"[Y/n] is that you?"

Every gaze in the room was riveted upon you—the eyes of Dazai's colleagues, the waitress with her silent curiosity, the scattered patrons caught mid-conversation, and even the lazy cat draped over a girl's lap, all transfixed. The world felt as though it had come to a halt, with every glance and murmur on you. Your son's sudden commotion had painted you in the spotlight, and recognition from a sharp-eyed detective further tightened the noose of attention around you. 

"No," you glanced at him; he looked so different yet not at the same time. His wavy brown hair which you used to pull as a joke, still looked musty—musty as his bandages. His eyes did look a bit brighter and you could tell that he got taller, "this is Patrick."

"Took you 8 business days to finish the sentence," Chuuya teased before an uncomfortable silence engulfed everyone between the four walls of the café. 

Suddenly, a chorus of chirping crickets filled the air, an eerie symphony that seemed to seep from the shadows themselves. The sound cut through the murmur of the room like a cold whisper, making everyone shift uncomfortably. It was as if the room itself had caught its breath, waiting for the unsettling noise to subside.

"Oh sorry," Chuuya laughed quietly and took out his phone, "that's my phone. I don't know how this ringtone—", glancing at you and your son who were seemingly trying not to die from concealing your laughter, he immediately knew who messed with his phone.

With a swift motion, he slid his gloved finger across the screen, ending the call with a decisive tap. He returned his phone to his pocket and, with a dark glint in his eye, raised his middle finger high. "Fuck you," he muttered, his voice a low, simmering growl that conveyed all the disdain he felt.

He knew he fucked up when he heard your son go through the pages in his book. Loudly and menacingly, he flicked the pages while looking at Chuuya. "Complete Guide to Treating a Lady Right, written by Nakahara Chuuya. Rule number thirty-six, If a man directs vulgar words at a lady, you're allowed to hit him. If they're directed at your mother, hit him twice." 

He flipped a few more, slowly and threateningly. "Rule number forty-two, If a man shows obscene gestures to a woman hit him. If they're directed at your mother, hit him thrice. That makes it five hits, ginger."

"Fuck me for making that shitty book—ah fuck!" And thus his beating began. Your son may be small but he did pack a punch. Chuuya didn't resist either because if he did it would be like going back on his word. 

Just as you were about to capture the perfect shot, Dazai's hand shot out, snatching your phone with a deft movement. The scene, vibrant with potential, faded into the background as his presence loomed larger than life. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, locked onto yours. "I think we have a lot to talk about." 

You met his gaze with a cool defiance. With a quick, almost dismissive gesture, you reclaimed your phone, the weight of it a small comfort against your palm. You slid it into your pocket with deliberate slowness, hoping the action would speak louder than words. "Well, you must be bad at thinking, because we don't."

"You were hiding my child from me." The accusation ignited your fury in an instant. Without a moment's hesitation, you spun around, gripping the collar of his shirt with a vice-like hold. With a forceful shove, you slammed him against the wall, the impact echoing through the tense silence. Around you, onlookers stared in shocked silence, their eyes wide and unblinking. Chuuya, sensing the volatile shift, started to move towards you, but you raised a hand in a sharp, silent command for him to stay back.

You leaned in close, your breath hot against Dazai's ear. Your other hand tightened around his neck, applying just enough pressure to make your threat clear without causing serious harm. Your voice, a low and venomous whisper, was a blade meant for his ears alone. "Don't you fucking dare blame this on me. I didn't hide him from you; you hid from us."

"Hah," he sneered, the sound grating against your nerves. It was almost pathetic how it no longer provoked your anger, but rather stirred up long-buried memories—echoes of a younger, more reckless you. "This takes me back. You used to beat me up all the time. Made sure everyone knew you were in charge—"

You swiftly released him, stepping back as if his very presence was a taint on your skin. A single word seemed to encapsulate your emotions: "disgusting." It was revolting that you had ever touched him, repulsive that you'd exchanged words, abhorrent that he was so near. Every aspect of him, from his voice to his proximity, was a source of revulsion. Yet, despite the loathing that surged through you, the harsh truth remained—he was still a part of your past, inextricably linked to the memories that you could not entirely escape.

"Mother, I need a detailed explanation of what he did so that I can calculate how many hits he deserves." 

You glanced at your son and suddenly understood the root of your paradox. Your love for him was an ocean of depth and warmth, far surpassing any hatred you could ever harbor for Dazai. The thought of hating Dazai seemed intertwined with the notion of hating your flesh and blood. From the moment of his birth, you had a fear that if he had even a trace of his father's traits, you might find it impossible to love him. Yet here he stood—an undeniable reflection of Dazai—and still, your heart was full of love, not loathing.

Before you could utter a word, Chuuya sprang into action, using his gravity manipulation to attempt to move your son out of harm's way. His effort was swift and decisive, but your son's power rose to meet the challenge. The clash of their abilities created a brief but intense struggle, with your son neutralizing Chuuya's attempt, leaving the air thick with unspent energy and unresolved tension.

"The kid is gifted," Kunikida exclaimed, his voice tinged with astonishment.

Your son crossed his arms, puffing out his cheeks in a display of frustration. Despite the irritation etched on his face, you had to suppress the urge to squeeze those adorable cheeks—he was simply too cute.

"I am," your son declared with a hint of pride, "but what you saw just now isn't my ability."

"So it was your second ability?" Kunikida asked, still grappling with the surprise.

Your son looked down, his posture sagging under a heavy cloak of disappointment. His eyes, usually bright with mischief, were now shadowed with frustration. "I don't have a second ability," he said, his voice a soft, weary murmur. "That ability isn't mine." He shook his head slowly, a bitter smile curling at the edges of his lips. "I thought detectives were cool," he continued, his tone laced with disillusionment, "but you're all just empty-headed."

The air seemed to grow colder with his words, the moment hanging heavy with the weight of unmet expectations. The room, once charged with tension, now felt like a stage where the harsh spotlight revealed not just powers and abilities, but the raw, vulnerable disappointment of a boy whose dreams had been fractured.

"Told ya, son." Chuuya's arm draped casually over your son's shoulder, a gesture of mock camaraderie as he cast a triumphant glance back at Dazai. The move was flawless, a calculated strike that hit a nerve, visible in the stiffening of Dazai's posture.

"Don't use my child to tick off your rival," you said firmly, your voice cutting through the charged atmosphere. You reached for your son's hand, feeling the delicate warmth and softness of his small fingers—a stark contrast to the harsh world surrounding him. In moments like this, you were acutely aware of the dissonance between his innocence and the dangerous life he had been thrust into because of you. 

"If you want to meet a real detective," you continued, your gaze steady and resolute, "we should visit Ranpo–kun."

"Are you friends with Ranpo?" Atsushi asked, his voice slightly muffled as he chewed eagerly on his favorite meal, the rich aroma of the food mixing with the scent of curiosity.

"No," you replied, taking your son's hand and gently guiding him along with you. There was a sense of purpose in your stride. "But I'm about to become friends with him."

Atsushi's brow furrowed in puzzlement, and a piece of food paused midway to his mouth. "But if you're not friends with him, how did you know about him?"

This kid asks a lot of questions. Maybe I should bring him back as a gift for Akutagawa.

"We are the mafia," you said with a hint of a smirk, "isn't it only expected of us to be well-informed?"

With that, you stepped out of the café, the door swinging shut behind you. Chuuya followed his presence marked by the subtle hum of his gravity manipulation, dragging himself along in a slow, deliberate manner. The evening air was cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of the café. You glanced back at Chuuya, his usual swagger subdued by fatigue. 

"Maybe we should pay a visit another day," you said with a weary sigh. "I'm tired as fuck."

Chuuya's grumbled agreement was lost in the murmur of the night, but your focus shifted to your son. You looked down at him, who was now engrossed in his world, seemingly oblivious to your presence. 

"Darling," you called softly, a note of concern in your voice, "is everything okay?" The question lingered in the air, concern etched on your face.

"That bandaged man," he spoke, looking at you with eyes that appeared to already know the answer, "he's my father, isn't he?"