Everithing is the same

The funeral was a blur of black fabric, hushed whispers, and the cloying scent of lilies. Cale Henituse, all of eight years old, stood by his father’s side, a small, unreadable figure amidst the grief. His mother, Jour, was gone. The woman who had filled their home with laughter and the gentle murmur of her voice was now just a memory, entombed beneath a cold slab of stone.

But for Cale, it was more than just the loss of a mother. It was the shattering of a carefully constructed illusion, the violent shaking of a reality he had painstakingly built. As the first shovelful of dirt hit the coffin, a jolt, sharp and sudden, ripped through him. Images, fragmented and disorienting, flashed behind his eyes. A trench coat, a bandaged arm, a wry, self-deprecating smile that never quite reached the eyes. The bitter taste of a concoction he’d once called ‘suicide attempt number thirty-seven.’

Dazai Osamu.

The name, foreign and yet achingly familiar, echoed in the cavern of his mind. He was Dazai Osamu. Or rather, he *had been* Dazai Osamu. The memories, once locked away in a forgotten corner of his consciousness, now surged forward, a tidal wave of a past he hadn't known he possessed. The Armed Detective Agency, the Port Mafia, the endless, suffocating boredom, the desperate yearning for a beautiful, painless death.

He looked at his father, Deruth, his face etched with a grief Cale recognized with a chilling clarity. He looked at the empty space beside him, where his mother should have been, and a cold dread settled in his stomach. This wasn't right. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Jour was supposed to live. She was supposed to be there, a beacon of warmth in his otherwise mundane existence.

But she wasn't. Just like Oda. Just like Ango, in a way. Everyone he had ever truly cared for, everyone who had ever managed to pierce through the thick armor of his detachment, had met a tragic end. Was this his curse? To watch those he loved vanish, leaving him alone in the suffocating silence?

The funeral ended. The mourners dispersed, leaving the Henituse family to their private sorrow. But Cale felt no sorrow, not in the way others did. He felt a profound sense of recognition, a chilling echo of a loneliness he had thought he’d escaped. The world, once a place of relative peace and simple pleasures, now seemed to shimmer with the same bleak, indifferent hue he remembered from his previous life.

He retreated. Not physically, not at first. He was still the obedient, quiet child, but a subtle shift occurred. The light in his eyes, once a soft, curious glow, dimmed, replaced by a distant, almost melancholic gaze. His responses became shorter, his interactions less frequent. He started spending more time alone in his room, not reading or playing, but simply staring out the window, a world of memories swirling behind his seemingly blank expression.

Deruth, consumed by his own grief, barely noticed the change. He saw a child mourning his mother, and he understood. But he didn't see the ghost of a man, an executive of the Port Mafia, slowly reawakening within his son.

The first hint of the ‘trash’ persona began subtly. Cale, in his past life, had always been a master of manipulation, of playing roles to achieve his desired outcome. And now, faced with the crushing weight of his rediscovered past and the knowledge that his beloved mother was gone, he instinctively reverted to a familiar defense mechanism: detachment.

He started drinking. Not heavily at first, just a surreptitious sip from his father's abandoned wine glass, a slow, burning warmth that numbed the sharp edges of his returning memories. It wasn't about pleasure; it was about escaping. Escaping the suffocating awareness of his double existence, escaping the gnawing fear that he was doomed to repeat the same cycle of loss.

His behavior grew more erratic. He began throwing tantrums, not out of true anger, but out of a calculated desire to push people away. He’d smash a vase, overturn a table, his voice rising in a shrill, petulant cry. The servants, initially concerned, soon began to whisper. The young master, they said, was becoming difficult. Unruly.

Then came the stepmother. Countess Violan, a kind woman, genuinely tried to reach out to the grieving child. But Cale saw through her efforts with the clinical precision of a seasoned manipulator. He saw her ambition, her desire to secure her place, to protect her own children. He didn't blame her; it was simply the way of the world. But he also knew that her presence, however well-intentioned, would only serve to further complicate his already tangled existence.

He began to actively cultivate the ‘trash’ image. He’d sneak out of the mansion, returning in the early hours of the morning, smelling faintly of cheap alcohol and stale cigarettes. He’d pick fights with the village youths, always ensuring he came out looking like the aggressor, the instigator. He’d spend money recklessly, demanding expensive wines and lavish meals, only to leave them untouched.

The whispers grew louder, transforming into outright condemnation. "The Young Master Cale is a disgrace." "He's nothing but trash." "He's drinking himself to an early grave."

It was exactly what he wanted. The more people recoiled, the less they would scrutinize him. The less they would notice the calculating intellect behind the drunken slurs, the profound weariness in the eyes that occasionally flickered with an ancient, knowing sadness.

One afternoon, a year after Jour's death, Deruth finally confronted him. Cale was lounging in a chair, a half-empty bottle of wine beside him, a sardonic smirk playing on his lips.

"Cale," Deruth began, his voice laced with a mixture of anger and despair. "What has gotten into you? You're ruining yourself! You're ruining our family's name!"

Cale merely raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of wine. "And what, father, would you have me do? Pretend to be a dutiful son? A grieving child? The world is a cruel place, isn't it? Better to embrace its ugliness than to be crushed by its deceit."

Deruth stared at him, his face paling. "Deceit? What are you talking about?"

Cale chuckled, a hollow, mirthless sound. "Oh, nothing. Just the general hypocrisy of it all. The false smiles, the empty condolences. It's all rather tiresome, wouldn't you agree?"

He saw the fear in his father's eyes, the dawning realization that his son was not merely grieving, but fundamentally changed. Good. Fear was a useful tool. It kept people at a distance.

As the years passed, Cale perfected his act. He was the quintessential spoiled noble, the black sheep of the Henituse family. He was loud, obnoxious, and perpetually intoxicated. His stepmother, Violan, though outwardly patient, began to distance herself, focusing her attention on her own children, Basen and Lily, who were growing into polite, intelligent youngsters. Cale observed them from afar, a strange sense of detachment coloring his observations. They were good children. Innocent. He hoped they would remain that way, untouched by the shadows that clung to him.

His half-siblings, in turn, viewed him with a mixture of fear and disdain. Basen, the studious one, avoided him whenever possible. Lily, the spirited one, would occasionally try to engage him, a flicker of genuine concern in her young eyes, but Cale would quickly extinguish it with a sharp word or a dismissive gesture. He couldn't afford to let anyone get too close. Not again.

He spent his days in a haze of alcohol, his nights restless and haunted by fragments of his past life. He remembered the thrill of a mission, the intricate dance of strategy and deception, the chilling efficiency of his abilities. He remembered the fleeting moments of connection, the unexpected kindness of Oda, the infuriating brilliance of Kunikida, the exasperating presence of Chuuya.

And then, the crushing weight of their inevitable departures.

He was Dazai Osamu. A man who had sought death with an almost religious fervor, who had found a twisted kind of solace in the abyss. And now, he was Cale Henituse, a "trash" noble, trying to survive in a world that felt both alien and terrifyingly familiar.

He didn't know how he had transmigrated. He had no memories of a sudden accident, a blinding light, or a divine intervention. One moment he was Dazai, contemplating the most aesthetically pleasing way to end his life, the next he was Cale, a child cradled in Jour's loving arms. It was as if his consciousness had simply… shifted. A cosmic joke, perhaps, played by a universe that enjoyed tormenting him.

His goal, now, was simple: to live a quiet, comfortable life. To avoid any grand heroics, any dangerous entanglements. He had seen enough death, enough suffering. He just wanted to be left alone, to observe the world from a safe distance, a permanent spectator in a play he no longer wished to participate in.

The 'trash' persona was his shield, his impenetrable fortress against a world that threatened to drag him back into the maelstrom of his past. He would be the epitome of uselessness, a burden, a disappointment. That way, no one would expect anything from him. No one would rely on him. And no one, absolutely no one, would ever get close enough to be hurt again.

One evening, as he stumbled back into the mansion, the scent of alcohol heavy on his breath, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in a polished mirror. His eyes, usually clouded by a feigned drunken stupor, were clear for a moment, reflecting a profound weariness. The corners of his mouth, habitually twisted into a sneer or a smirk, drooped with a subtle sorrow.

He saw the ghost of Dazai Osamu staring back at him. The man who had worn a smile like a mask, who had hidden a world of pain behind a facade of endless charm and self-destructive humor. The man who had longed for a beautiful death, yet had always, inexplicably, found himself clinging to life.

"Still here, huh?" Cale muttered to his reflection, the words a rough whisper. "Still can't manage to kick the bucket, can you, Dazai?"

He laughed then, a short, bitter sound that echoed through the empty hallway. He was Cale Henituse. He was Kim Rok Soo. And he was, irrevocably, Dazai Osamu. Three lives, intertwined and tangled, each one a testament to his enduring, infuriating will to survive. And as long as he breathed, he would continue to play his part, the trash of the county, the master of deception, the man who carried the weight of a thousand sorrows behind a carefully constructed smile. The game, it seemed, was far from over.