The interrogation room was too bright, too sterile. Chuuya stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. At the metal table sat a boy—handcuffed, small, barely fourteen. Dazai Osamu. Suspected of murder.

Chuuya had read the reports. Found at the scene, covered in blood. No parents, no guardians, no history that made sense. A kid with nowhere to go, caught in something far bigger than him.

Dazai sat eerily still, dark hair falling over wide, unfocused eyes. His hands—small, trembling—rested in his lap, fingers curling slightly like he was trying to make himself even smaller. His oversized uniform hung loose on his frame.

Chuuya dropped his briefcase onto the table and pulled out a chair, studying him. The kid didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just sat there, silent.

Chuuya exhaled. “I’m Nakahara Chuuya. Your lawyer.” No response. “You don’t have to say anything, but you need to listen.”

Silence. No protest, no plea. Just emptiness.

But Chuuya could see it—the too-controlled breathing, the stiff shoulders, the way his fingers twitched before curling into his palm. Not arrogance. Fear. A kid trying desperately not to look like one.

Chuuya’s voice softened. “I’m here to defend you,” he said, watching for any sign of recognition. “But you have to help me.”

Dazai didn’t react. But Chuuya had dealt with enough cases to know—he wasn’t unaffected. Just locked up tight, like an animal backed into a corner.

Chuuya sighed, leaning back. This isn’t just any case. And that boy wasn’t just any suspect.

Something about this felt wrong. And he was going to find out why.