The cold concrete of the alleyway pressed against his cheek, damp with dirty rain and smelling faintly of cheap whiskey and rusted iron.
Osamu Dazai opened his left eye.
Above him was not the grey, silent sky of Yokohama, nor the dizzying drop from the Agency tower. Instead, looming black fire escapes crisscrossed against a neon-soaked skyline. Sirens wailed in the distance—louder, harsher, and far less refined than the sirens he was used to.
He sat up slowly, feeling the heavy drape of his black coat. He ran a gloved hand down his chest, feeling the smooth fabric of his black blazer, white shirt, and trousers. Everything was immaculate. The bandages remained neatly wrapped around his neck, both hands, and over his right eye, sealing away his past.
"How tragic," Dazai murmured, his voice smooth and laced with dramatic disappointment. "I finally managed a successful jump, and the universe hands me a second shift."
He dusted off his coat and stepped out toward the street, greeted by a rusted sign reading Hell's Kitchen. The city was alive with a chaotic, unpolished energy. Before he could fully appreciate the absolute failure of his demise, a muffled crash echoed from the dark alley behind him.
Three men stepped out of the shadows, one brandishing a switchblade and the other two holding heavy iron pipes.
"Hand over the coat, rich boy," the lead thug barked. "And whatever's in your pockets."
Dazai turned, his visible eye lightless and devoid of fear. A faint, dark smile touched his lips. In Yokohama, he had been the absolute ruler of the Port Mafia, a man who had orchestrated entire wars from behind a desk. Here, he was just a stranger in a fine suit.
"You know," Dazai said lightly, taking a step forward, "I was actually hoping for a quiet afternoon. But if you're offering a quick end, I'm all ears. Though, I must warn you... your form is terrible."
The lead thug lunged. Dazai didn't even bother to dodge with purpose; he simply tilted his head, letting the blade brush past his cheek. With a fluid, almost lazy twist of his wrist, he redirected the man's momentum, driving him headfirst into the brick wall.
Before the second thug could swing his pipe, a red baton cut through the night air, striking the man square in the chest.
A figure in dark crimson armor dropped from the fire escape, landing silently between Dazai and the remaining attacker.
Daredevil lowered his stance, his sensory perception flaring. But as he turned his attention toward the man in the black coat, the vigilante froze. To Daredevil's heightened senses, every human had a heartbeat, a rhythm of breathing, a faint hum of nervous energy.
"You should get out of here," Daredevil said, his voice low, keeping his eyes on the last thug, though his mind was entirely focused on the strange man in bandages. "This neighborhood isn't safe."
Dazai tilted his head, watching the red-suited vigilante with mild amusement. "Oh? But it was just getting interesting. Tell me, red ghost... do people die easily around here, or do I have to do all the work myself?"
Dazai as much want's stay and talk to this mysterious men in red suit with devil horn he have to leave he have to figure it out where in the name of God he is so he left the Ally and walk towards the street of New York, hell kitchen. The crisp autumn air carried the smell of burnt engine oil and cheap hot dogs as Dazai strolled down the sidewalks of Hell's Kitchen. Hands shoved deep into the pockets of his black coat, he moved with the relaxed, predatory grace of a man taking a casual evening walk—ignoring the bewildered stares his heavily bandaged face and pristine Port Mafia attire drew from the locals.
Leaving the red-suited "devil" to handle the alleyway thugs had been a minor disappointment, but survival in an unknown territory required information first. And getting the currency to acquire that information had taken less than three seconds. A gentle bump against an overly aggressive businessman on 42nd Street, a quick slip of the wrist, and Dazai was suddenly a few hundred dollars richer. Standard operating procedure.
He paused in front of a brightly lit newsstand, its metal racks overflowing with magazines and daily papers.
"Just the paper, please," Dazai said, pitching his voice with a polite, innocent warmth that completely belied his dark past.
He slid a stolen twenty-dollar bill across the counter. The old vendor grunted, barely looking up as he slapped a fresh edition of the The Daily Bugle onto the rack and shoved the change back.
Dazai picked up the paper, his single uncovered eye scanning the front page.
STARK INDUSTRIES UNVEILS NEW TECH IN MANHATTAN
IT HAS BEEN ONLY A YEAR SINCE ALIENS INVADED EARTH AND AVENGERS, X-MEN AND FANTASTIC FOUR SAVE EARTH.
Dazai's eyebrows rose slightly beneath his dark bangs. He flipped to the inner pages, his sharp mind processing the names, dates, and locations at frightening speed. New York City. The United States. Avengers. X-Men. Fantastic Four. None of these names existed in his world. There was no mention of the Armed Detective Agency, no Port Mafia, and certainly no record of a city named Yokohama operating under Special Ability permits.
Only something about Mutants and how majority of humans hate them even those X-Men are Mutants. Dazai pounder 'Those Mutants there not like the Ability user from my world they gain power through Genetic modification but ability user gain power through there Soul '.
He had not just survived his fall from the tower; he had dropped out of his universe entirely.
"Fascinating," Dazai hummed to himself, folding the newspaper under his arm. A low, dark chuckle escaped his lips as he looked up at the towering skyscrapers gleaming in the distance. "A world packed with self-proclaimed heroes, gods, and monsters... and yet, not a single one of them looks like they know how to grant a peaceful death."
With that Dazai Walk towards a Park and sit on the bench and look at the sky as noon is approaching.
End of Episode 1.CopyEpisode 1: A Stray Dog Refused by DeathThe first thing Osamu Dazai noticed was the cold.Concrete pressed against his cheek. Rainwater soaked into his hair, carrying the smell of rust, old garbage, and something that might once have been whiskey. Somewhere nearby, a siren rose and fell.Dazai opened his left eye.A fire escape zigzagged up the brick wall above him. Beyond it, a narrow strip of sky had begun to turn gray.That was wrong.The last sky he remembered had been over Yokohama. He remembered the wind, the height, and the knowledge that everything had been put in place. Atsushi and Akutagawa would have a chance. The world he had left behind could go on without him.He lay still for another moment, listening to the unfamiliar siren."Really?" he asked no one.He sat up. His black coat was damp at the shoulder but otherwise intact. The blazer beneath it, his white shirt, trousers, and shoes had all come with him. So had the bandages around his hands, neck, and right eye.Apparently death had returned his belongings."How inconsiderate," he murmured. "I was finished with them."At the mouth of the alley, cars rolled past in a steady stream. Their yellow license plates meant nothing to him. Neither did the English lettering on the pharmacy sign across the street, though he found, to his mild surprise, that he could read it.He got to his feet. No broken bones. No headache. Not even the ache he might have expected after sleeping on concrete.He had jumped from a building and woken up in an alley without a scratch. It was the sort of miracle he had spent years trying to avoid.A bottle broke behind him.Dazai turned. Three men stood between him and the alley's other exit. The one in front held a switchblade. His companions carried lengths of pipe."Nice coat," the man said."Thank you. It's survived quite a lot.""Take it off."Dazai glanced at the knife, then at the men's shoes. The leader favored his left leg. The man on the right had his pipe gripped too tightly; he would swing wide. The third kept looking toward the street."This neighborhood must have terrible manners," Dazai said. "We haven't even been introduced."The knife came at him.Dazai stepped inside the lunge and caught the attacker's wrist. A small turn sent the man stumbling shoulder-first into the brick wall. His knife clattered to the ground.The man with the pipe swung.A red baton struck him in the chest before the blow could land. He fell backward into a stack of empty crates.Someone dropped from the fire escape and landed between Dazai and the third man. Dark red armor. A mask with short horns."Oh," Dazai said. "There's a devil here."The last thug took one look at the masked man and ran. The first scrambled after him, holding his shoulder. Their friend hauled himself up from the crates and followed.The devil let them go. He was listening to Dazai.That much was obvious even without seeing his eyes. His head had turned slightly, as though he were trying to catch a sound beneath the traffic."You should get out of here," he said. "This neighborhood isn't safe."Dazai looked at the discarded knife. "You arrived just as things were becoming promising."The masked man didn't laugh. "Are you hurt?""No.""Are you in danger?"Dazai considered the question. "Not from those three."For a moment, neither moved.The man in red could hear his heartbeat. Dazai was certain of it, though he couldn't have said why. More interestingly, he seemed troubled by what he heard—or by what he didn't.Dazai smiled. "Do people die easily around here, red ghost?"The man's jaw tightened. "What?""I'm asking about the neighborhood.""I heard you.""Then you know I'm new."Dazai walked past him toward the street. He expected a hand on his shoulder. It didn't come."Hey," the devil called.Dazai stopped."If you need help, there are places you can go."For one brief, unpleasant second, Dazai thought of the people in Yokohama who might have said the same thing."How kind," he replied, and stepped out into the morning.A street sign identified the neighborhood as Hell's Kitchen. New York City appeared on a bus stop map a block later.Dazai stood before it, studying the streets. He knew the name New York. He knew this city did not belong to any map of his own life. Once he had established that much, he needed a newspaper, money, and somewhere to sit.The money came from a man who shoved past him on the sidewalk without looking up from his phone. Dazai apologized for the collision. By the time the man waved him off, his wallet had changed pockets.At a newsstand, Dazai bought a copy of The Daily Bugle.The vendor stared at his bandaged face while making change."Bad accident?" he asked."A remarkably good one," Dazai said.He moved aside and unfolded the paper.A year had passed since an alien invasion of New York. The articles spoke of the Avengers, the X-Men, and the Fantastic Four. One photograph showed a man in metal armor above a damaged Manhattan street. Another showed a blue-furred scientist beside a report about mutant rights. A columnist credited heroes with saving the city, then spent the rest of the page arguing about how much power they ought to have.Dazai read every word.No Yokohama. No Port Mafia. No Armed Detective Agency. Nothing about Special Abilities. The people called mutants seemed to be born different; whatever abilities they possessed were part of their bodies, not quite like the powers he knew.Even the public arguments were unfamiliar. Some of the people in these photographs had helped save the city, and plenty of their neighbors still feared them.He turned the page.Stark Industries had announced a demonstration of new technology. Across from it was a smaller piece about residents of Hell's Kitchen protesting a redevelopment project. The photograph accompanying the protest showed a row of damaged apartment buildings and, at the edge of the crowd, a familiar red shape on a rooftop.Dazai lowered the paper.This city had survived an army from the sky. By the looks of things, it was still arguing over rent, property, and who deserved to be left alone. He found that easier to understand than the aliens.He folded the paper beneath his arm and walked.The streets changed as the morning went on. Shopkeepers raised their shutters. People hurried into cafés. A child in a school uniform stared openly at Dazai's bandages until her mother tugged her along. No one knew who he had been. No one needed anything from the Port Mafia's boss.That should have felt like freedom.Instead, Dazai found himself counting the people around him, noting who watched the street and which corners gave a clear view of the intersections. Old habits had survived the fall, too.Near noon, he reached a small park and sat on a bench. Sunlight warmed the wet shoulder of his coat. He spread the newspaper across his knees and looked once more at the date.It was real, then. Or real enough to demand a place to sleep tonight.Dazai tipped his head back and watched a plane cross the pale sky. He thought of Atsushi, of Akutagawa, and of the city he had made himself leave. He had no way to learn whether his plan had worked. That ignorance hurt more than he'd expected."You refused me once," he said softly to death. "Must I take the hint?"A gust of wind lifted the corner of the newspaper. Dazai caught it before it blew away.For the first time since waking, he wondered not how he had arrived, but what he was supposed to do before nightfall.He looked down at the city map printed inside the paper and began to read.