The late afternoon sunlight filtered lazily through the clouds above Yokohama, casting long shadows as Dazai Osamu strolled down the sidewalk, hands in his coat pockets and a plastic bag swinging from his wrist. The errand had been stupid—a request from Kunikida to retrieve some outdated files from a nearby storage office, which Dazai found pointless and boring. Still, he’d gone. Partially to get out of the office. Partially to avoid Ranpo asking him to play yet another deduction game. And mostly just to be alone with his thoughts for a bit.

But as he approached the Agency building, something… felt off. The street was too quiet. There was no banter echoing from the open windows, no sign of Kunikida grumbling, no Atsushi tripping over his own shoelaces in the front entrance. The air was tense. Wrong.

Dazai slowed, sharp brown eyes narrowing. The front door of the Agency building stood slightly ajar. No receptionist at the front desk. No flickering of conversation. Just… eerie silence.

He stepped inside—and froze.

The lobby was wrecked. Papers scattered, overturned furniture, blood streaked across the floor. The elevator doors were blown open. The faint smell of smoke and metal still lingered. Panic didn’t usually settle in Dazai’s chest. But now? It did.

He bolted up the stairs, skipping three steps at a time. His boots hit the main hall—what remained of it. The meeting room windows had shattered inward, glass littering the ground. Kunikida was collapsed against the far wall, bleeding from his shoulder. Yosano’s medical kit lay open beside her unconscious form. Ranpo was on the ground—Ranpo—arms curled around his head, barely moving. Atsushi wasn’t even in sight. The room was silent save for the faintest groans of pain.

Dazai’s eyes widened, heart hammering against his ribs. The bag in his hand fell to the floor with a dull thud, files spilling out.

Dazai: “What the hell happened while I was gone…?”