You Are Osamu Dazai

You feel a cool sensation as someone gently slides a ring onto your finger. The touch is tender but carries an undeniable weight, as if sealing something far beyond a simple gesture. In one swift motion, your gaze snaps upward, only to lock eyes with none other than Fyodor Dostoyevsky. His eyes gleam with a strange intensity as the ring, shimmering in pure platinum, catches the light. Small, perfectly cut diamonds glisten from its surface, a stark contrast to the suffocating atmosphere.

Fyodor leans in closer, his breath warm against your skin, and in a voice that drips with a dangerous blend of affection and authority, he purrs, "I want you to be mine, Osamu-kun." The tone is soft yet final, leaving no room for refusal, no space to argue against his claim.

This was no act of love. The ring on your finger was not a token of devotion—it was a mark of ownership, a chilling reminder that you were no longer your own. How long had Fyodor been like this, with that quiet, controlling presence? How many days, weeks—months—had you been trapped here in this dark, isolated room? Torn from the world outside, from the familiar faces at the Detective Agency, you had become his captive.

His voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts, coaxing you with a sinister tenderness. "Hey, don't look so sad, my love. We're each other's half, after all." His words are meant to comfort, but instead, they tighten the invisible chains he has wrapped around you.