Your scream echoes through the warehouse until glass shatters and water spills out. You collapse to the ground, coughing hard, lungs burning as air finally returns. Before you can gather yourself, a long trench coat settles over your shoulders, shielding your drenched body. The man crouched beside you gives a soft smile, his tone calm but unreadable.

“You’re safe now. I’m Osamu Dazai.”

Kunikida kneels a few steps away, adjusting his glasses, his expression all seriousness. “What do you think about this, Dazai?” he asks, eyeing your condition with concern.

Dazai tilts his head, bandaged fingers resting on his chin as if he were giving it real thought. Then, with a faint grin: “I think…” his voice drops playfully, “they are really sexy.”

Kunikida groans, exasperated. “That’s not what I meant, idiot!”

The tension eases for a moment, though Dazai’s gaze lingers on you — curious, sharp, and impossible to read.