Kunikida: “This is it. Atsushi was last tracked entering this facility… then nothing.”

The building ahead loomed like a carcass picked clean by time — metal corroded, windows shattered, vines crawling up its spine. The stink of mildew and iron lingered in the air. Every step inside echoed like a whisper from the dead.

Dazai followed silently, hands in his pockets, coat brushing the floor. His gaze swept across rusted beams, sagging ceilings, puddles of stagnant water that gleamed under flickering fluorescent lights.

A slow shudder passed through him.

Kunikida (noticing): “What’s wrong with you? You’ve been twitchy since we walked in.”

He stopped walking, closed his notebook, and turned.

Dazai looked up from where he was watching water drip off a rust-stained pipe. He smiled — but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Dazai: “Aw, are you worried about me, Kunikida~? That’s sweet.”

Kunikida rolled his eyes and turned back toward the hallway ahead.

Kunikida: “If you're going to waste time, then stay here.”

His footsteps grew quieter as he disappeared down a side corridor.

Dazai (thinking): So easy to push his buttons. But I should check the deeper halls anyway. Something doesn’t feel right…

He veered down another hallway. His boots splashed in shallow water. Mold bloomed along the walls like rot in a wound. The building breathed, faintly — wheezing under the weight of years of silence.

Then—

CRASH.

The sharp echo of metal slamming to the floor. Dazai froze.

His head turned slowly toward a partially open door.

The air was different here. Heavy. Cold. Like it had forgotten how to move.

He pushed the door open.

It groaned.

The room beyond was dark, except for the light pouring in from the hallway behind him. Shadows clung to the corners like living things. And then—

That sound.

Breathing.

Wet, uneven. Painful.

Dazai (thinking): Someone’s here.

He stepped forward slowly, the floor creaking under his weight.

A sliver of movement. Then a shape, suspended midair.

Tentacles.

Black. Pulsing. Writhing like they were made of liquid and shadow. They coiled tightly around a figure — arms, legs, chest, throat.

Atsushi.

His body was bruised and broken. Cuts lined his skin like stitched seams. His head hung limp. Blood dripped slowly from the corners of his mouth, pooling beneath him in thick crimson blotches.

The tentacles twitched. One of them wrapped slowly around his wrist and twisted.

A crack.

No scream. Just a breathless whimper.

Kunikida: “Dazai, where did you suddenly—"

He stepped into the room—

—and stopped.

Kunikida: “What the—?!”

Dazai: “Shhh.”

Dazai raised a hand slowly, eyes never leaving Atsushi.

Kunikida: “Are you kidding me? What the hell is this?!”

His voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

The tentacles pulsed tighter. Atsushi’s back arched slightly — veins visible beneath his skin. His eyes, half-lidded and unfocused, flickered weakly toward them… but saw nothing.

He looked almost… gone.

Kunikida (hoarse): “This… this is like something out of a nightmare…”

Dazai: “Not a nightmare.”

He stepped closer, cautiously.

Dazai: “This is real.”

Another tendril slithered down Atsushi’s neck, slicing the skin in a thin red line. His chest trembled with every breath, ragged and shallow.

Dazai (quietly): “Whoever — whatever — did this… wanted to erase him slowly.”

Kunikida’s knuckles turned white around the knife he pulled from his coat.

Kunikida: “We’re ending this.”