The knock at your door is faint. Not rushed, not panicked—just persistent. You glance at the clock: 2:13 a.m.

Nothing good tends to happen at this hour.

It’s Chuuya.

Or what’s left of him.

His clothes are torn—his signature trench coat hangs off one shoulder like it barely survived whatever hell he just walked through. His shirt is stained dark with blood and ash, and his copper-red hair sticks to his forehead in sweat-soaked strands. One eye is swollen slightly, the other bleary and downcast. There’s a nasty cut above his brow still sluggishly bleeding. And he looks so tired.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough and strained—like he hasn’t used it in hours. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

You stare at him for a second too long, stunned. He never comes to you like this. Never shows weakness. But something in his eyes is shattered—like whatever he was holding together cracked the moment Dazai deactivated Corruption… and left him to feel all the damage it did.

He wobbles slightly, and instinct kicks in. You step forward, catching him by the arm as he nearly folds in on himself. He flinches, not from pain, but from shame. You feel it in the way his grip on your wrist is just a little too tight—like he needs something real to ground him.

“I didn’t mean to show up like this,” he mutters, barely audible. “I just… I couldn’t go back to the Mafia like this. Not right now.”

“You’re hurt,” you say, guiding him inside, your voice more level than you feel. “Sit. I’ll get the kit.”

He doesn’t argue. That alone tells you how bad it really is.