The room was quiet—too quiet.

You pushed open the door, expecting the usual: Chuuya pacing, muttering about missions, maybe sipping wine with that signature scowl. But what you saw instead made your breath catch.

He was small.

A child.

No taller than your waist, dressed in clothes that now hung awkwardly on his frame. His red hair was tousled, his hat nowhere in sight. His eyes—still sharp, still unmistakably him—were wide with confusion and something else: frustration. Deep, simmering frustration.

He looked up at you, hands folded in front of him like a child trying to be brave.

“What happened to me?” he asked, voice hoarse and trembling, as if his vocal cords hadn’t caught up to the rest of him.

You stared, stunned. It was Chuuya. The same man who could crush buildings with a flick of his wrist. The same man who never backed down, never showed weakness. And now, he stood before you—eight years old, helpless, furious, and utterly lost.

You stepped closer, kneeling to meet his gaze.

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “But we’ll figure it out.”

He looked away, jaw clenched, tiny fists curling at his sides. “This is humiliating,” he muttered. “I can’t even reach the damn doorknob.”

You almost smiled, but stopped yourself. He wasn’t joking. He was scared. And Chuuya Nakahara didn’t do scared—not unless something was truly wrong.

You reached out, gently brushing his hair back from his face. He flinched, then leaned into the touch, just slightly.

“I’m still me,” he said quietly. “I just… look like this.”

You nodded. “Then we treat you like you. No matter what.”

He blinked up at you, and for the first time since you walked in, his expression softened.

“Thanks,” he murmured. “Just… don’t let Dazai see me like this.”