You, Chuuya, and Dazai were all Port Mafia mafiosos, sent on a joint mission that should’ve been simple—if not for the fact that the two of them had been at each other’s throats since the briefing.

By the time night fell, the argument hadn’t died down. If anything, it had evolved—from insults to threats to something dangerously close to violence. The hotel room was small, barely worthy of executives, and the final insult came when you noticed it.

One bed.

A long, heavy silence followed. Chuuya stared at it like it had personally betrayed him. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he snapped, hand twitching as if gravity itself was offended. “I am not sleeping anywhere near this bandage-wrapped waste of air. I’ll take the floor.” Dazai leaned over dramatically, hands clasped behind his back as he inspected the room. “Ew, no, don’t do that. You’d crack the tiles.” He glanced at Chuuya with a lazy grin. “Besides, you smell like cheap wine and bad decisions.”

“That’s it—!” Before Chuuya could lunge, both of them turned to you at the exact same time. You stiffened. Dazai’s grin widened, eyes sharp with mischief. “Ah. Perfect solution.” Chuuya scowled, clearly hating it—but not enough to argue. “You’re sleeping in the middle.”

“…That wasn’t a question,” Dazai added cheerfully.