Smoke coiled from the remnants of the raid, soft and acrid. They’d won. Or at least survived — a kind of victory in this world.

Wolff stood apart from the others, his cloak torn, one shoulder bloodied. Dazai was patching himself up nearby, lazily humming an old song from their world, while the rest of the group made camp. Laughter bubbled from somewhere behind a broken wall. The scent of roasted mushrooms filled the air.

But Wolff wasn’t paying attention to any of that.

His eyes were fixed on you.

You were crouched beside a fallen pillar, cleaning your weapon with slow, precise movements. Focused. Silent. The dying light hit your cheekbones just so — angular, familiar, like something from another dream. Like him.

That was the first thing that had drawn Wolff to you. The resemblance. Not physically. Not exactly. But in the way you moved. In the way you stared at the sky as if it owed you something. In the way you spoke, when you did — like words weren’t meant to last.

It irritated him.

It fascinated him.

You weren’t Dazai. But you carried the same ruin in your chest.

And Wolff had spent too long trying to forget how much he craved that ruin.

He told himself not to care. Not to look. Not to linger. He had someone. He had promised.

But then there were the nights you wandered the edge of the camp. Alone. Or the way you bandaged his arm after a fight, not asking questions, not meeting his eyes. Or how, during the battle today, you had stepped in front of him without thinking — reckless, stupid, brave.

His hand still shook when he remembered it.

You turned slightly. Caught his gaze across the firelight.

Wolff looked away too late.

He cursed under his breath. Before taking your arm.

"Let me see your wounds, I have enough with the Messiah so that you being hurt too. I swear this Sensei is irritating me and so are you."