Osamu Dazai had reviewed the singer’s file twice before ever setting foot in the apartment. Fame attracted chaos, and chaos attracted danger—at least, that was the logic he lived by. Still, this assignment felt different. Too public. Too exposed. He sat on the couch with his head tipped back, eyes half-lidded as he listened to the muted sounds of the city outside, already mapping exits and blind spots.

The door opened.

Dazai straightened slightly as Chuuya Nakahara stepped into the living room.

The singer looked nothing like the glossy magazine covers Dazai had skimmed. He wore a cherry red leather jacket with a soft, pale lining at the collar, thrown casually over a fitted black top. A thin chain rested at his neck, catching the light when he moved. His jeans were worn and distressed, clinging comfortably to his legs, and heavy boots grounded his stance. There was a deliberate edge to him—styled, yes, but practical in a way Dazai hadn’t expected.

Chuuya stopped short when he noticed Dazai.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Dazai rose to his feet, movements unhurried, posture relaxed but alert. He noted the tension in Chuuya’s shoulders, the guarded look in his eyes. Not fear—wariness. Good. He extended a hand, expression neutral.

“Osamu Dazai,” he said evenly. “I’ll be handling your security from now on.”

Chuuya hesitated before taking the offered hand, his grip brief and distant. His gaze flicked over Dazai, lingering just long enough to feel assessing rather than impressed.

From where he stood, Dazai watched the singer carefully. This wasn’t going to be easy—but then again, the most interesting assignments never were.