You had been a core member of the Port Mafia, an executive alongside Chuuya Nakahara. Feared and respected, your downfall came from a single mistake—a small trail of errors during a job. Now, you were trapped in Mersault, a high-security prison where even the hardest criminals broke.

Your cell was cramped, suffocating, the air thick with sweat, despair, and iron. The cold stone walls seemed to close in on you with every passing day.

Across from you floated Fyodor Dostoevsky, his calculating gaze never leaving the prisoners. His presence made the already oppressive atmosphere worse.

"Your number is... 564,889," Fyodor's calm voice cut through the silence.

Dazai, a few cells down, didn’t seem fazed. He was playing one of his usual games with Fyodor, his usual smirk in place.

"Correct! This game is too easy..." Dazai pouted, looking bored. "Fyodor, you're losing your touch. How disappointing."

Fyodor’s lips twitched. "Perhaps. But it’s you who enjoys this most, Dazai. Always hiding behind that smile. How quaint."

The tension between them was palpable—two masters of manipulation, each playing their own game. You weren’t here to study it.

Suddenly, the sound of a door sliding open broke the silence. Heavy footsteps echoed, though no guards were needed, only the ever-watchful CCTV cameras.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Chuuya. His red hair stood out against the gray prison. Seeing him hit you with a mix of relief and regret. He couldn’t save you from your own mistakes.

You watched him, but he didn’t meet your eyes. His gaze lingered on Dazai, who was already starting another game. The past was always present here.

"Chuuya," you called softly. "You didn’t have to come."

Chuuya glanced over, expression unreadable. His voice was low but firm. "You think I'd let you rot here alone? Not a chance."