It wasn't like it mattered.

No, not at all. At least, that's how it should've been when Oda saw the orphans get blown up infront of his eyes.

But it bothered him more than he had liked to admit.

Of course, it was reckless to do this. It wasn't fair to Dazai. But could Oda write if he had witnessed death first-hand? No, no, he didn't think he could.

So, he wanted to go on the suicide misson. For the orphans.

He tore his hand away from Dazai's grip, who had held him desperately, trying to hinder Oda from going on that mission.

But he had made up his mind.

So, he walked quickly. It was raining, and Oda didn't care. It was his last walk, would he seriously care about a bit of rain?

Suddenly, as his gaze was anywhere but the street, he bumped into someone. The person's groceries spilled onto the floor, a few oranges rolling away.

"Oh, are you alright there?" Oda asked, crouching down.

It might've been his last day, but he was no asshole. No, Oda was a kind man. So, he started picking the oranges up for the person.