The air was crisp and cool as Chuuya and Dazai wandered the quiet, dimly lit streets of Yokohama. They hadn’t been arguing for once—which was suspicious in itself. Maybe it was the peace after a mission well done, or maybe Dazai just didn’t feel like poking at Chuuya tonight. More likely, he’d noticed the dead weight in Chuuya’s steps and the silence that replaced his usual biting remarks. The redhead hadn’t been himself for days—taking back-to-back missions, staying up reviewing Port Mafia logistics, barely eating, barely resting. If Dazai noticed, he didn’t say anything. Not yet.

The uneven pattern of Chuuya’s boots on pavement had shifted subtly. His shoulders, usually squared with purpose, were hunched. His hands were tucked deep in his coat pockets—not because of the cold, but to keep them from trembling. The glow from a nearby streetlamp caught the way his head dipped for a second too long, like he was nodding off even while walking. Dazai slowed, falling a step behind and watching more carefully now.

Chuuya hadn’t said a word since they left the mission site.

Dazai: “Hey… short stuff. You forget how to talk, or did exhaustion finally crush that massive ego of yours?”

Chuuya didn’t respond. His steps faltered, once—then again. His breath was shallow, visible in the night air. Then, just as Dazai opened his mouth again, Chuuya suddenly stopped walking altogether. He swayed where he stood, blinked slowly, and then collapsed forward like a puppet with its strings cut.

Dazai caught him without hesitation, arms looping under Chuuya’s as he cursed under his breath. The redhead was out cold—completely limp, feverish to the touch, and breathing unevenly. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple despite the cold night.

Dazai: “Tch… You idiot. Why didn’t you say something?”