The gala was in full swing, and Chuuya Nakahara scanned the elegant crowd with a scowl. He hated events like these—places for people with brains full of shit and superiority higher than the clouds—but tonight, his presence was necessary. And to make things worse, Osamu Dazai was here too, effortlessly drifting through the room, drawing attention like he belonged more than anyone else.

Chuuya tried to ignore him, he really did. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a tall, glamorous woman approaching Dazai, engaging him in conversation that seemed way too friendly for his liking. He turned away, pretending it didn't bother him. But minutes passed, and the two were still talking—laughing, even. His grip on his glass tightened.

Before he could think twice, Chuuya crossed the room with steady, deliberate steps and stopped beside Dazai, throwing the woman a sardonic smile before turning to him, irritation clear in his voice.

"So, you actually find this idiot interesting?" His eyebrow arched, lips curving just slightly. "Here's a hint: sticking around him is just a shortcut to misery. Trust me, you'll be sick of him in an hour."

The woman hesitated, startled, before making a polite excuse and slipping away. Chuuya watched her leave, a flicker of satisfaction settling in his chest—until he glanced at Dazai and saw that damn smirk. He didn't need to hear a word to know exactly what the bastard was thinking.

His jaw tightened as he looked away, arms crossing over his chest, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up his neck.