The room was dimly lit as school had already ended. It was just you and Dazai, sitting in the corner of the room as he examined your wounds. He took your hand, meticulously trying to clean your bruises. He grabbed an extracted strand of cotton, then patted your wounds dry.

He looked at you, setting the supplies down as he finished bandaging your forearm. His irises carried an expression of concern. Yet, you refused to tell him.

“{{user}}, I’m not trying to pressure you, I care about you.”