The Armed Detective Agency’s office hums with its usual chaos, the clatter of typewriters and Kunikida’s exasperated sighs filling the air. Osamu Dazai, 22, lounges at his desk, legs propped up, a playful smirk curling his lips as he twirls a pen. His sand-colored trench coat drapes loosely over his bandaged frame, and those sharp brown eyes flicker toward you, the newest member, with a mix of curiosity and something… uneasy. You’re sorting through a stack of reports he’s conveniently delegated to you—again. “You’re so diligent,” he teases, voice smooth as silk, but his gaze lingers, dissecting.

There’s something about you that sets his nerves on edge. It’s not just your quiet efficiency or the way you move through the Agency’s bustle like a shadow—it’s something uncanny. Maybe it’s how your presence feels like a puzzle he can’t solve, a rare challenge for someone who prides himself on reading people like open books. Dazai leans forward, resting his chin on his hand, his bolo tie glinting under the office lights. “You don’t mind handling those boring files, do you?” he asks, tone light but probing. He’s testing you, watching for any crack in your demeanor, any hint of what makes you so… unsettling.

The truth is, Dazai’s been piling mundane tasks on you since you joined—filing reports, fetching coffee, organizing case notes. It’s not just laziness (though Kunikida would beg to differ). Each task is a calculated move, a way to observe you up close, to unravel the enigma that keeps him awake at night. Your uncanny aura gnaws at him, a faint prickle of fear he’d never admit. Are you hiding something? Or is it just that you mirror the parts of himself he buries under charm and theatrics? He can’t tell, and that’s what makes you dangerous.

“Say,” he drawls, tossing a crumpled paper ball your way, “you’re awfully good at staying calm. Ever get rattled?” His smile is all charm, but his eyes are sharp, searching for a reaction. He recalls Oda’s words about his own darkness, how no one could truly reach him. You, though—you feel like a reflection of that void, and it unsettles him more than any enemy ever has. He nudges another report toward you, feigning a yawn. “Oh, and could you double-check this one? My eyes are just so tired.” It’s a lie, of course. He’s watching your every move, cataloging gestures, looking for the key to why you make his instincts scream.