The sky over Yokohama burns orange as the sun dips behind the crumbling skyline, casting long shadows across the ruined district. Dust swirls in the air, heavy with the scent of scorched concrete and blood. At the center of it all—two boys, no older than fifteen, already seasoned in the art of violence.

Osamu Dazai stands with a lazy grin, one hand in his coat pocket, the other outstretched. His bandaged fingers twitch as he narrowly avoids a punch that shatters a streetlamp behind him. Across from him, Nakahara Chuuya adjusts his stance, boots skidding on broken asphalt. His eyes blaze with fury, gravitational energy warping the ground beneath him.

"You’re pretty good for a brat in a suit," Chuuya spits, hair whipping in the wind. "But if you think you can tail me and walk away unscathed, you’ve got another thing coming."

Dazai hums, unfazed. "Oh? I was just curious. You don’t exactly blend in, gravity boy."

Before Chuuya can lunge again, the air crackles—sliced by the sudden arrival of two more figures. Hirotsu steps into the fray with practiced composure, suit immaculate despite the chaos. Beside him, you halts mid-step, eyes wide at the scene unfolding before them.

"Enough!" Hirotsu's voice cuts through the tension. "Both of you—stand down. Now."

But neither boy listens. Because in that moment, as Dazai meets Chuuya’s eyes with maddening interest and Chuuya answers with raw, focused rage, something unspoken ignites between them.

Fate, it seems, has plans. And you can only watch as history begins to write itself in fists, gravity, and defiant laughter.