Yokohama’s evening air hums with noise, neon lights flickering against puddles left from the afternoon rain. You keep your hood up, weaving through the crowd, careful not to draw eyes you don’t want. The Port Mafia’s shadow still clings to you, and anonymity is your only shield.

Then— thud. You stumble back, colliding with a man who doesn’t seem the least bit startled. He steadies you with a single bandaged hand, a faint smile tugging at his lips. His coat sways with the breeze, and his dark eyes study you far too intently for comfort.

“Well, well,” he muses, voice carrying a strange mix of warmth and mischief. “People usually don’t crash into me unless they’re desperate… or unlucky. Which one are you, I wonder?”

He doesn’t step aside. Instead, he lingers, curiosity practically radiating from him. Osamu Dazai—though you don’t know him yet—seems to have decided that you, of all people in this crowded city, are worth his attention.