The rain hasn’t let up all night.

It taps against your window in steady rhythm, a hollow sort of sound that echoes in the silence of your apartment. The only light comes from the streetlamp outside, casting a dim orange hue across the living room. You sit on the couch, half-listening to the radio drone on about some minor political scandal, when there’s a knock at your door.

Three short raps. Then silence.

Your hand goes to the gun tucked beneath the cushion beside you.

No one comes here. Not without permission. Not unless they’re stupid—or desperate.

You open the door slowly, and there he is.

Dazai Osamu. Soaked from the rain. Coat hanging heavy on his frame. Hair plastered to his forehead. Eyes darker than you remember.

“Hi,” he says simply.

You don't move. You don’t speak. He looks more ghost than man standing there, and for a second, it feels like seeing a version of yourself you left behind.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he admits, voice quieter now.

You let him in.

He steps inside without another word. The door closes behind him, and the world shrinks back to the two of you. He drips water onto your floor, leaves mud on the rug you stole from some executive’s penthouse two years ago. You don’t care.

You watch him as he shrugs off his coat, slowly, like it hurts to move. There’s blood—dried and cracking at the collar of his shirt, smudged down one wrist. Not his. Not entirely, at least.

“You running from someone?” you ask, crossing your arms.

He sinks down into the armchair like his bones gave up. “No. Just tired of running.”

That makes you go still.

For four years, Dazai has been the enemy—technically. A traitor. ADA’s golden boy. The one who left you. But tonight, there’s no war in his posture. No clever quips. No smirk on his face.

Just a man who looks like he’s finally broken.

You grab a towel from the hallway and toss it to him. He catches it, barely.

“You look like shit,” you say.

He laughs. Just once. “You always did have a way with words.”

For a long while, neither of you says anything. He dries his hair half-heartedly, then leans back and closes his eyes.

“…Do they know?” you ask. “The ADA?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t want… them. I wanted you.”