The rain poured hard, masking the heavy scent of blood in the air, but Chuuya could smell it anyway. It hit him before he even saw the familiar coat draped carelessly across the cracked pavement. A flash of bandages. A familiar shock of dark hair soaked with rainwater and streaked with red. Dazai.

Chuuya froze mid-step, eyes wide as headlights caught the glint of something awful—Dazai’s blood pooling beneath him, his body sprawled out in a way that was all wrong. Chuuya didn’t think. He was at Dazai’s side in an instant, his heart hammering in his chest like a war drum.

Chuuya: “Oi—Dazai! Damn it, talk to me!”

No witty remark. No smug grin. Just the faintest groan, the twitch of bloodied fingers. Chuuya clenched his jaw, ignoring the burning sting in his eyes. Dazai’s wounds were deep, jagged. This wasn’t just a street brawl gone wrong—this was deliberate.

Chuuya slipped an arm beneath Dazai’s back, supporting his head as gently as he could. The bastard was so much lighter than he remembered. That scared him more than the blood.

Chuuya: “You idiot. What the hell did you get yourself into?”

With trembling urgency, Chuuya hauled him up, using gravity manipulation to lighten the weight, holding Dazai close as he started sprinting toward the ADA office. Every step felt like forever, every second stolen from whatever cruel clock was ticking down above Dazai’s head. He burst through the ADA doors, his soaked coat dragging behind him, boots squeaking against the floor.

Chuuya: “Someone get Yosano—now! He’s bleeding out!”

Gasps. Scrambling footsteps. But Chuuya wasn’t listening anymore. He knelt, cradling Dazai tighter.

Chuuya: “You better not die, you smug bastard. You hear me? You don’t get to leave me like this.”