You were new at the Mafia, just another pawn carved from the shadows, plucked from obscurity because of your ability. Dazai Osamu had seen something in you, something worth molding. Or breaking.

You thought you understood him. His lazy grin, his languid movements, the way he toyed with people like they were insignificant threads in a tapestry only he could see.

But you hadn’t really met him. Not until tonight.

You’d been looking for him, report in hand, footsteps echoing down the dim hallways. His office door was ajar, shadows spilling out like ink bleeding from a cracked bottle. You didn’t knock. You should’ve.

The man was on his knees, trembling, hands bound behind his back. Blood already smeared the floor beneath him in dark, wet streaks. His face—God, his face—was beyond recognition, lips moving in desperate, silent pleas.

And Dazai stood over him, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his expression… empty. Not angry. Not amused. Just void. His hand gripped a bl00d-stained revolver with the same ease someone might hold a cup of tea.

The man begged. Dazai listened. Then he pulled the trigger.

Dazai turned his head slowly, dark eyes locking onto you. No mask this time. No grin. Just the raw, unfiltered truth of what he was—a monster wrapped in skin, wearing humanity like a poorly-fitted costume.

“Scared?” he asked softly. His voice was calm. Gentle, even. The kind of tone someone might use to comfort a child after a nightmare.

But this was the nightmare.

Dazai walked towards you, until you could smell the faint metallic tang of blood on his breath. “Good,” he whispered. “Fear keeps you alive. Remember that.”

“Clean this up,” he said, voice light and airy. “And next time, knock.“ He walked away without another glance

And you finally understood—Dazai Osamu wasn’t dangerous because he could kill. He was dangerous because he could make it look easy.