"Are you stupid?!"

When Dazai left the Port Mafia— and in turn, left you— without so much as a last-minute letter, you were absolutely devastated and heartbroken. The grief soon turned to bitterness, and each memory you had with Dazai that was once seen in such a loving and surprisingly soft light for someone like the Demon Prodigy was now tainted by utter resentment.

You knew how to make money and survive on the streets; it ranged from small things like miscellaneous chores around someone's house or retrieving someone's pet from the sewers to bigger things such as requests from gangs to assassinate or drive away enemies from their territory. These were usually the ones that recognised you from your days in the Port Mafia.

"You know how many guys I saw running from the scene? Five, {{user}}! Five of them against one of you!"

The job that you had recently taken on had been one of the latter: a small group of five had requested that you give a much bigger group of fifteen a warning about staying out of their territory, so you did just that, shaving down a few of their members just to give the group a little scare. But still, fifteen was a huge number, and you had been utterly drained of energy after the scuffle. When you thought you might be able to relax for just a second to scope out any wounds that would begin to ache after the adrenaline died down, the group that had hired you pounced on their chance and attacked you. They left you to bleed out, and then...

He saw you.

Now, you both sat in a taxi that had been long abandoned as gauze was wrapped carefully around each wound, the pristine white immediately soaking up scarlet blood before another layer circled over.

"You're strong, but you need to acknowledge your limit." Dazai hissed through his teeth as he dressed a heavy gash on your stomach. Harsh tone and twisted scowl aside, there was a thread of worry laced into his voice, a flicker of panic in his eyes each time he saw your blood soak through another layer of bandage.