purified by theatricality, publicity, fame, and terror?

    After reaching his room, the suicidal man slipped silently inside, trying to remain unnoticed by his neighbors. Truth be told, even depression has its benefits. Numerous studies have shown that being depressed helps people think - and contributes to increased attentiveness and problem-solving ability.

    Somehow, his own bed wasn't as comfortable as Fedor's, but it was Osamu's plan not to cross paths with the man for at least a while.

  The strange man had too many conflicting feelings that Dazai wanted to get to the bottom of.

   Something inside him was screaming at him to run away and avoid Dostoevsky for the duration of his treatment. However, a contradiction was immediately encountered, which said, "the psychopath isn't that bad."

   Osamu lay on his bed, trying to sleep and get rid of his intrusive thoughts. Suddenly, it seemed to him that something under his bed was rustling and scratching the floor with either claws or some other sharp object.

  "Nikolai must have wanted to make a joke..." - Dazai thought, trying to ignore the bipolar's shenanigans. Nevertheless, the irritability was taking its toll. The grinding was beginning to be more acute and unpleasant to the ear. The auditory stimulus was joined by a physical discomfort that was caused by the sensation of someone poking a sharp object into his bed from the floor.

    - ..... - The suicidal man wanted to be outraged, but he couldn't even utter a mooing sound. The "monster" under the bed seemed to have subsided.

    Anyway, the suicide victim's numb body was now more frightening than the bipolar under his bed. Regardless, Dazai was used to ignoring and going for broke in the face of fear. He decided to try to break out of his paralysis and look under his bed to catch the prankster red-handed. But he couldn't do that either. It was as if someone had nailed his body to the bed. And not just nailed, but fixed in such a way that the suicide couldn't move a finger.

     The only thing he could do was stare anxiously at the ceiling, unable to blink.

    From the side, he could still see some of the room. Shadows flickered across the room, and eyes began to appear on the walls, pupils that did not stand still, but ran erratically around the room looking for something. No matter how hard he tried to break out of the paralysis, he couldn't.

    Fear was gripping him, inner anxiety was building.

    Dazai was ready to give up and scream for help. Except he couldn't even make a squeak.

  Panic was beginning to choke him. Maybe it wasn't panic at all. And his own suicidal shadow was sitting comfortably on his chest. Wrapping its bony hands around his throat, depriving him of air.

   Dazai was unable to even blink, but something snapped him out of that state. Suddenly it felt like there was something else besides the strangling shadow near him, but not visible. It didn't matter though. After all, he was going to die very soon and not at all the way he wanted to.

   When Osamu felt like he couldn't take another breath, he didn't even notice that the shadow sitting on his chest and its brethren walking around the room were gone. The eyes on the walls were gone as well. It was all right, but now the main task was to catch his breath.

- Nightmares? - Someone asked from the next bunk. Dazai, in a state of shock, didn't even realize it was Gogol.

      - Huh?" the suicidal man twitched, looking around the side of the room, certain that this was all real. He waited anxiously for his doppelganger to reappear out of nowhere bringing with it all the undead of the underworld.

      "As soon as I lie down, they will reappear. They're watching and looking for something. That's what Poe meant..." - For some reason right now he was reminded of the words of a paranoid schizophrenic.

      - Dazai, are you all right? - Nikolai hesitated, watching his worried roommate in the darkness.

      - You saw it too, didn't you? - Osamu decided to clarify.

      - Saw what? - The bipolar's eyes raced around the room, searching with interest for something terribly exciting.

      "Then I didn't see it." - The suicidal man realized.

    - Hahaha, there was a bird flying by outside the window, a black one like that...– Dazai replied quietly, chuckling nervously. He winked at Nikolai, showing a cheerful attitude.

    As good an actor as Osamu was, his appearance gave away his anxiety. His smile was slightly skewed, and he blinked a little less frequently, afraid that if he covered his eyes for even a moment, everything around him would turn back into some kind of psychedelic delusion.

      - Really? - The bipolar raised his eyebrows, doubting the truth of the suicidal man's words.

      - Sure! – Osamu stuck out his lower lip, as if he was offended at not being believed.

      - All right, all right, I'll believe it. What kind of bird? I like birds! Especially lovebirds! Birds... They are so wonderful and free... I would like to be a bird... - Nikolai thought, looking out the window behind which it was already beginning to lighten. - By the way, where were you half the night? - Negatively nodding his head to his thoughts and laying back in bed asked Gogol.

    - Lost in the corridors. How can it be that the ward is so big? - Osamu lied, he didn't want to be associated with a strange man in any way. No, not a human, but a Demon.

    - Ogai had put his heart and soul into the hospital, if he had any. - The bipolar chuckled, adjusting the pillow under his head. - You'll get used to it.

      - I don't want to get used to it. - Osamu sighed, reluctantly returning to his reclining position, running his eyes over the walls of the room to make sure the eyes and shadows were gone.

      - No one wants to, but otherwise it will be hard. - Nikolai yawned. The time was nearing morning, and with it the activity of the manic phase was decreasing. - Sleep Osamu, it will be hard, but you will find freedom, like all of us. - Gogol's eyes closed by themselves, sending him into the realm of Morpheus.

    "These two are worth each other, however, this one is at least fun" - Pondered Osamu briefly.

  The human mind is a crime scene. The fascination with human nature, their feelings, emotions, origins, and body features often goes far beyond simple experiments on the sick.

    A sane mind cannot imagine the delight and ecstasy of experimenting on these marvelous creatures, who are called the pinnacle of evolution.

      After Edgar Allan Poe's violent reaction to the death of Tatte Suehiro. The schizophrenic's fate was sealed when he was admitted to the violent ward, from which only a few were ever released.

    The solitary wards there were not at all like Dostoevsky's isolation ward. They were more neatly furnished. The white walls were lined with small soft squares. One of them had a hospital bed bolted to the floor, without straps or chains, and even neatly made up.

  On top of the bed, curled up in a ball, sat a schizophrenic, muttering something to himself in delirium. The only thing that was similar to Fedor's isolation ward was a metal door, though no, even that was only keyed and had a small window in the middle.

   Ogai opened the door cautiously, entering Edgar's room at a leisurely pace, but the patient paid no attention at all and continued to babble something under his breath, so that it was impossible to understand what he was saying.

 Strangely enough, the neurosurgeon was unaccompanied. In fact, usually, even nurses to give injections or just to give the necessary medication. He visited the violent patients with a panic button in the pocket of his hospital gown, pressing it would send a nasty beeping noise throughout the entire violent ward, and one large orderly as an escort.

      - Po, it's Mori, look at me. - Squatting beside the patient's bed, Ogai said in a quiet voice. However, Allan continued to be in his own world, ignoring any sounds from outside. - Edgar, I brought the medicine, look. - Mori's voice was calm, but at the same time a little shaky, with anticipation and expectation of how the pill he had created would work on the sick man.

   Once in his youth, Ogai had accidentally stumbled across old records in an unfamiliar language, something similar to Japanese. The notes were a treasure trove of scientific papers.

      In his youth, the neurosurgeon was very curious and hungry for knowledge. Therefore, as a frequent visitor to the university library, no one was suspicious when Mori would linger and translate some notes from Chinese into Japanese. It was in those texts that he learned about alchemy.

      At first, he thought it was really nonsense. After all, all the major events took place in ancient China.

     "On the second day of the fourth moon of the third year of Taikang, I refined and improved the recipe for hu sha. I take it not by myself, but also by my students and my favorite dog."

     Of Wei Po-yan, Mori Ogai had previously heard of Wei Po-yan only from legends that seemed to him to be amusing tall tales. Now, however, he was now reading copies of the alchemist's writings rather than the originals, of course. He clearly didn't consider it fun anymore, especially now that the records were so abruptly cut off. So much for the intrigues of Lady Luck... Now he would never know what happened to Wei Po-yan, his disciples, and the dog.

 With his good medical knowledge, Ogai understood perfectly well why the records were cut off so abruptly. And a fool would understand that if you feed people 'immortality pills' prepared from mercury sulfide, it has one end - death. Although, deep down, Mori wanted to believe that the legend of the alchemist and his subjects wasn't lying. It would be great if it was true, one could die once and then be resurrected and become immortal.

    However, as Morey got more and more into the details, he learned that to this day some scientific doctors are still trying to create a pill or elixir of immortality. Once, he even managed to get in touch with Dr. Jesse Karmazin, who was conducting experiments on elderly Americans.

    In a few days of communication via e-mail, Jesse reported positive results for the patients: the level of proteins responsible for the development of cancer and Alzheimer's disease fell by 20%, improved sleep, mood, cognitive ability, muscle tone and even appearance.

     To be fair, Jesse didn't immediately go for the contact. The doctor is used to the scientific community looking askew at these experiments and advising all volunteers to abandon the experiments. Therefore, Ogai's interest initially made him suspicious. However, after learning that the neurosurgeon has his own hospital and that he wants not only to learn the nature of people, but also to make his contribution to immortality, still made contact.

      Karmazin shared his thoughts and "secrets" of success with Mori. Ogai, in turn, could not help but boast, his supposed variations of immortality pills.

    "Of course, I have not yet reached the world level. However, there is also something to boast about. In Japan, we have a wonderful plant called ashitaba. First, I tested it on my white helpers, the rats. I noticed that regular use of it increased their lifespan by 20%. The main point I came to is that the aging of the body comes from an overabundance of food. This is what leads to the accumulation of various mutations in the cells of the body. Ashitaba produces a substance that causes the body's cells to recycle "biological garbage". - wrote in one of his letters Ogai Jesse.

     Lab mice are interesting, but it's a start. If they didn't die, we could try it on humans. For this reason, Mori had been feeding Edraga his "immortality pills" for years.

      In fact, not every patient was suitable for Ogai's experiments. The main condition was the absence of close relatives. That's how Maury selected his subjects. Allan was very lonely and unsociable. Even if someone tried to contact him, he did not accept it, looking for a trick in everything. Paranoid schizophrenia is not limited to hallucinations, delusions and psychoses, especially when together with her at the pen goes schizoid personality disorder. Therefore, if something happens to the patient, it will look to others as if someone has disappeared, but it is not known who, and it does not matter, there are more important things and people.

      - You brought them with you. - Alan spoke more intelligibly, looking directly into Ogai's eyes. His gaze was not human, but more like that of a beast staring directly at the hunter who had wounded him with a shotgun blast.

      - Edgar, I've come to rid you of them. Drink this medicine, it'll help. It'll make you invisible to them. - whispered Maury, telling me the secret way to get rid of his pursuers.

      - No, you're with them! Get lost! Enough! - Had it not been for the straitjacket that restrained the patient from unnecessary movements, Poe would certainly have thrown himself at the neurosurgeon, seeing him as a danger.

     The disease progressed, taking away the last vestiges of common sense, which sometimes visited the schizophrenic in moments of intermission. Being in a state between two attacks of psychosis, which was characterized by a complete recovery of mental activity, Allan suffered more than usual, even fell into apathy with obsessive ideas of suicide. For it seemed to him that he was not prepared to endure one more psychosis that was making his life a living hell.

   Edgar miraculously managed to get into university to study philology. At that time schizophrenia, as it seemed to him, did not prevent him from living a normal life. However, the literalness of his perception took its toll. Often, talking to someone he could jump from topic to topic without any problems. One day, trying to fit in, Po decided to maintain a dialog about boxers. While his classmates were discussing past fights and betting on future fights. Allan thought about the fact that dogfighting was illegal.

     - Quite an interesting fact that some historians believe that the name "boxer" came from the German word boxl, as dogs were called in slaughterhouses. - Started thinking in his ear schizophrenic interrupting one of his classmates, who was talking about his favorite among boxers. - However, other experts say that the name of the breed is due to the peculiarity of using boxers' front paws during games, which is similar to the movements of an athlete-boxer.

  - What are you talking about? - Frowning his eyebrows asked one of the company discussing. The other pairs of eyes were also fixed on Allan, waiting for an explanation as to why he was changing the subject from sports to dogs.

    However, he didn't understand what he had said at all. This train of thought seemed more than logical to him.

    Such a literal perception of the world is the main feature of schizophrenia, which helps to diagnose the disease. Often when suspected, patients are asked to explain a proverb. We all know that "A fisherman sees a fisherman from afar" - it is said to emphasize that people with similar interests or goals will easily find each other. However, for someone with schizophrenia, it would make literal sense and even prompt one to think about how much distance there must be between the fishermen for them to realize that they both came to the pond to fish. 

  - Go away! Get away! You're one of them! - Poe's speech was loud and increasingly unintelligible, but Mori didn't even flinch. He held up a translucent capsule tablet with a bright red liquid inside it to Allan's face.

   - Po, I realize you don't believe me, but this will help you. It'll help you get rid of the constant scrutiny of those eyes. It's the only way I get rid of them. You are my dear friend, so I only want to help you. - The doctor spoke softly. However, Edgar didn't care about that at all. The schizophrenic jerked his head toward Ogai's hand, causing the pill to fall to the floor.

   Mori immediately bent down to pick up the precious capsule. Before he could find his invention, the neurosurgeon's attention was drawn to the patient collapsing on the bed.

     Edgar Allan Poe was seized with a state of great fear, anxiety or panic. And his body trembled in convulsions. His skin turned pale, and drops of sweat dripped from his forehead. His breathing became heavy and intermittent. The pupils of his eyes were hard to see, for they were rolling upward because of his frequent epileptic blinking. The pale pink foam coming out of his mouth added to the already "beautiful" picture.

      It seemed as if he was about to choke on the substance. It was debatable whether it would be his death sooner, the copious foam from his mouth or his own tongue, which was stuck in his throat, blocking his ability to breathe.

      Mori stood watching Allan's agony, which was accompanied by grunting, coughing. The body continued to convulse, and the patient unconsciously tried to vomit out his own tongue, which, because of the mucus and foam, seemed to be stuck to his throat, taking away the last chance of life. Of course, Ogai could have tried to save the patient, call the nurses and orderlies, but there was no need.

    There was no more use for the sanity-deprived Edgar. The madness had taken its toll, which meant that the patient was no longer suitable for use in experiments. Without waiting for the death agony to end, Ogai, without remorse, took a syringe from the pocket of his robe already filled with some drug and injected it into the patient's neck. Then he found a pill of immortality on the floor and left the isolation ward, locking the doors behind him.

    On the ward for the violent, Mori walked in a measured and unhurried manner. His whole appearance betrayed nothing but his usual austerity and calmness. Before leaving the scene of his crime, he glanced at the nurses' station and told them that Allan wasn't feeling well today, though he'd injected him with a neuroleptic, but advised him to check on him in a couple of hours.

    "No body, no case." - The neurosurgeon grinned as he climbed the stairs to the general psychiatric male ward.

    Mori Ogaya's hospital buries the dead of the immortality pills.

Chapter Text

Touches of winter and summer,

Contradictory only from the outside.

Fear? Pain? Do you feel nothing but emptiness?

Look, do you see the light?

But they're just empty altars.

And the sweet sin of silence

Does your God never answer?

Confess your sins and beg forgiveness.

     People rarely look at the essence, even though it is on the surface. More often, they dig deeper, forgetting about the original intention. As a result, not getting answers to their questions, on the contrary, they meet new riddles, and those, in turn, take them further away from the essence.

   As expected, the death of Edgar Allan Poe caused no stir. The hospital staff hardly talked about it, and the patients didn't know or want to know when the schizophrenic would return from his violent ward, or if he would.

      The morning was not a good one for Dazai. The night's incident with sleep paralysis had made him anxious, which he tried to ignore as he sat on the couch in the recreation room, looking at the cover of Confessions of a Flawed Man. 

    "Was it necessary to write such heresy?" - Osamu pondered, nodding his head negatively. He still couldn't bring himself to continue reading. On the one hand Dazai wanted to know exactly how Yozo's story would end, but on the other hand the suicidal man was not the kind of person to do something that was uncomfortable and not helpful.

      - Every time I am unable to continue reading for whatever reason, I just put it aside and pick up something else. - Someone's calm and even indifferent voice broke the suicidal man out of his thoughts, from which he raised his head to look at the stranger.

      He was a tall young man with extremely pale skin and lifeless brown eyes. His hair was long and snow-white in color. It was probably braided into a loose braid for convenience. His bangs were neatly arranged to the right side of his face, and a few small strands on the sides emphasized the man's leanness.

      - Shall I sit down? - The blond asked, hoping that Dazai would be able to break up his leisure time with conversation.

Tatsuhiko Shibusawa

Anhedonia

   - Yes, why not, if yes? - Looking around and moving a little to the middle of the sofa, making room for the interlocutor, the suicidal man answered.

      - Why yes, if not? - Shibusawa thought, twisting Osamu's answer in a completely different style, causing Dazai to blink rapidly, looking at Tatsuhiko with incomprehension. - Not the point, so what are you reading?

      - Is it "Confessions of a 'flawed' man", have you read it? - Osamu asked, approving the change of subject.

      - Shuji Tsushima? Yes, it's a good book, but it's strange that you're having a hard time with it. - The pale-faced man remarked.

      - Well, I don't know what you found good in it, there's too many contradictions..." Osamu furrowed his brow.

      - How much have you read so far?

      - Only 70 pages, and that's a lot of effort. It's the first time I've read a book that's good but annoying. - Osamu shrugged, looking at the book in his hands.

      - What's so annoying about it? - Shibusawa looked at his interlocutor boredly.

      - I have no idea. - Dazai thought for a moment, but he lied. He was well aware that he couldn't help but associate himself with the main character.

      - I see. - Shibusawa replied briefly, as if he had lost interest in the conversation. There was an awkward silence between them. That was only perceptible to Osamu.

      - What's your name, by the way? - The suicidal man asked

      - I apologize, I forgot to introduce myself. - The blond bowed his head in apology, then returned his blank stare to Dazai's face. - Tatsuhiko Shibusawa.

  - Nice to meet you, I'm Dazai Osamu. - The suicidal man smiled cheerfully, catching himself in yet another lie. So far, he hadn't made any really nice acquaintances in this place. And the awkwardness around Shibusawa was stressing him out. Osamu was well aware that the blank stare was directed directly at him, but it felt like he was looking through him or just at the air between them.

     "So what's there to talk to him about? Boring as hell. He's just like all the others, nothing interesting, an empty vessel for another sad life story. Yes, that's right, a new story of someone else's life." - Tatsuhiko reasoned, taking his gaze away from Dazai and spoke more to the void than to the suicidal man.

    - Many personalities change under the influence of the people they meet, sometimes so much so that they don't recognize themselves. Can't even remember their own name. What brings you to such an unfortunate place?

   It was hard for Osamu to argue with Shibusawa, because he was right. Luckily or unluckily, Dazai wasn't stupid enough to deny it. However, he didn't want to say what had driven him to the psychiatric hospital, but he couldn't. After all, it would come down to the fact that he was the cause of all the trouble.

      - Dazai! - Yosano called out to the suicidal man standing in the hallway. Osamu glanced over his shoulder, hoping she wasn't calling him to talk about his condition.

      - Rampo! Fukuzawa! - He jumped up from the couch, forgetting about Shibusawa and his question, and rushed to his doctor, boss and colleague. Tatsuhiko followed his interlocutor for a moment, then nodded approvingly to himself. But when Shibusawa noticed Yukichi, his gaze flickered to the man in surprise. It was as if he couldn't believe his eyes that this man could be so careless within the walls of the treatment center.

      "It seems like something interesting is going to happen. Maybe at least his appearance will dispel my boredom..." - Tatsuhiko pondered, taking a more comfortable position on the couch.

      Dazai walked briskly over to his visitors and the doctor, greeting them with a slight bow.

     - You have no idea how happy I am to see you! - Osamu said with a clap of his hands and a wide smile.

      - I'll leave you two to talk. But Fukuzawa, before you leave, come see me to discuss the details of the treatment. - Asked Akiko Yukichi before heading to the emergency room. The silver wolf wasn't much of a talker, so he simply nodded in agreement.

      - How are you doing here? No offense? How are you feeling? - Chewing on a lollipop, Rampo asked.

      - No, I'm fine! - Dazai was a pathological liar, so he was the best at lying. It's hard to remember a circumstance in which Osamu couldn't help but come up with an excuse or the most elaborate lie that both the Devil and God would believe. However, in a mental institution, no matter how well the suicidal man lied, his "all is well" was hard to believe. - Let me show you my room! - Osamu offered cheerfully, preventing any further questions about his well-being.

      He froze, however, when he felt someone's palm on his shoulder. Remembering that Ogai usually did that, the suicidal man wanted to resort to his usual manipulation and dodge the tactile contact, but he smelled the familiar odor of burnt herbs, which could only belong to one strange person in this place.

       - You should put a bell around your neck, you can't sneak around like that. - Dazai remarked without turning to look at the psychopath, which gave him the opportunity to notice the frowning and displeased face of his superior looking directly at the psychopath.

    - I wasn't sneaking around, you're just letting your guard down, you should have talked to Yosano about your absent-mindedness. - Dostoevsky didn't remove his hand from Osamu's shoulder, but only took a step forward. - Next time you might fall asleep not in my room, but in the corridor or in the shower room. - Fedor grinned.

     - You could have kicked me out. - Noted Osamu.

      - I'm not some kind of monster, and I don't think I could wake you up. And I'm too weak to carry you around like a princess. - The psychopath had a certain cheerfulness in his voice.

    Dazai was about to reply, but Fukuzawa was clearly uncomfortable with this dialog. And the intimacy that Yukichi's dear man had with a terrorist whose place was in the electric chair or the gallows did not suit him under any circumstances. The director of the detective bureau coughed into his fist drawing attention to himself.

      - Fukuzawa-san, you don't mind him, he's just a strange man. - Dazai took Dostoyevsky's hand off his shoulder. - But he's kind of not bad, so I'm even glad you two met.

      - So this is your boss you were telling me about! - Fyodor smiled softly raising his eyebrows in surprise. - It's extremely nice to meet you. Don't worry Osamu-kun has told only good things about you. - The psychopath bowed his head in a bow.

    - Dazai, where's your room? You were going to show it to us. - Yukichi reminded him, wanting to get his subordinate away from the Dostoyevsky he was ignoring.

   - Ah yes, over there! - Dazai pointed his hand towards the chamber, casting a glance at Fedor and shrugging his shoulders. - See you later? - Osamu asked in a whisper, to which he received a small nod of his head. After that, the suicidal man, accompanying his guests, headed for the ward. Leaving Dostoyevsky standing alone in the hallway by the nurses' station.

      - I expected it to be more fun, but it's boring as hell. - Tatsuhiko said disappointedly, walking over to Dostoevsky.

      - Don't build up expectations and you won't be disappointed. - The psychopath glanced at Shibusawa, who had approached him.

    - You speak the truth, my friend, but expectations are the only thing that keeps me alive. - Tatsuhiko replied, shivering from the chill.

    - Mostly, when I show my true self to others, they think it's hypocrisy; when I put on a show, they believe I'm acting naturally. But Fukuzawa and Mori don't want to be part of the play. - The psychopath shrugged his shoulders as he looked at Shibusawa. - So it's too early for fun, though...who knows? - Fedor grinned smugly, winking at the blond.

     - Isn't your anger a sin? - Tatsuhiko wondered

    - Righteous anger is not only peculiar to the Lord God, but also to man, who is God's essence and hypostasis. - Fyodor smoothed his cross. - Yes, and it is not anger at all.  

    - What is it?

    - God's punishment for those who stray from the true path and see evil in good and good in evil. - The words were spoken calmly, the voice spilling melodiously into space, reaching only Shibusawa's ears. Dostoevsky's face did not really express anger, anger or rage. It seemed that Fyodor was in the highest degree of peace.

      - Aren't you afraid of the consequences? What if it fails and God leaves you? - Tatsuhiko asked.

     - Don't be silly, I've planned everything too well to be in accordance with God's plan. - Fedor put his hands behind his back and walked towards his room.

    - Did I tell you that you are boring? - Following Dostoevsky said Shibusava.

     - You did, and more than once. - Fyodor entered the ward, went to the rack of books, choosing what to read.

     - Aren't you going to do something? - Shibusawa stopped in the doorway. He tilted his head to the side as he watched the psychopath.

      - 'Of course I will, I'll read a book. - Fyodor pulled out a New Testament with an old, worn cover¹.

      - I'm talking about Fukuzawa. He's here, and you can do whatever you want. - Tatsuhiko was puzzled.

      - Not yet. - Fedor shrugged sitting down at his desk ignoring his friend's continued presence.

      "No, you can't, they can't know. No they can't even think about how disgusted I am with this ward. Eyes, and him, they're definitely still here, just hiding. I'm extremely glad they've come to visit me, but I can't stop feeling guilty about my vilely sticky need for companionship... My all-consuming loneliness. It shouldn't concern others! Pull yourself together Osamu, you've somehow made it to this point. And you can handle it now." - Dazai pondered as he let Rampo's funny stories about his workday pass by.

       - And guess what, I got lost again, and couldn't find my way back to the office! - Rampo chuckled, glancing at Fukuzawa, who was frowning and trying to find the right moment to discuss the relationship between Osamu and Dostoevsky. Previously, he wouldn't have been too cautious and would have told it straight as it was. However, now he thought that such bluntness might be one of the reasons why his subordinate was in a place like this and had tried to kill himself more than once.

      "Chaos." - It was the only word that kept going around in the suicidal man's head, that kept him from thinking - flashing, getting bigger and bigger, overshadowing other thoughts, and the letters in it changing places.

      - And then, when I called Fukuzawa to come and take me away..." Ramdas continued. - Rampo continued, biting into his lollipop. - It turned out that I was only a block away! - One might consider topographical cretinism a disadvantage. Edogawa, however, embraced this trait fully and was not ashamed to ask for help. The young genius, to tell the truth, did not even attach importance to it, and perceived it as a "norm". - Do you happen to have any sweets here? - Rampo asked, feeling that the last shard of caramel had melted in his mouth.

      - I don't think so... - The unexpected question brought Dazai out of his thoughts, forcing him to concentrate not on himself, but on his sweet-toothed friend. - Although! That's right! You could ask Fyodor! - Dazai remembered, assuming that since Dostoevsky was able to get coffee in this place, a couple candies would definitely not be a problem for him.

      The mere mention of Dostoevsky, so even by name, made Yukichi furrow her eyebrows even more and bow her head to the floor.

     "The former head of the terrorist organization, Dostoevsky, already knows that I'm related to Osamu. Just like he knows that Dazai is precious to me. However, knowing this guy, if I start interfering with their communication, it will only push Osamu to meet the devil, who doesn't even have such a thing as moral values or principles. And for Dazai, a prohibition, be it a strict order from an important person or the word of the law, sounds like "you can do it quietly" or "you can do it but you have to pay". - Lost in his thoughts, Fukuzawa tried to solve the dilemma.

     - Fedor? - Rampo asked curiously.

      - Yes, you saw him today. - Reminded Osamu

   - А..! You also called him a strange man..." Edogawa thought, rubbing his chin with his index finger. - I think I've seen him somewhere before.

      - No way! I sometimes feel like he's been here all his life! - The suicidal man joked.

   - Dazai, how's your treatment going? Feeling better? - Yukichi interjected into their conversation, changing the topic of conversation.

   The man always thought about things three times before making a decision. So, until he decided what to do with Fedor and Osamu, he didn't want Rampo to tell him that Dostoevsky was not only mentally ill, but also a terrorist. His hands were not only stained in the blood of innocent children who were to live and live yet, old people who never said goodbye to their relatives, young women who were preparing to become mothers and many others whose blood drenched all of Dostoevsky.

    Not only government offices, but also schools, shopping centers, subway stations, and maternity hospitals were hit by terrorist attacks. It is still possible to enumerate the places of explosions, which carried the process of purification of this world.

      - Oh, yeah, it's okay! I'm really feeling a lot better! I'm even ready to leave this place and get back to work! - said the suicidal man.

    - It's hard to believe, but are you sure? - Fukuzawa hesitated.

   - Yes! Honestly. I'm really relieved. No more suicide, just for fun. - Dazai chuckled, he thought it was funny, but the memory of that unfortunate night sent shivers down Rampo's and Yukichi's spines. - Why are you so downcast? I'm kidding! I'm kidding! It's humor, you have to understand it. - The suicidal man justified himself, noticing the distrust in the eyes of his interlocutors.

  Interrupting Dazai's further excuses and questions from his colleagues, there was a knock on the door of the room. Without waiting for a reaction, Ogai entered, adjusting his hospital gown.

    - Fukuzawa, it's so good to see you, how are your cats doing? - Mori asked jokingly.

    - Instead of making silly jokes, you should be watching the patients. - Fukuzawa was clearly not amused, basically as usual, especially when it came to Ogai and Dostoevsky.

  He was even somewhat angry with the neurosurgeon, because despite his promises, he couldn't avoid Dostoevsky and Dazai's paths crossing. He was angry at himself, too, for he had to be an idiot to send someone close to him to be treated in the same place as a psychopathic terrorist.

     - What's wrong? Dazai, have you gotten worse? I'll talk to Yosano about changing your treatment. - Ogai's positive attitude vanished in a flash. It wasn't in his best interest for Osamu to get hurt in his treatment facility and not at his hands. It wasn't in his plans, so it would be better for both Osamu and Mori if he recovered sooner.

      - No way! I'm fine! - The suicidal man waved his hands in front of him.

      - Then what happened? - Looking at Yukichi ask Ogai. Fukuzawa cast a faint glance at Osama, but that was enough for the suicidal man. After all, combined with his superior's strange behavior, Dazai realized that something wasn't clean here.

    - We'll talk in your office. - Silver Wolf said firmly.

   - I feel like a child who is about to be reprimanded by his father. - Ogai let out a nervous laugh, which caused Dazai and Rampo to give subtle suppressed chuckles. Fukuzawa was not laughing at all.

      Mori and Yukichi left the room. Osamu decided not to waste any time. Rampo seemed to know something, so it would be easier to start digging into what was going on with him.

   - So where did you say you could see Dostoevsky? - The suicidal man didn't go in from far away, but simply decided to return to the failed dialog with Edogawa about the psychopath.

      - М? -Rampo chuckled. - Is that the one who can get candy?

      - That's right! - Dazai nodded.

   - I'd like to take another look at him. - The detective winked.

      - Ahah, so we're going for candy?

      - Wrong, finding out the identity of your strange man. - Edogawa sighed, wiping invisible sweat from his forehead. - Even on your day off, you have to work...

   - He's not mine! He's just a strange man, or Demon Fedor. Whichever you prefer, take your pick.

     - If he were just a strange man, you wouldn't fall asleep in his presence. - Rampo scratched the back of his head, looking to the left as if he were remembering something. - You couldn't even sleep in my apartment for a long time. You were always on the phone at night. - Edogawa clarified, smiling.

     "Of course I couldn't sleep, and it's not about the apartment or you Rampo." - Osamu answered mentally one thing, but said something completely different.

    - Oh, come on. It's all sedatives. - The suicidal man left the room, Rampo followed.

  - Sure, sure. - Edogawa said with a hint of sarcasm. - So where are we going to look for someone who isn't your strange man? - He emphasized the phrase "not yours," he asked.

      - Well, there's not much choice. I think we'll start with the ward first, it's the closest. - The suicidal man shrugged, heading for the ward that wasn't that far away. However, before the door he froze, hesitating to knock.

      - Even with a knock? You usually enter my room without knocking. - Rampo remarked

  - That's you, and that's him. You feel the difference?

      - I thought you two were closer. - Rampo was in too good a mood for such comments in anticipation of the treats.

      - I thought so too, but I don't let everyone into my bed. - Dostoevsky said as he opened the door.

      - You realize how ambiguous that sounds, don't you? - Osamu chuckled.

  - Everyone thinks to the extent of their promiscuity. - The psychopath shrugged.

      Rampo noted the strong Russian accent, which was impossible to ignore. He had noticed it in the corridor when they first met, but now it struck him like an electric shock, causing a sense of deja vu, and he unconsciously grabbed Dazai's arm as if he wanted to pull him away from the psychopath. However, he immediately let go, realizing how strange it looked. This action did not go unnoticed by Fedor, and even caused a slight chuckle.

    - Don't worry, I'm not interested in men. - He informed them with a glance. - Why are you here and where did you lose the chief?

   - So there is something between you and Margaret? - Osamu asked wryly, not knowing why.

   - A question to a question. I didn't expect otherwise. So what brings you to me? - The psychopath repeated his question.

     - You're avoiding the answer, too. - The suicidal man remarked.

      "It's like watching two slightly different Dazai..." - Edogawa thought to himself as he watched with interest.

      - Margaret is the wife of a good friend of mine. - Fyodor said, expecting Osamu to tell him why all of a sudden this is a circus.

      - We need candy. - Satisfied with the psychopath's answer, said the suicidal man.

      - Come in. - Threw Fedor, inviting them into his room, approaching the bed.

      - Are we sure we came to him for candy and not for something else? - Rampo asked in a whisper, wondering whether to go inside or not.

      - Sugar is a kind of drug, too. - Dazai winked at Edogawa as he went first into Dostoevsky's room.

Chapter Text

The following statement is true:

the preceding is false,

the middle option does not exist.

   Those who think that God has no sense of humor need to think hard. And those who think that God is so far removed from our world that He has no personal interest in His clumsy, misguided, and pathetic children should also reconsider.

    Here, and quite clearly, the Almighty has revealed Himself from a completely different side - as a shrewd, tough, sensible figure, able to give as much as is given to Him, as well as a profound expert in human psychology.

    If you think that God is not afraid to move the sliders on the sound engineer's remote control back and forth depending on the situation, you are not wrong.

      Ogai and Fukuzawa sat in silence for a while, as if waiting for something. Perhaps during this time, Dostoevsky could have disappeared from the face of the earth. But unfortunately, that was impossible.

    - So what happened? - Mori broke the silence, leaning his elbows on the table.

      - Dostoevsky. - Yukichi answered briefly.

    - Did you run into him? Don't worry, he doesn't know that Dazai is your subordinate. So, I have everything under control. - The neurosurgeon spoke in a calm tone. Ogai was fully confident that he was right. After all, it was characteristic of Fedor to get close to patients or staff, luring them to his side and gaining all the trust of those around him. From that, it was obvious, once Dazai let the psychopath know that he could count on his support, Fedor himself would unhook himself from Osamu.

      - He knows. Dazai told him everything himself. - Taking deep inhales and exhales, explained the reason for his worries to Yukichi.

     - What!!! - Ogai's eyes widened and his eyebrows rose to his forehead. His face froze in either a grimace of surprise or horror. Mori closed his eyes for a moment, leaning back in his chair. - Wait, wait. Explain. I don't understand how this even happened. How did you know about what he knows? - Ogai tried to gather his thoughts, which were flying far beyond the general psychiatric male ward. Alice's condition had worsened considerably and the tumor in her brain continued to grow.

      - He told himself. - Fukuzawa's reply was once again short thereby raising more questions.

    - Dostoyevsky? Himself? Are we definitely talking about the same person? - Ogai let out a nervous chuckle. His mind refused to believe what was happening.

   - We were standing in the hallway outside the break room, talking to Osamu. Dostoevsky appeared to us and bluntly informed us that Dazai had told him about me, and that he was glad to meet me. - Fukuzawa nodded negatively. - Mori, do you realize this won't end well?

      - He's harmless. He has no connection to the outside world. - Ogai glanced at Fukuzawa, who in turn watched his interlocutor with contempt and disbelief. - Okay, okay. If you want, I can lock him up in the isolation ward until Osamu is better and discharged? - The neurosurgeon suggested it.

      - The terrorist attacks haven't stopped. - Silver Wolf said, barely audibly, as if he was afraid to say it out loud. - Explosions, gun attacks on government buildings and more have continued throughout his confinement in your treatment facility. Given that you've repeatedly claimed that Dostoyevsky has no connection to the world outside the hospital, we've been trying to find other culprits... Those who are really guilty... - Fukuzawa was silent for a moment, unable to believe that he was sharing such information with someone as inhuman as the psychopath.

      - So he's not guilty? - Ogai clarified

     - He is, that's the point. All the clues and leads lead to the Dead House Rats.

     - That's impossible, all his followers died from the poison they were carrying! - Mori objected.

      - Yes, but that doesn't change the fact that new ones couldn't help but appear. - Fukuzawa's voice was tired but firm. - Find him sane and he'll be put on death row.

      - You're lying, aren't you? You're just trying to protect Osama! There's no way Dostoyevsky is running a terrorist organization from here. There must be someone else involved. - Ogai replied, raising his tone of voice slightly. The neurosurgeon didn't want to let the psychopath go, he had invested too much in him. It wasn't like he was going to give him to Fukuzawa like a cat that was out of foster care.

  - Then I'm taking Osama. - Yukichi said confidently, rising from his chair to leave the office, but froze as soon as Mori raised his voice.

      - Forced hospitalization.

      - You can't do that. - Silver Wolf was indignant, wincing. He crossed the distance between them in a couple of steps, stopping right by the neurosurgeon's desk, glaring at him.

     - I do. Such measures are performed on patients who are socially dangerous. - Argued Ogai

    - Dazai is not a social hazard. - Fukuzawa protested.

      - He's a danger to himself. Or is his body just covered in bandages for beauty's sake to hide the scars and wounds that have just begun to heal normally? - Mori asked, but continued without waiting for an answer. - He hadn't been on antidepressants yet, which meant that if the treatment was abruptly interrupted, he would go into withdrawal, and his condition would not just return to what it was before, but worsen many times over. - Ogai didn't really want Osamu to suffer, much less have his life interrupted after being discharged.

      - So you and Dostoyevsky are on the same page? - Fukuzawa changed the subject, returning to one of the main issues.

      - God forbid! - Ogai exclaimed. - I offered you an alternative. You saw Fedora's isolation room, he can't do anything from there, unless he can teleport.

      - If Osamu loses a hair, you're on your own. - Surprisingly to himself, Fukuzawa accepted Mori's terms. But only until he could find another solution after thinking it over. After all, he couldn't send Dazai to another hospital. After all, the main privilege of being in Mori Ogaya's mental hospital was confidentiality. The patients had their medical records, but that was only at the Ogai Hospital.

   If the neurosurgeon was approached by high-ranking personalities or those who did not want to lose their jobs because they might be taken for insane even after the disease was cured. In such cases, Mori entered a fictitious first and last name and date of birth into the general database. In other hospitals, it's no longer Dazai Osamu, but Hideyoshi Hanyu. In other hospitals, especially public ones, this was impossible.

   Given that Osamu has a history of multiple attempts to end his life, suicidal behavior on a regular basis, and now diagnosed depression. And with a list like that, Dazai would no longer be able to continue working as a detective, squandering the remnants of his already lousy reputation.

    - He is not a strange man, he is an amazing man! - summarized Rampo, sitting on the bed in Dostoevsky's room and munching on a candy bar.

      - Strange? - asked the psychopath, sitting down on a chair by his desk.

      - Don't mind him! - Dazai intervened.

     - Quite right, but I was wondering where you lost your superior? - Dostoevsky changed the subject.

      - We didn't lose him. He left with Ogai. They had some business there. - The suicidal man shrugged his shoulders.

     - You must go, – Fyodor said sternly, walking to the door and opening it.

     - Why? What's wrong? - Osamu was wary, a growing sense of unease rising in his chest out of nowhere.

    - You... - Dostoevsky wanted to repeat himself, but he was interrupted by Ogai, accompanied by Fukuzawa.

      - Fyodor is absolutely right, it's time to talk to him alone. - Ogai patted the psychopath on the shoulder. A half-smile played on the neurosurgeon's face.

      Dostoevsky chuckled quietly, as if he had expected such an outcome. He did not resist. On the contrary, he even left the room first, but he did not go to Ogai's office. He went straight down the corridor, without looking back, to the communal showers. Opposite them was his place of confinement and solitude.

 - Ije bo ascendethѧ, humblethѧ: and҆ humblethѧ́ѧisѧ ascendeth.¹ – the psychopath whispered, first kissing his cross and then hiding it back under his hospital shirt.

   Osamu's inner anxiety was growing into irritation. He didn't like not understanding something at all. The suicidal man first cast a glance at Fukuzawa, then shifted his gaze to Mori, who placed his right hand over his heart, bowed his head, and walked away after the psychopath. Leaving Fukuzawa to deal with and explain everything on his own.

      The thoughts in his head were confused. Where to start? What was the right way to ask? Would he get a truthful answer? No, no, and no again. However, that never stopped Dazai.

    - Fukuzawa-san, you look worried, is something wrong? - Rampo asked. The young detective was not used to seeing his boss in such a state of mind.

   Fukuzawa Yukichi was a man of strong character. He wasn't afraid of any case or situation. A character in whom Rampo saw not just an uncle of a security guard, but a figure of his absent father.

    - It's all settled now. - Briefly threw the director of the detective bureau. - There is no cause for concern.

  ''Something is definitely not clean here. Fukuzawa's mood immediately changed after meeting with Fedor. However, he tried not to show it. But then he involved Ogai, who took Dostoyevsky when he himself kicked us out the door after learning that Fukuzawa had gone to Mori. Something doesn't add up here..." - Osamu sank into his thoughts. The key to everything seemed to be right in front of his eyes, but he couldn't see it....

    - What's wrong with Dostoevsky? - Dadzai asked bluntly. He certainly liked riddles and digging into such things. But there was no time for mind games.

  - What was wrong with him? - Fukuzawa answered question after question as he stood in the doorway of room number eight.

     - Fukuzawa-san, I appreciate and respect you very much. However, one would have to be a complete idiot not to realize that things are not smooth sailing here. - Suicidal voices, no, now he was once again a detective who had been led astray.

   - Dazai, I know you're smart. However, your condition and your mind are not pure. You see things that simply aren't there. - Silver Wolf assured him.

    - So now I'm crazy? Ha, fine. I'm more sane than everyone here put together. - resented Osamu. - Okay, okay. I have a private consultation with a doctor, too. It was really nice to see you.

   - Dazai! - Yukichi called out to Dazai, but he ignored his boss and left the room, heading for Yosano's office.

Chapter Text

Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord,

and let eternal light shine upon them

      There is nothing absolutely good and absolutely bad in the world. Positive things are often taken to the absurd and turned into negative things. Likewise, everything bad has its positive aspects.

      Everything in the world is intertwined and interconnected so closely that mankind for many centuries has not been able to give a precise definition of what is good and evil.

      It was probably not known whether Dostoevsky was involved in the terrorist attacks or whether the government simply removed a person they did not want.

      But God forbid one should recognize such darkness when the chills of cold and fear hit. So hopeless it's like the road to the scaffold. And tomorrow's day is of no use, and there will be none.

      While Fyodor was losing the last of his sanity, being locked up in the isolation ward. People continued to suffer, not knowing exactly who to blame for the death of their loved ones. The government, which failed to solve the problem of terrorist attacks or themselves because they failed to save a valuable person in such a dangerous time.

      Diversions happened one after another. And so spontaneous that it was impossible to predict where and when the next one would happen. It seemed as if someone was playing darts, but instead of a wooden piece of wood on the wall there was a map of the world.

      Opposite it stood a silhouette, it was unclear who it was. A woman? A man? An old man? Or maybe a teenager? God only knows...

      The unsub's gaze traveled over the target. And the sight fell just below and much to the right of the center. The hand with the dart hovered in the air, feeding the anticipation. The hand moved slightly forward and upward. The hand in black velvet gloves gently launched the dart. Without any fuss or strain - just setting the direction and speed.

      Bingo, right on target. If one could see the player's face, a slight smug but sad smirk would catch the eye. Just a game...

ALSO.

ONLY.

A GAME.

      A ship-style shopping center located on the waterfront overlooking Yokohama Bay. Often attracted not only tourists or visitors, but also locals.

      The four-story building "Yokohama Bay Quarter" housed not only a variety of stores, cafes, restaurants. But also a wedding reception hall, an eye and dental clinic, a hair salon and much more.

   This place had all the necessary facilities to attract people of different age groups.

     A young man whose facial hair was cut short and a little unkempt, but the back of his head reached to his waist. His hair is parted with a parting in the middle of his face. The color of his hair was lilac on the left side and white on the right side. His grayish eyes sparkled reflecting the light of the screen from the phone he was trying to set up on a tripod for filming. The path-shaped earrings swayed with the slightest movement of his head. The guy was dressed in a two-sided white coat with constellation patterns on the inside. Black pants and the same color turtleneck emphasized the lean figure of his body.

      Setting his phone on a tripod he started the stream. Taking a deep inhale and exhale he stretched a smile watching the feedback before the start.

1...2...3...

    - Hey, everybody! Sigma Man here! - He chuckled softly at his own joke. - I hope I can be seen and heard well! - He greeted his viewers, whose numbers were growing by the second. - It's the first time I'm broadcasting outside the house. It's exciting! Write in the chat what you have new!

      The lines of messages ran non-stop.

     - Nikolai's birthday is coming up. So I thought I'd join you in choosing the best present for him.

      Gogol was Sigma's best friend. Although it was hard to call it friendship, it was more like co-dependence and affection on Sigma's part.

      The chat lines kept running, everyone wanted to share something of their own, to be active and offer their gift options.

      People were out shopping, kids were playing, someone was having coffee at a cafe.

   - I don't know what I can bring him to the hospital... Yeah, I'm not much of a friend... - Sigma chuckled nervously as he entered the bookstore.

1000 yen

    "I hope Nikolai gets discharged soon! I miss your streamings together so much. You're a wonderful friend!"

    - Thank you! Really looking forward to it too - Streamer winked at the camera with a cute smile.

    The melody of Mozart's "Requiem" in D minor, K.626, was blaring through a large shopping center building in Tokyo. Lacrimosa - a soothing mass. It seemed to be coming not only from the speakers, but from every corner.

    - I hope the music in this mall doesn't violate copyrights. - He joked, looking around the bookstore.

   The guards seemed to have evaporated, but because of the large number of visitors it was not even noticeable.

     There was a loud pop that sounded more like something falling than an explosion. Like a warning. It was so loud that it rattled my ears and the glass in the windows shook.

      - What the hell was that? - Sigma's eyes darted around with great intensity, searching for the source of the sound. At that moment, he hadn't yet realized what was happening. The people around him froze, as did he himself.

      There was a fleeting silence all around, and beyond that, everything returned to normal. Visitors continued to wander around, eating and laughing.

      However, only until they realized that all the mechanical exits were blocked. People started crowding and scrambling around looking for someone to solve the breakdown.

      There was no way out, even the roof exit was blocked.

      Panic. Screaming. People don't know what's waiting for them or what's going on. But it's not that simple. The sounds of people's anxiety are interrupted by a loud, heartfelt, innocent child's laughter that seemed to exult in the moment.

      - Peace be with her, she stepped back into eternity. - The laughter was abruptly interrupted, a thin girlish voice broadcasting. - She sees no more the nothingness of democracy, the shaking of the foundations of existing, the tears of the high-born and the high-favored, she has reposed in eternal sleep. Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine." - The music in the background went down, the child fell silent, giving the opportunity to enjoy the text of the soothing mass.

      - Guys, there's something bloody going on... I have to interrupt... - Sigma had no time to finish, as the tripod to which the phone was attached flew out of his hands and disappeared from sight under the feet of the visitors.

      He heard screams and the sound of another explosion.

      Someone shouted: "Run!". Sigma hopefully ran along with the crowd, afraid of being trampled if he started looking for the phone. There was chaos all around. People were trotting around trampling each other in hopes of finding rescue. Screams and squeals and stomping began to drown out the music again and then a child's voice spoke again.

      - Fenced in, fenced in "Caged Bird," When will you squawk out? - The child continued to hang from the loudspeaker, holding back mischievous laughter. However, the first line of the counting song was followed by the first explosion on the top floor. Followed by the first collapse of the inner structure. The screams intensified. People froze in their seats, praying for God's salvation. Mothers and fathers covered their children with themselves, trying to keep them calm.

      Sigma's gaze stopped on a red-haired woman with a child who was slumped against the wall. Her eyes were filled with terror. Suddenly there was the echo of another explosion. He ducked and tried to hide behind the counter. Adrenaline pounding in his temples, Sigma tried to control his breathing, but his heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was about to jump out of his chest.

     - Should he wait until dawn? - Another explosion followed, some of the people were nailed by parts of the excavator. Though to call it a bloody mess of bloody entrails, it would be wrong to call it people. - The he..he...he..rrrroro...heron...heron and the turtle slipped.

    He could hear someone calling for help, people crying. The sounds of explosions, building collapses, and screams were a nightmare. He wanted to cry and scream and beg for help, but he couldn't afford to panic. So he stayed hiding behind the counter, trying not to think the worst, hoping that he would be found and rescued. Just have to wait for help to arrive.

  From his hiding place, the view was heartbreaking. It was chaos all around: broken storefronts, blood everywhere, injured people.

      He could feel his body trembling. No not even shaking, he felt it shaking.

      - I'm alive. I'm gonna make it. I'm gonna be okay. God, I'm sorry I didn't believe. Save me. Our Father who art in heaven. - Whispered Sigma's tray to himself, covering his ears with his hands, hoping to stop hearing all those horrible sounds.

  There was another explosion. The young streamer was crushed by his cover. Leaving only part of his arm exposed, which reached out in hopes of finding help. He screamed, but only at first, for soon he began to lose his strength as well as his consciousness.

      The loudspeaker began to jam and chew up the sound. White noise was added to the child's voice, the wheezing distorting and turning it into something paranormal.

     Requiem in D minor, looped on one fragment and sounded uninterrupted until the next explosion and went silent. - Who's at your back? - The child was no longer laughing; he seemed to have decided he was guilty of something. And as soon as he uttered the last line, a heartbreaking shriek came from the loudspeaker, followed by a series of final explosions. Which collapsed the entire facade, giving no chance for anyone to escape.....

   Fire and police cars surrounded the scene. Medics were on guard, waiting and hoping to save someone. Naturally, under the rubble, there was still someone half alive. And only hope for the emergency services that in a panic were scrambling to get out and save someone. At times like this, the value of time is not measured in hours or minutes, but in seconds and milliseconds.

      Jets of smoke rose upward toward the heavens to the Lord God Himself. Changing their color from blue to mournful gray. The dust settled on the wreckage, the road, the clothes of the special services and on passers-by, spreading the news of the tragedy with an unknown number of casualties and deaths all over the city, all over the world. However, the amount of economic damage was calculated by the government almost as soon as the pigeon brought them the news of the tragedy.

Let the lachrymose play,

From a record on an old gramophone.

Requiem is the song of the afterlife,

What are we burying today?

Your dreams, your hopes?

Hmm, it's not the same, it's different.

Welcome to the funeral

 Your faith in yourself.

      That same day, the shape found another object and took aim at it. The hand with the dart hovered in the air again. Without anticipation, more like picking a better target. The hand moved slightly forward and upward. The dart was launched less carefully this time, more sharply. However, without too much fuss or strain - just giving direction and speed.

Straight into the target.

World Trade Center

(USA, New York)

    The morning was serene for workers, passersby and visitors. Nothing seemed to portend trouble. But only until the disturbing and sad "Requiem" in D minor, K.626, began to blast through the southern part of Manhattan. Mozart's Lacrimosa - Mozart's soothing mass.

    Four groups of terrorists totaling 19 hijacked four passenger airplanes. Each group had at least one member with basic flight training.

  Children's laughter sounded from unknown places... Everything was repeated exactly as in previous times, but in different countries.

    - Peace be with her, she had passed into eternity. - The laughter was abruptly interrupted, a thin boyish voice broadcast. - She sees no more the insignificance of democracy, the shaking of the foundations of the existing, the tears of the high-born and the high-favored, she has fallen into eternal sleep. Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine." - The music in the background went down and the child fell silent, allowing the text of the soothing mass to be enjoyed.

      People looked around, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. An inner anxiety was growing. People from the lower floors went outside to see what was going on. Some paid no attention at all, going about their business. The workers' indemnity that it was interfering with their work began to drown out the music and then the children's voice spoke again.

      - Fenced in, fenced in "Caged Bird," When will you fly out? - The child continued to hang as if from a void, holding back mischievous laughter. However, the first line of the counting, in the sky could be seen followed by the first explosion on the top floor. Followed by the first airliner that was circling nearby scouting something. Not suspecting something wrong, the gawkers looked up at the sky with their mouths open, waiting for the show to continue. They whispered among themselves, assuming that most likely everyone had forgotten about some holiday or that the authorities wanted to please them with something on this dull weekday. - Should we wait until dawn? - Another airliner appeared in the sky keeping company with the first one, flying around and around. - The heron and the turtle slipped. - The child kept hanging on, as if they were playing games among friends. A muffled chuckle, meaning that the boy already knew who the counting card would fall on. But did he really know he was part of the tragedy?

    Requiem in D minor, just as uninterruptedly played, losing no moment to prepare people for eternal rest. - Who's at your back? - The child was no longer laughing, he seemed to have decided he was guilty of something. As soon as he uttered the last line, a heartbreaking shriek came from the loudspeaker. And after that, the hijackers gave each other a silent and invisible sign and directed two airliners into the WTC towers. American Airlines Flight 11 crashed into WTC Tower 1 (North), and United Airlines Flight 175 crashed into WTC Tower 2 (South).

      The last thing that remained in the posthumous memory of the people from the upper floors was the sky.

      The sky, seen through the polished panoramic windows, seemed to be the clearest it had been in years. It's a shame that people too rarely look up at it.

      The amount of tears shed could be compared to the volume of the world's oceans. The cries of despair at the realization that, before she died, Merry never got to hold her baby. John from the 65th floor never proposed to his sweetheart. Joanna died under the rubble carrying two unborn twins who had already been given the names Sue and Simon and died before they came into this world. Drake was unable to pay for his cancer-stricken mother's surgery, condemning her to follow him after years of mourning her child's death at the hands of terrorists. And maybe even sooner, who knows if a woman can handle the death of her only family member.

     As a result, both towers collapsed, causing severe damage to the surrounding structures.

     Though the children's laughter subsided, the soothing mass never thought to subside. Until it was found attached to the bottom of the fountain. However, there was no hurry to take it out and turn it off. There was an explosive attached to the radio. And before the rescuers could do anything, an explosion hit everyone nearby. Of course he was not so strong, still the water in the fountain a little invited his force....

      The unknown individual, still enjoyed the splash of not only water, but human entrails and the beautiful sight. One that he could only imagine, but not see with his own eyes. It was an incredible show that would be worth waiting a lifetime for.

      Tasting the thoughts of what was happening, the man twirled another dart in his hand, but tossed it back on the table.

      "That's enough for today" - with these thoughts he carefully sat down in a nearby chair, resting his whole body on its back. The feeling of happiness and exultation was replaced by fatigue.

      Keeping a barely perceptible smile at the corners of his lips, the unknown man took a pack of cigarettes out of his pants pocket and lit one of them, blowing smoke from his lips into the ceiling.

Chapter Text

A little bird sleeps peacefully.

She was all alone in the world,

She didn't even know what she died of.

Now its body is kept in the peace of sleep.

I want to be like that bird

Or maybe I am her.

Forever alone among millions

Forever a stranger among her own.

Trying to get above the roof,

 I've been climbing a broken ladder

Well, it's time to fall

Below all the units of measurement...

  The muscles in the dark-haired boy's scratched and bloodstained face throbbed relentlessly. They resembled individual living beings trying to free themselves from the shackles of suffering.

   Red eyes continued to release the remnants of tears that ran down his cheeks in stinging ruby streams, leaving a trail of overwhelming grief in their wake. Bitten lips trembled like barely alive butterflies, helplessly beating in the web of hopelessness. Yet, all could in no way find solace in a relieving death.

  Eyes nervously looked around, searching for potential danger. The species was like a wounded animal cornered, waiting for the inevitable encounter with a predator.

   Fear, despair and anxiety permeated every cell, as if vibrating at the deepest level, turning little Fyodor into a living mannequin, showing the world just a part of the inner storm. And all this was happening in the cramped room where his father had locked him up when he had done something wrong. The very place where time seemed to slow down to catch every moment of the child's agony.

 Except that Dostoevsky was not a direct participant, but only a bystander. His indifference and inability to sympathize immediately vanished.

    He had to protect this child! He had to be able to do it at least now...now...now...now.....

   But his feet were digging into the rotten floor, his body uncontrollable. The feeling of anger and resentment spilled through his veins and filled every part of his consciousness.

  Fyodor, like a living but still unmoving statue, stiffened and stared, plunging into the past.

    The doors creaked nastily, and a male figure was seen in the doorway. No, not a figure, more like a phantom with pronounced facial features. To this day Dostoevsky remembered every wrinkle on his father's face, the broad forehead, the pronounced cheekbones, the low-set eyes. A nasty grin hiding in his father's beard.

  - I do not do this of my own free will, God punishes disobedience. - The man spoke, hiding his cross under his shirt. He took a step into the room, and little Fyodor pressed himself harder into the wall. Dostoevsky, who was watching this, wanted to rush forward, to block the child, but he could not. - I hope you've learned your lesson, so just apologize.

   The boy only sobbed. He didn't think he was guilty of anything. He didn't understand his father's cruelty.

  - Come on, Fyodor, just pray to God for forgiveness. - His father urged him on.

  The boy nodded negatively, and immediately the parent's hand left a red mark on the child's left cheek from a loud slap. - 'If you get slapped on the left cheek, turn the right cheek.

    "Only do it if you actually admit guilt." - Mentally corrected his father already grown up Dostoevsky, who knew firsthand that people too probably interpret the holy scriptures in their own favor and belittle themselves.

  Fyodor was sure that he alone knew and understood every biblical line. If not for his anger and petrified body, he would have slapped his father himself. But not in defense of the little one himself, but because he had defiled the face of the Lord, Jesus Christ the son of God, and the holy scriptures with his misinterpretations.

    By refusing to turn the cheek, little Dostoevsky, although unconsciously, but wanted to defend his innocence in the accusations, and, therefore, made it clear that he did not deserve contempt.

   - If I have said bad, show me what is bad; and if I have said good, why do you beat me? - From under his brow, looking at his father, the boy whispered. The man was taken aback. His own son addressed him in the words of Jesus, which he had once uttered to Pontius Pilate in response to undeserved accusations.

   - How dare you, puppy? I am ruled by God's word and hand, and you speak against me as if I were a Jew and not a Christian.

   Fyodor opened his eyes sharply and ran his gaze around the empty isolation ward. The pungent smell of dampness hit his sense of smell, bringing him back to reality. The psychopath rarely dreamed. And if he did, the plot was always the same.

   Time, like a fickle sorceress, slips between his fingers like priceless sand, then turns into an endless lollipop, tantalizing sweetness.

   When you were a child, you dreamed about it, dreamed of it, but over time its sweet taste turned into a monotonous routine, and now the mere memory of it causes disgust.

    It was the same now, time stretching slowly as if it were an eternity, and each minute pressed with a stony weight, dragging at the bottom of the memories, creating a feeling of suffocation and anger at the powerlessness.

   The dark interior, if it could be called an interior was pressing with renewed force.

   Empty dark gray walls, a metal bunk that creaked even from the slightest movement. The place of confinement of the psychopath reflected memories of childhood nightmares. The tranquilizer was losing its power of influence on the mind, which made it difficult to keep the last notes of calm.

   Safety in another's pain is a seeming reflection of a seeming moon.

   The human soul is like the moon. For it has an inaccessible side that it cannot be seen from where one is. Dazai paced leisurely down the corridor. There was to be no counseling. Avoidance was not characteristic of him. However, the realization that, due to his vulnerable state, the situation had not been explained to him made him go to extremes.

    "He was right. If I want to get out of here, I need to play along with them, if not cure them." - Thought Osamu.

    - Dazai, wait! I remember! - Rampo came panting toward the suicidal man.

    - What did you remember? - Osamu frowned his eyebrows in bewilderment.

   - I remembered where I had seen your strange man before. - Edogawa adjusted his glasses.

    - Puh, where did you see him? I guess he used to live somewhere near our office? - Dazai grinned, expecting some nonsense to divert his attention from Fukuzawa's secrets.

  - No, Osamu. - Rampo was more serious than usual. Childishness and childishness were gone from his manner of speech and demeanor. Edogawa cast a fleeting glance at the door of Aki's study.

  - Could we talk somewhere else? Preferably without any extra ears.

     Dazai nodded his head toward the corridor and sighed heavily.

     - Where's Fukuzawa? - The suicidal man asked.

   - In the car waiting, I said that he went to the restroom.

    - And he rushed to me. You're lying to the boss, aren't you ashamed? - Rolling his eyes and walking back to the wards Osamu noticed.

  - It's very important! – Said Rampo, throwing a disgruntled look at his colleague.

   - All right, all right. - Dazai capitulated, entering his empty room. - So what's the deal with Dostoevsky?

    - Edogawa was well aware that Osamu was in a very vulnerable state. However, he also realized that hiding the details of his memories would only make things worse.

   - Tell it like it is. Does he like boys after all? - Shrugging his shoulders jokingly suggested the suicidal man.

   - Come on. - Rampo shook his head negatively, adjusting his glasses again to find the right words. - It was a long time ago. Three or four years ago, maybe more. You were in the hospital for over a month because of one of..." He hesitated, the memories of Osamu's suicide attempt and those related to it starting to jumble together a little. - We received a case marked "classified". It was very important in itself, and it was not just about Yokohama and Japan, it was about the whole world.

   - Shouldn't special organizations deal with it, or did they want to give us some grouse again? And what does Dostoevsky have to do with it? - Dazai wondered.

   - I don't have much time. Questions later, just listen. - Asked Edogawa without finding a place. The suicidal man nodded and with an invisible key locked himself under and threw it over his shoulder. - You must have heard about the mass terrorist attacks at that time, for they started much earlier, but they just tried not to give publicity to them. They hit everything: kindergartens, schools, government offices, embassies, maternity hospitals, shopping malls, the list is endless. - Edogawa grinned bitterly, trying to remember more details, but his brain refused to believe it was real. - It all happened at different times and places, but the more Fukuzawa and I dug deeper into the case. The more we realized that all terrorist attacks are the same and that a certain group of people are behind them. At first, unbeknownst to us, Mozart's "Requiem" in D minor, K.626., in other words, "Lacrimosa," was playing around the building where the attack was to take place. However, that was not all, as a child's voice and laughter rang through the loudspeaker, repeating the same thing every time: "Peace be with her, she has gone into eternity, she sees no more the nothingness of democracy, the shaking of the foundations of existing, the tears of the highborn and highly noble, she has fallen into eternal sleep. Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine." - Rampo took off his spectacles and put them in his jacket pocket. He rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly, as if he were re-listening to the tape they had been given as evidence. - By collecting similarities we came upon the illegal organization "Dead House Rats", which was headed by Dostoevsky, and they worked in coalition with the illegal terrorist organization "Angels Decay". That's why I didn't recognize the strange man, because here he's too gaunt and looks more emaciated. Do you see why we're so worried about you? It was Fukuzawa who locked him up here. We don't want you to suffer at his hands. - Rampo's gaze ran over Osamu's face trying to catch every emotion and understand his true reaction.

   - He's a terrorist? Don't be ridiculous! - Dazai laughed, and Rampo frowned and froze in place. - You have to think of something like that, don't you? Good for you, when he gets back from Mori's, I'll steal some of his candy from him for when you decide to visit me again.

   - I'm not kidding. Osamu. I'm serious. - Edogawa tried to convey the essence of his words to the suicidal man.

   - I do, I do. The head of an illegal organization is in a closed mental hospital, not a prison. I wondered why he had a private room and I didn't! - What my colleague said sounded too implausible. Dazai knew there was something wrong with the psychopath, but it was too much to be true.

    - In court, they refused to declare him sane! They attributed it to religious delusions. They said he hears the voice of God and sees angels, and he belongs in a nuthouse, not a prison. Please hear me. He's smart enough to fool not only forensics, but Maury.

   - Really? Hmm, that's interesting. I'll think about it at my leisure. Thank you. - Taking a serious look, the suicidal man said.

    - You don't believe me, do you? - Edogawa looked into Osamu's eyes with disappointment and a hint of despair.

  - I do, I believe you! - Dazai exclaimed. - Fukuzawa's waiting for you there.

  - I'll... Right... See you later..." Rampo left the suicidal man's room.

   As soon as Osamu was alone, he was filled with frustration. He rubbed his face tiredly with his hands, trying to make sense of something that had already become so confusing.

    "It's a hell of a lot of work trying to figure it out." - The suicidal man chuckled nervously as he left the room, deciding it was worth a visit to Yosano.

Chapter Text

The candles will go out

and you will leave the meeting place.

A blood moon will light the way.

To a place of unprecedented torment.

Which you will recognize in the traces of

the lifelines woven by our hands.

Is it scary to die?

Or is it scarier to live?

You know the answer to that.

So just take a step,

plunging into the abyss of false phrases.

   Dazai never forgot that truth and truth are not the same thing. Yes, undeniably a strange man. Fedor was a psychopath. The young detective also willingly believed the information Edogawa had given him.

   However, it was more like a coincidence than the true nature of what was happening. Each new fragment of what was happening only served to confuse things, raising more and more questions. The realization that this was just the tip of the iceberg of the story could have made the suicidal man's excitement run wild. But the pills he had taken suppressed any desire to plunge straight to the bottom and investigate everything to the last detail.

   Heading toward the doctor's office. Dazai's gaze fell on his bandaged arm. He frowned as if it wasn't his hand. For a moment, he even felt like he was out of his body.

  Freezing in place, he squeezed his eyes shut avoiding the artificial light from the humming lamps.

   Sooner or later the past would be dusted over and the wounds would heal, leaving behind red scars or white scars. There's nothing special about it.

there's nothing special about it

it'sonly skin.

it's only body.

it's only life.

   Osamu opened his eyes abruptly. A wave of goosebumps ran through his body.

  "Necessary." - The thought raced through his head, looping and filling his mind. Only the suicidal man himself understood what it meant.

   The urge to take up a blade and shred not all of his body so that it couldn't be called a body.

    The need to talk to a doctor about it. Need to ask for help. Need to fight it. No. That's not it.

   It is necessary to strip your skin, watching the scarlet blood seep through it. You need to feel something. You need to do something to stop feeling.

     Driving the thoughts away. Dazai pulled a smile onto his face and took a step towards the door to his doctor's office.

  - Come in. – A woman's tired voice softly responded to the knock.

The suicidal man half-opened the door uncertainly, peering inside with only his head.

   Yosano was a little surprised to see Osamu, who had come on his own when he should be with his visitors. But immediately, she smiled sweetly. Osamu bowed his head in a welcoming gesture, taking Akiko's smile as approval for him to enter.

   - I've been thinking. I thought you said we needed personal counseling. -Suicide crumpled a little in his seat by the door, scratching the back of his head with his right hand, trying not to glare at his doctor.

   - Yes, she did. - Akiko set aside some papers and gestured with subtle joy, inviting her patient to sit in the chair across from her.

   Osamu awkwardly plopped into the chair, making himself comfortable. The doctor, for her part, waited patiently until Dazai was at least somewhat comfortable in the here and now.

 - Dazai, is something bothering you? Maybe there's something you'd like to discuss first. I asked, studying the patient with my gaze.

  – No, I don't think so, – the suicidal man lied. There were too many disturbing thoughts in his head, but they all seemed unimportant. - I don't know.

  - Don't worry, Dazai, it's okay. Our conversations are confidential. - Akiko's voice was as soft as a pillow in Dostoyevsky's ward. All that was missing was the smell of burnt herbs. Then he would have cracked for sure.

   - I know, –  the suicidal man began without taking his eyes off the doctor, "it's just. I don't know what's bothering me. No, you don't think, I understand my feelings and emotions, but-" Osamu fell silent, not wanting to continue the thought.

   "I shouldn't. I don't have the right. I'm doing fine. I'm not weak. Help..." 

  - How are you doing with your meals? Are you eating well? - Yosano unknowingly interrupted the flow of intrusive thoughts in her patient's head.

  - Well, I guess so, I guess. I don't know. -Dazai didn't give a clear answer again.

   - Stool problems? Health concerns? - The doctor was searching for the right topic.

   - Everything is fine, - the suicidal man remained silent for a split second and added: -I don't know. 

   - You don't know? - Yosano interrogated.

   - The only thing I'm absolutely sure of. - The usual grin disappeared from Dazai's face, and his gaze dropped to the floor, as if wondering whether he should talk about it at all, or whether it would be better, as usual, to continue being funny and turn it into a joke.

   Laughter is the cure for all problems, isn't it? And why not translate all those problems into funny anecdotes? But not now. Yosano, I'd chalk it up as an additional symptom. Something along the lines of denial, and non-acceptance.

   The suicidal man was well aware that the doctor wouldn't judge him. But that wasn't his fear either. Though he was not averse to turning over every thought in other people's voices. However, Osamu didn't like having his mind messed with.

  Akiko waited calmly for Dazai to be ready to continue without prompting. This caused an awkward pause.

  - My whole life is a shame. - The suicidal man continued, unable to bear the silence. Realizing that if one more second of silence, and he would be ready to make a standup and theatrical setup, on completely different topics distracting Yosano. - I always get what I wish I had, but the moment I get what I want, I lose not only what I got, but also a part of myself. - He grins sadly, nodding his head negatively and looking at his companion. Looking to her for support and understanding. - I don't seem to know how to live at all. In fact, even now I can't understand what human life is.

The human personality begins to split and fragment into many personalities of small "I's" - sinking into the illusion of separating the integrity of the Indivisible.

   - Dazai, I understand you perfectly," Yosano tried to choose the right words so as not to frighten her patient's sudden sincerity. - I, too, sometimes feel like I don't know how to live at all," Akiko's lips twitched into a fleeting smile. - Everything you've already done, experienced, realized and expressed, all your current knowledge and experience, is just a temporary platform for comprehending and realizing the current version of yourself and the contents of the reality you've created. In essence, it is a preparation for moving to a new level of your self-awareness, to a new experience.

   - Can I speak humanly? I don't understand you at all, doctor. - The suicidal man joked.

   One might even have thought that the moment of revealing the patient was lost. However, Yosano is not stupid and realized perfectly well that she was just playing along with Osamu.

  - Dazai, you told me what I wanted to hear. I answered you in the same way. Life doesn't contain any amazing paradoxes or mysteries. It merely creates, learns and reflects itself in time and space. - She clarified before changing the subject. - I willingly believe in your desire to change your condition for the better, but your whole demeanor screams that you're the only one who doesn't believe in it.

  - Everyone asks so many questions. Talking about some 'better' and 'future'. - Suicide shrugged tiredly. - But no one even bothers to just suggest that I'm fine as I am. He winked at Yosano, and rose from his chair.

   - Osamu wait, we're not done. - The doctor tried to stop him.

    - Life cannot be analyzed with a linear mind and put into words. - Osamu froze touching the cold metal handle of the door. - Any words are always limited: they always distort the original thought in one way or another and cannot contain and express the full depth of the human condition. But what is worse is that every word you misinterpret will be used against me. - He opened the door quietly, adding: "If we were in court, I would ask you to remember the presumption of innocence, but, alas, you have in your hands, without any doubt, not circumstantial but direct evidence that I am not well. I shall therefore reserve the right of silence. - A smile shone on his face that only in Osamu's head looked sincere. In reality, it looked more like a mask authored by an extremely untalented and inept person.

   - Yes, any words are limited when it comes to a person's mental insides. But they could help to touch their facets, to trigger the process of inner reflection. - Yosano's voice was quieter than a whisper, for it didn't matter if she was heard or not. Osamu was gone. It was worth it to call the paramedics and not allow himself in the hospital. Akiko's shoulders slumped and she sank tiredly into the back of the chair. For some reason, she felt so hurt and uncomfortable. - In the absence of a "nudge" one's consciousness gets stuck in a pause of continuous blows from the same rakes of ignorance.

  Dr. Akiko was a good specialist. And Ogai's treatment facility was killing all potential in her. She spent too much time there. People tend to get attached not only to other people, but also to places. But both the former and the latter are extremely bad for them and ruin them by dragging them to the bottom.

  Sincerity is a mistake. Especially if you're in a mental institution and think you're perfectly healthy. Osamu was well aware of this, just as he should not have listened to the psychopath's advice about pseudo-cooperation with doctors.

  As a result, instead of going to the library, he waits for new pills to be brought to him. and about how to "take" them.