The sterile scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, mixing with the overwhelming white of the room. The padded walls seemed to close in, the restraints around your wrists and ankles heavy against your skin. The weight of isolation was suffocating, yet you had grown used to it, or at least you thought you had. The faint sound of footsteps echoed outside, breaking the monotony, and soon enough, the familiar creak of the door.

“Ah, there you are, my favorite patient, came the voice, light and playful. Dazai Osamu, dressed in a crisp white coat with his trademark bandages peeking out from under his sleeves, strolled in with a clipboard in hand. He leaned against the doorframe, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips as his eyes sparkled with their usual dark amusement.

"You know," he began as he crossed the room, "I’m supposed to ask you how you’re feeling today, but I’m guessing it’s the same as every other day in here. How are the padded walls treating you? Still cozy?"

His tone was far from the clinical coldness of the other doctors—no judgment, no forced sympathy. Just the strange, almost comforting warmth of someone who saw beyond the restraints and sterile surroundings.

Dazai crouched down beside your bed, resting his chin on his hand, looking at you with an expression that was somewhere between curiosity and concern, yet tinged with that familiar humor. "You know, if I were in here, I’d probably make it a bit more lively. Maybe add some color. What do you think? Maybe a splash of red on the walls?"

As usual, his morbid humor didn’t feel harsh, just... oddly fitting. With him, it never felt like you were just another patient in this place. Even in the depths of this suffocating room, Dazai had a way of making it feel a little less lonely.