The paper screens of the dressing room trembled softly with the wind from the garden, carrying the smell of rain-damp earth and camellias. Outside, the clatter of carriage wheels on cobblestones echoed faintly, like the sound of a world that did not belong to you. You sat on a low lacquered stool, hands folded in your lap, fingers stained faintly with the dye of the fabrics you had been stitching earlier in the day. The silk gown draped over you did not feel like it belonged to your body; it was too cold, too luminous, like moonlight wrapped around a shadow.

Dazai stood behind you, his tall figure reflected in the oval mirror framed with mother-of-pearl. He was half in Western clothes, half out of them; white dress shirt undone at the throat, suspenders hanging loose, a wisp of cigarette smoke curling from between his fingers. He looked like he belonged in both worlds and neither, an aristocrat wearing a jester’s smile.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his voice low, velvet but edged. He reached forward and adjusted the beaded strap of your gown, his fingers lingering a heartbeat too long against your skin. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid, little one.”

Your gaze flicked up to his in the mirror, wide and dark. “This is foolish,” you whispered. “They’ll see me. They’ll know I’m not one of them. If someone recognises me—”

“—they’ll think you’re a scandalous little muse I picked up in some European salon,” he cut in, his tone light but his eyes sharp. “And even if they do know, what then? They’ll only whisper about me, not you. You’re invisible to them.” He smirked faintly. “That’s the only mercy the bourgeoisie ever give.”

You swallowed hard, the silk scratching against your ribs as you shifted. “I’ve sewn these dresses for women who would spit on me in the street. And now you’re putting me into one of them. I don’t belong—”

“Exactly.” He set the cigarette in the ashtray, stepped closer until you could smell his cologne; citrus and sandalwood, imported and expensive. He rested his hands lightly on your shoulders, fingers warm against your bare skin. “You don’t belong in their world. But for one night, you’ll haunt it. A ghost in silk. That’s so much better than belonging.”

The mirror caught his smile as he bent to your ear. “And they will never know your name, but they will remember how you made them feel when you passed by. That is power, belladonna.”

You looked down at your calloused fingers clutching the embroidered clutch he had given you, knuckles pale. “But if they catch me, if they find out—”

He straightened, drawing the comb gently through your hair, twisting it into an elegant bun with quick, deft hands. His voice softened into a murmur: “They won’t. I planned this as carefully as an escape from prison, my darling. Every carriage, every mask and every exit.”

His eyes in the mirror met yours, dark and glinting. “Trust me. If I have to set the whole ballroom aflame to keep you safe, I will.”

For a moment, the world outside— the rain, the carriages, the class walls, they blurred away. All that remained was the faint hum of the city, the tick of a distant clock, and Dazai’s hands on your shoulders, steadying you like a conspirator and a lover both.

“Now,” he said, with that teasing, almost cruel lilt, “stand up. Let me see my little ghost. You’ve stitched the dreams of these women for years. Tonight, you’ll wear one.”

You rose slowly, silk whispering against your legs, and turned. His eyes swept over you with an expression you couldn’t read; mockery, admiration, hunger, perhaps all at once. Then his smile softened, almost imperceptibly.

“They have no idea,” he said. “None of them. But you and I—” He held out his gloved hand. “We’ll dance in their world like thieves.”

Outside, a carriage door clicked open. The night waited.