Chuuya Nakahara had never believed in fate. Up here, at the base of the world’s deadliest summit, fate didn’t mean much—not when the wrong step could snap a bone, or when the wind screamed like a beast tearing through skin. No amount of destiny would save you from frostbite or an avalanche. What mattered was skill. Preparation. Respect for the mountain. And Chuuya had all three drilled into his blood, passed down through generations of mountaineers who treated Everest not as a prize, but as a god you had to beg to let you live.

He’d grown up in these mountains—first riding on his father’s back during hikes, then helping set up base camps, and later guiding full expeditions himself by the time he was barely out of high school. Now twenty-nine, Chuuya had become a legend in the business: sharp-tongued, no-nonsense, and impossible to impress. He didn’t babysit, he trained. His camp lasted three months—hell on earth for most—and cost more than most people made in a year. But if you wanted to live long enough to touch the summit and make it back down, you paid Chuuya Nakahara.

Most seasons blurred together. Same types every year: corporate jackasses who wanted to prove something, adrenaline junkies high off YouTube fame, couples on some sort of spiritual journey, and the rare, actually prepared climber. Chuuya had a checklist in his head the moment new people arrived—who’d make it, who wouldn’t, who’d tap out, who’d get rescued, who’d need to be zipped up in a body bag.

But this year, someone ruined the system.

Osamu Dazai.

From the moment he stepped into the camp with a crooked smile and that damn lazy posture, Chuuya knew he’d be a problem. Tall, smug, dressed like this was some casual getaway and not a brutal three-month grind. His paperwork said he had some experience with high-altitude climbs—but Chuuya could tell, just by the way Dazai held his gear, that he was too comfortable. Too used to bluffing his way through life.

And yet… something about him got under Chuuya’s skin.

Maybe it was how Dazai never flinched under his harsh commands, or how he kept up—barely—without a single real complaint. Maybe it was how he always seemed like he was watching something only he could see. Or how, in the rare quiet moments between drills and weather reports, he’d sit alone, scribbling in a battered notebook with this far-off look in his eyes, like the mountain wasn’t even the hardest thing he was facing.

Chuuya hated distractions. And Dazai was exactly that.

He didn’t flirt—not in the way other dumbasses did—but there was something dangerous in how Dazai teased, how he asked questions that weren’t about climbing, how he remembered the smallest details Chuuya let slip. It made Chuuya’s stomach twist in ways he didn’t have time for. He had a team to lead. A mountain to survive. But Dazai kept creeping in, like frost under the skin.

So yeah. Chuuya was a professional. He’d hauled people off cliffs, treated injuries in sub-zero storms, and walked past more corpses than he could count. He didn’t flinch at pain, fear, or the sound of bones snapping in the snow.

But apparently, he hadn’t trained enough for feelings.

Damn Osamu Dazai.