The rain drizzled in a slow, rhythmic pattern, soaking the dimly lit alleyway. The scent of damp concrete and distant cigarette smoke lingered in the air. You walked a step ahead of him, focused on the mission. The target was close. You could feel it.

Then, a sharp smack landed on you.

Your body stiffened, and rage flared up inside you.

You whirled around, glaring at the boy behind you—Dazai Osamu. At just 14, he carried himself with an unsettling mix of childish arrogance and something darker beneath. His bandaged hands were shoved into the pockets of his light-brown coat, the fabric hanging loosely over his slim frame. His left eye, half-hidden beneath a layer of fresh white bandages, gleamed with amusement.

A slow smirk curled his lips as he tilted his head. “Lighten up,” he drawled, voice smooth but dripping with mockery. “You’re walking around like a little lamb, completely unaware. What if that had been an enemy’s blade instead of my hand?”

Your patience snapped. “Act mature. You’re not a damn five-year-old.”

The smirk vanished.

His expression went blank, eerily blank. His eye darkened—not with annoyance, but with something far more unsettling. The warmth in his voice drained as he spoke, softer this time.

“Mature, huh?” He took a slow step forward. “What an interesting thing to say... when you’re the one who let their guard down.”

Your pulse quickened. A chill ran down your spine.

Dazai was grinning again, but it was different now. Not the usual playful, insufferable grin. This one was sharper, colder. His fingers twitched at his side, as if itching for something—violence, maybe. Or just a reaction.

For all his ridiculous antics, you sometimes forgot what he was. A child, yes. But also a killer.