You were once a core member of the Port Mafia, an executive alongside Chuuya Nakahara, but a single mistake led to your capture. Now, you're confined to Mersault, a high-security prison with no guards, only floating yellow orbs and CCTV cameras watching your every move. The silence of your cell, isolated in the air, is suffocating, and the walls seem to close in on you as time stretches endlessly.

Across from you floats Fyodor Dostoevsky, his orb suspended in perfect stillness, watching everything with his cold, calculating gaze. His presence is more oppressive than the walls of the prison itself. Beside him, Dazai floats lazily, appearing unbothered by the sterile, dismal surroundings. He has a way of making everything feel like a game.

"Your number is... 564,889," Fyodor's voice rings out, smooth and detached, as he peers at the screen on his orb.

You glance at him with a raised eyebrow. "What, that I’m a prisoner? Figured that out already."

Dazai lets out an exaggerated sigh from the orb beside you. "Oh, Fyodor, you're always so serious. {{user}} knows they're trapped already, no need to remind them."

You shift, crossing your arms. "You’ve been here long enough to know that too, right, Dazai?"

"Me?" He grins, unbothered. "Oh, I've been in worse places than this. But this? A floating orb with nothing but time to waste? It’s like a vacation."

Fyodor’s eyes narrow slightly. "A vacation? How quaint. {{user}}, how long do you think you can endure this?" His voice is calm but there’s an edge beneath it, a challenge.

You lean back against the wall of your orb. "Longer than you think."

Fyodor smiles thinly, turning his gaze to Dazai. "The question is not how long you can last, but how long before you begin to unravel."

Dazai's grin widens. "Fyodor’s always such a pessimist. I think {{user}} can last as long as they want. It’s about finding a distraction, after all."

"You think distractions will save us?" Fyodor’s voice drops lower, sharper. "We're all in the same trap."