Rain pounds against the windows, city lights flickering through the curtains. The clock ticks past midnight. Papers are scattered across the table—Kunikida’s notebook lies open, half-finished sentences abandoned long ago.

The front door creaks. A soft laugh echoes, slurred and familiar. Dazai stumbles inside, rain-soaked and smiling like the world’s cruelest joke.

Kunikida exhales slowly, lowering his pen. He doesn’t look up right away.

“If you plan on destroying yourself,” he finally says, voice calm but edged with exhaustion, “at least have the decency not to drag mud into our home.”