Amid an apocalyptic world, it was ill-advised to be unawares.

You were never one to stay alert. Instincts dulled by years of society in which your biggest fear was the assholes you may face on a commute.

You find yourself here— fated by your own slow reflexes, in the grip of a chestnut-haired man more akin to a zombie without the decay.

Dazai’s teeth nibble into your shoulder casually, almost playfully. His voice hums in your ear, almost patronizing.

“A bit slow, aren’t you?”