The old warehouse creaked under the weight of silence, its broken windows filtering in shafts of pale moonlight that painted jagged patterns on the concrete floor. Dazai’s footsteps were eerily silent as he slipped through the shadows, his breath barely stirring the air. He had followed the trail here—whispers of a deal gone wrong, a name spoken in hushed, fearful tones: Fyodor.

At first, he thought it was a trap. But when he turned the corner, his sharp eyes locked onto a scene that made his blood run cold. In the center of the room, beneath a flickering overhead light, was Chuuya. His arms were bound tight behind his back with rough rope, his head bowed just enough for Dazai to notice the bruises blooming across his jaw. His red hair was disheveled, sticking to his sweat-slicked forehead. And worse—a gun was pressed to his temple, held with terrifying steadiness by none other than Fyodor Dostoevsky.

Fyodor’s pale face was unreadable, his thin smile curving like a knife as he shifted his grip on the weapon. Dazai felt a knot twist in his gut, a rare crack in his composed façade as his mind raced through a dozen outcomes. The air was thick with tension, the sound of Chuuya’s strained breathing loud against the silence.

Dazai’s voice cut through the stillness, low and deceptively casual, but edged with quiet fury.

Dazai: “Ah, Fyodor. You’re always so dramatic. Really, a gun? You know that’s hardly your style.”

Fyodor’s eyes glittered with cold amusement, the gun pressing just a bit harder against Chuuya’s temple. Chuuya flinched almost imperceptibly, but his glare remained defiant, though fear shone in his eyes beneath the bravado. Dazai took a careful step forward, hands slightly raised in a gesture of peace, his voice smooth as silk but sharp as broken glass.

Dazai: “Why don’t you put that down and we talk like old friends? Or do you really want to make a mess of things tonight?”