I whip out my detective license and hold it up in the air so everyone can see.

“There is no need for concern. We’re with the Armed Detective Agency.”

CHAPTER I

8th

It rained this morning.

A quiet shower, but frigid like the depths of winter.

I yearn to live for my ideals.

I strive for my ideals. I move forward without fear, without fatigue, without hesitation.

Neither dreams nor honor will be pursued—for how euphoric it can be to solely devote oneself to quotidian tasks.

The Armed Detective Agency’s office sits at the top of a slope near Yokohama’s port. It’s a reddish-brown brick building with years of wear and tear, and its rain gutters and lampposts are sheathed in rust from the rough sea breeze. But despite its appearance, it’s so sturdily built that even machine-gun artillery fire from the outside wouldn’t cause any damage to the interior. That may sound oddly specific, but it’s happened to us.

In any event, our detective agency is situated on the fourth floor. The other floors are occupied by proper tenants. There’s a café on the first floor and a law firm on the second. The third is vacant, and the fifth is used for miscellaneous storage. The café takes good care of me right before payday comes, and I’m at the law firm asking for help every time there’s some legal trouble at work.

I take the building’s elevator to the fourth floor, get off, and stand before the office. On the door is a plate with the words ARMED DETECTIVE AGENCY written in simple, fine brushstrokes. I check my watch. I still have forty seconds before work starts at eight o’clock.

Looks like I got here a little early.

Punctuality is my philosophy. Flipping through my notebook as I wait, I double-check today’s schedule. I already checked once during breakfast, once after leaving the dormitory, and once while waiting for the light to change, but I’ve never heard of anyone dying from excessive confirmation of their schedule. I read my notebook, ruminating on my work plans, then glance at my watch one more time as I adjust my shirt collar.

…Perfect.

“Good morning.”

I open the door.

“Oh, Kunikida! Good morning! Take a look at this! It’s incredible!”

I’m suddenly greeted by a grinning Dazai on the threshold.

“At last, I’ve made it! Ah, and what a sweet world it is! This is Yomotsu Hirasaka, the gateway to the afterlife! Look, it’s just as I imagined! The blue smoke covering the surface, the moonlight peeking in through the window, the pink elephant dancing in the westerly skies…!”

He dances in front of the office door with wild gesticulations.

What a pain in the ass.

“Heh-heh-heh-heh! I just knew that Complete Suicide book would be a masterpiece! And to think, all it took to achieve

such a simple yet pleasurable suicide was to ingest a mushroom growing along the mountain path! How wonderful! Ah-ha-ha!”

Dazai’s eyes are slightly twitching and unfocused.

“K-Kunikida, please do something!” a staff member begs, teary-eyed.

I guess it’s safe to assume that Dazai’s been like this all morning. I glance at his desk and see the blasphemous book he bought the other day, The Complete Suicide, opened to a page titled “Death by Poisoning: Mushrooms.” Next to the book lies a plate with a half-eaten mushroom on it. However, upon further inspection, it appears to be a slightly different color from the one in the book.

“Come, Kunikida! Join me in the underworld! See, here the alcohol flows freely, and you can help yourself to as much food as you’d like! You can sniff beautiful women until you’re blue in the face!”

“Please help, Kunikida; we’ve tried everything we could…”

Quite simply, the mushroom he ingested wasn’t the fatal kind but rather the hallucinogenic type.

Tags: Osamu Dazai Bungo Stray Dogs Thriller
Source: readsnovelonline.net