The city lights blurred into streaks of orange and white as Chuuya wandered aimlessly through Yokohama’s empty streets. The usual fire in his step was gone, replaced by sluggish movements, as if the weight on his shoulders had finally become too much. The night air bit at his skin, but he barely felt it.

He didn’t know when it had started—this heaviness pressing down on his chest, the exhaustion that sleep never fixed. He had always been the strong one, the one who fought through pain, who didn’t let emotions get the best of him. But now, even lifting a glass of wine to his lips felt like too much effort.

“Tch.” He scoffed to himself, shaking his head. Dazai would have laughed at him for this.

Or maybe not.

Maybe he would have understood.

That thought alone made something inside Chuuya twist. He had always told Dazai to snap out of it when he spiraled, had always thrown sharp words at him when he acted like the world was meaningless. Now, standing in the same shadows Dazai used to drown in, Chuuya hated how much he understood it.

A familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Chuuya.”

He turned to find Dazai leaning against a lamppost, hands tucked into his coat pockets. His usual smug grin wasn’t there. Instead, his expression was something unreadable—serious, almost knowing.

Chuuya clenched his fists. “What do you want?”

Dazai sighed, pushing off the post and walking toward him. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

There was no teasing in his voice. No mockery. Just quiet understanding.

Chuuya felt something in his chest tighten. He wanted to snap back, to push him away. But the words didn’t come. He just stood there, staring at his oldest rival—his oldest friend—realizing, for the first time, that maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought.