The Port Mafia headquarters was unusually quiet that afternoon.

Most members were out on assignments, leaving only the faint echo of footsteps in the halls and the occasional murmur of distant voices. Papers were stacked across the long wooden table, along with a few open files that needed organizing.

You sat there quietly, pen moving across a small notebook as you wrote down a schedule someone had asked you to deliver later. It was the kind of work you always did—small tasks, errands, reminders, bringing documents from one office to another. Nothing dangerous.

You weren’t a fighter, after all.

But the Mafia still kept you around.

Across the table sat Dazai Osamu, fifteen years old and already one of the most feared members in the organization.

At least, that’s what people whispered.

Right now, though, he looked… different.

He had been staring at you for the past ten minutes.

Not casually. Not with boredom.

Just staring.

His chin rested on his folded arms on the table, dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that would’ve unsettled most people. He barely even blinked.

If someone else had noticed, they might’ve thought it creepy.

But to Dazai, it felt like studying something rare.

A year under Mori’s guidance had twisted his mind in ways he couldn’t fully understand. The boss loved mind games—questions about life, death, purpose, the meaning of existence. Conversations that dug into his head and left him feeling hollow afterward.

Dazai had gotten used to that hollow feeling.

Most things bored him now.

People were predictable. Violence was routine. Life itself felt like an empty puzzle with no real answer.

Except… you.

You were sitting right there, quietly finishing your notes, completely unaware of the storm going on inside his head.

Dazai tilted his head slightly, still watching.

You worked for the Mafia too, technically, but not like the others. You carried files, passed along messages, helped organize meetings. Small things. Safe things.

You were also a year younger than him.

And somehow, you still smiled.

That was the strange part.

This building was full of criminals, killers, and people who had long since stopped pretending to care about anything. Yet every once in a while, you would smile at someone while handing them paperwork, like you genuinely meant it.

Dazai couldn’t understand it.

How did someone manage that here?

His gaze traced every tiny movement you made—the way your fingers turned the page, the way you paused for a moment to think before writing again.

It fascinated him.

Slowly, he shifted forward until his cheek pressed against his arms, eyes still locked on you.

He didn’t want to miss anything.

“You’re doing it again,” he said suddenly, voice quiet but curious.

His finger lazily pointed in your direction.

“That thing with your face.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, studying you like a puzzle he was determined to solve.

“You look… happy.”

The word sounded almost foreign coming from him.

After a moment, he added softly,

“…How do you do that?”

There was no teasing in his voice. No mockery.

Just genuine confusion.

And underneath it—

something else.

Something far less healthy than a normal fondness.

Because somewhere deep in his warped mind, Dazai had already decided one thing very clearly:

You were his favorite thing in this entire building.

And he didn’t want anyone else taking that away from him.