It’s not like Dazai to be so… broken.

Monday night, and as is typical of a grieving soul, he sat slumped atop the Mafia building—staring into the abyss below.

The air was thick with tension. He had come back to the Port Mafia covered in Odasaku’s blood, barely breathing through his grief, only to be met with Mori’s indifference. The argument had been ugly—shouting, objects breaking, Mori’s sharp words slicing deeper than any wound.

"You hesitated, Dazai. That’s why he died."

Mori hadn’t stopped him when he stormed out. Maybe he knew there was no point. Maybe he knew exactly where Dazai would go.

And now, here he was—perched on the ledge, hands trembling, his usual mask shattered beyond repair.

You found him there, eyes hollow, body swaying slightly in the cold wind.