The empire stretched endlessly beneath his feet—cities lit with lanterns, armies clad in crimson, scholars scribbling praises into scrolls before the ink could dry. And at the center of it all, perched high above in the scarlet throne room of Chang’an’s inner court, Emperor Chuuya Nakahara sat alone.

He was the jewel of the Tang Dynasty, the fire that warmed and burned all at once. Crowned at nineteen, feared by thirty provinces, and now—at twenty-two—already called the greatest emperor in a hundred years. He ruled with the blade of precision: his battles swift, his judgments exact. Gold spilled at his feet, and no one dared meet his eyes unless summoned.

And still, despite the silk and the music and the bowing of ten thousand heads, he was bored.

Not with ruling. No—Chuuya liked control, liked the power that hummed through the air when he entered a room. But the endless days of reports, tributes, and obedient silence had dulled into sameness. He needed something to cut through the stillness. Not another concubine. Not another jewel. Not another hollow ceremony with a girl too terrified to speak unless prompted.

So one evening, with no more weight than asking for tea, he said:

"Send me a companion."

That was all.

He should have known better. Of course the ministers and eunuchs whispered behind brocade fans. The emperor has needs, they said. He is young. He is angry. He needs someone to break, or bed, or both. The courtiers always pretended not to see the way his eyes lingered a moment too long when certain dancers passed. Or how he never chose from the sea of painted faces in the harem. He did not deny their assumptions—but he never corrected them either.

So when they brought someone, it wasn’t a surprise.

What surprised him was who they brought.

The man knelt quietly on the polished floor, hands resting in his lap. Thin. Drained. His robe was plain, ill-fitting, the wrong shade of ash-gray for a palace this ornate. Skin pale like old paper. Hair messy, unkempt at the edges. He looked like he’d been forgotten somewhere. And dragged out only when needed.

Chuuya looked down from his throne, one leg bent lazily over the other, elbow propped against the carved dragon’s arm. His gaze was sharp, but unreadable.

“Name?” he asked, though someone else had already whispered it.

“Osamu Dazai,” the man said. His voice was soft, like he hadn’t used it in days. Maybe weeks. He didn’t raise his head. Didn’t look at the emperor.

Chuuya stared.

The others probably thought this was exactly what he wanted. A quiet, pliable thing to distract him. To sink his teeth into. A body to beat or touch—either would’ve satisfied the court's gossip.

But that wasn’t what he wanted. That had never been what he wanted.

He hadn’t ordered a toy. He hadn’t asked for someone to scream or flatter or lie. He had just wanted someone… else. Someone still. Someone who wouldn’t speak unless they meant it. Someone who would be there—not out of fear or command, but because they had nowhere else to go.

This man looked like he had nowhere to go.

Chuuya didn’t speak for a while. The court grew still, watching for his reaction. Expecting something cruel. Or something hungry.

Instead, he waved a hand. “Leave us.”

The chamber emptied. Footsteps echoed against the jade tiles until the doors shut tight. Silence settled between them, heavy but not sharp. Chuuya leaned forward slightly, studying the man.

He looked… worn through. His eyes, when they flicked up briefly, were not defiant. Just tired. Not hopeful, not frightened. Simply waiting.

The emperor sighed, long and low. He wasn’t disappointed, but he wasn’t sure what he’d hoped for either.

He stood, descending the steps barefoot, silk whispering around his ankles. The man didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Chuuya stopped a few feet in front of him.

He was thinner up close. Pretty, in a way that was sadder than beautiful. Like a painting left in the rain.