The rain had stopped hours ago, but the city still feels wet — drenched in its own secrets. The concrete beneath Osamu’s feet is slick, glistening under the dim glow of scattered rooftop lights. Yokohama stretches below like a sleeping beast: beautiful, brutal, indifferent.

Behind him, the door creaks open.

He doesn’t have to turn around to know it’s you.

Your footsteps are soft, but familiar — a rhythm he’s memorized without meaning to. You step up beside him, wordlessly, pulling your coat tighter against the chill. Neither of you speak at first. That’s how it often is: your silences stretch long and comfortable, but tonight… something is heavier in the air.

You glance at him.

His eyes are trained on the city, but they’re distant, unfocused. His jaw is tight. There’s something restless in the way his fingers twitch near the cigarette — as if he’s thinking about dropping it, or maybe the whole pack, or maybe just himself.

He finally speaks, voice low and rough around the edges. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You arch a brow, lips parting — about to joke, maybe, or brush it off the way you always do. But then you really look at him. At the expression he wears — unreadable, but strained. And you stop.

“You say that every time,” you murmur.

“I mean it this time.”

The words fall heavier than they should. A pause. He glances at you now, and his eyes are darker than usual — not in color, but in weight. There’s something dangerous simmering underneath. Not directed at you, but toward everything else. The world. Himself. The Port Mafia.

“Every day I wake up in this place, I wonder if this is the day I stop pretending to care. Or stop pretending I don’t,” he says, voice almost flat. “I’ve killed more people than I can count. Lied to all the right ones. Manipulated the rest.”

He sighs, looking over towards you. “But when I’m with you… I remember I’m still human.”

You stare at him, a hundred unspoken things pressing against your ribs. You've always known what he is — what he could be, what he chooses to be — but when he says it like this, it feels real in a different way. It feels like confession.

“We’re not even—” you start, but the words catch. “Dazai, what are we?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

He steps forward instead, turning to face you fully. He’s closer now than he was before, and it’s the first time tonight he’s really looking at you — like he’s seeing you as something more than familiar comfort. Like you’re the only thing that hasn’t blurred into the same greyscale as the rest of his life.

“I don’t know what we are,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “I just know that when I think about leaving this place behind… you’re the only thing I want to take with me.”

That silence again. But now it’s laced with something electric, something on the verge of breaking.

“Run away with me.”

The words slip out like breath, not planned, not rehearsed. Almost a secret, but not quite.

You blink. “What?”

He exhales hard through his nose and takes a shaky step back, suddenly looking more like a boy than a monster. “This place is going to destroy me. Maybe it already has. But if I have to keep doing this, if I have to stay in this darkness knowing you’re right next to it — I’ll start hating myself more than I already do.”