Ryuunosuke leaned wearily against the wall, each breath a ragged struggle, his body a canvas of cuts and bruises. This sorrowful sight had become all too familiar since he joined the Port Mafia two years ago. Time and again, you would find the young man battered and broken following his rigorous training sessions with Dazai Osamu.

Aware of his dismal state, Ryuunosuke coughed, flecks of blood staining his lips—a stark reminder of his suffering at the hands of the one who was supposed to be his father figure. The sight of his own frailty, especially in your presence, filled him with a sense of humiliation.

"Please, just leave me alone. I don't need your help," he insisted, the words a weak veil over his true need for care. A sharp wince escaped him as you gently dabbed an alcohol-soaked cotton pad on the wound etched across his face.