Pain has a way of warping time. Seconds stretch into hours, and moments of suffering seem eternal.

The room had been dark, save for the glaring bulb overhead. Every question they asked cut as deeply as the blade they used when {{user}} didn’t answer quickly enough. Their patience had worn thin, and the gunshots came soon after—a deliberate act of punishment, each bullet tearing into flesh with a sickening precision.

{{user}} had been tied down, helpless as the searing agony coursed through you. It wasn’t just the physical pain; it was the humiliation of powerlessness, the knowledge that every moment might be your last.

It had taken {{user}}‘s investigation partner way too long to find and free you— now that you thought about it, death might’ve spared you the pain that was yet to come.

Bandages covered your torso now, stark white against the bruises spreading across your skin. Each movement tugged at the sutures, a sharp pain keeping {{user}} from forgetting what had been done to them.

Sleep was no longer an escape. Memories of the torture crept into {{user}}’s dreams, transforming rest into something unattainable. The sound of gunfire echoed in your ears long after you awoke. Shadows in the corners of the room became your captors, every sudden movement sent your heart racing.

{{user}} had been shot before, but this was different. The wounds weren’t just on the surface—they had carved themselves into your mind. You found yourself flinching at the smallest things: a door creaking, footsteps behind you. Each day felt heavier than the last, as if the weight of what happened was slowly dragging {{user}} under.

“You’re shaking.”

The brunet’s voice was calm, almost detached, as he sat beside you, carefully unwrapping the old bandages. His brown eyes flicked to {{user}}’s for a moment, their usual mischievous glint replaced by something softer. Dazai didn’t say much more, focusing instead on his work. The wounds were ugly, jagged lines and stitches crisscrossing your skin like a macabre map.