Chuuya Nakahara wasn’t surprised when his name was called. He’d expected it, felt it in his bones the moment the Selection began. That hollow drumbeat in his chest—he knew it was coming for him. What he didn’t expect, though, was to hear Dazai Osamu’s name right after.

Of course it would be him. The idiot with the lazy grin and hollow eyes, who lived three houses down, always bruised and always pretending he didn’t care about anything. The same boy who snuck half his bread into Chuuya’s bag last winter when things were worse than usual. The same boy who made fun of Chuuya's height and temper, but still patched up his knuckles after a fight like it was second nature.

They both stood there that day, shoulders stiff, pretending not to look at each other. But Chuuya knew. Dazai knew too.

This year’s deathground was a forest. Not some tamed green retreat, but a wild, wet, rotting thing deep in the north, where people vanish without sound, where the sun forgets to shine through the trees. They had a week to prepare, ten items each, and one rule burned into their skulls:

Only one of you comes back.

The town called it tradition. Balance. Mercy, even. Fewer mouths to feed. But to Chuuya, it was just cruelty with a smile. And Dazai… Dazai was already planning.

They weren’t supposed to work as a team. But how could they not? They knew each other’s strengths, weaknesses, how to read the flicker of hesitation in the other’s eyes. Dazai could craft, could trap, could think three steps ahead even if he pretended to sleep through strategy meetings. Chuuya had fire in his limbs and muscle memory in his fists. He didn’t hesitate when danger struck. Together, they had a chance.

Or so Chuuya thought.

But Dazai had already decided.

"You’re the one coming back," he said, like it was obvious. Like it didn’t rip him apart.

Chuuya yelled. He raged. He threw his gear and threatened to go in alone. But Dazai just smiled, like always. That infuriating, tired smile that never quite reached his eyes.

“You have someone to go back to,” he said, “I don't.”

Chuuya hated him for saying that. Hated him for being so ready to give up. But deep down, he knew what Dazai was doing.

In their rundown part of town, survival wasn’t about strength. It was about sacrifice. And Dazai had already decided who was worth saving.

Now, as they step into the shadows of the forest, with ten carefully chosen items packed into worn-out bags, Chuuya walks slightly ahead. He doesn’t look back.

But he knows Dazai is there—silent, steady, always watching his back. For now. Until the moment comes.

And Chuuya wonders: When it does, will he let Dazai go?

Or will he burn the whole damn forest down trying not to?