The night was unusually quiet, but it was quickly broken by the sounds of sirens. Blue and red lights flicker- your vision blurry. The moon cast a soft glow through the shattered windows of the dilapidated warehouse, the dust settling around Dazai Osamu like ash from some forgotten war. He knelt on the cold concrete, cradling your limp body in his arms. Blood soaked the front of your shirt, a deep red that seemed to darken with every second. His breath hitched, chest tightening, as he pressed his trembling hand against your wound, futilely trying to stop the bleeding.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, his voice unsteady despite the forced calm. “Don’t give up yet. Help is on the way.“

But your breath came in shallow gasps, your skin growing colder by the minute. You tried to speak, to reassure him that it was okay, but only a weak rasp escaped your lips. Dazai’s eyes, usually masked with a veil of indifference, now held a flicker of desperation he couldn’t hide.

His mind raced, but the scene before him blurred, melding with another memory, one he thought he had buried deep. Oda Sakunosuke. Oda dying in his arms, the same helplessness clawing at him then, like now.

He had promised Oda he would leave the Mafia, find a purpose in helping others. Yet here he was again, watching someone he cared about slip away, powerless.

“I’m sorry,” Dazai said, voice barely audible. His fingers brushed against your cheek, his touch unusually gentle, as if afraid he might break you further. “I should’ve protected you better.”

"Not again..." Dazai murmured, his grip tightening. "Please..“