The presence of a shadow was nothing new to Dazai, but usually, that shadow was an assassin or a subordinate. Today, it was a child.

For hours, this persistent little stray had been trailing him through the damp, grey streets of Yokohama. Dazai’s patience, which was razor-thin on a good day, was beginning to fray at the edges. Was it curiosity? A death wish? The child had seemingly decided that the young Port Mafia executive was "cool" and had committed to the role of a devoted, albeit unwanted, puppy.

Finally, the air grew heavy with his irritation. Dazai spun on his heel, his dark coat billowing like a warning flag. His face was a mask of cold annoyance as he peered down.

"Seriously... would you stop following me?" he snapped, his voice carrying the sharp edge of a blade.

Instead of shrinking back or trembling, you simply let out a bright, melodic laugh. The sound was jarringly out of place in his world of muffled screams and silent corridors.

Dazai’s eye twitched. He wasn’t accustomed to this. In the Port Mafia, his name was a death sentence; his presence alone was enough to make grown men lose their nerve. Why weren't you afraid? That remained an irritating mystery as he stared into your eyes. They were vibrant—suffused with a light and life that felt like a direct insult to his own. His own gaze remained hollow, a pair of dark voids that seemed to swallow the light around him.

By all logic, he should have signaled his guards to eliminate the nuisance. He could have ended the annoyance with a single, lazy flick of his wrist. You were just a random child, a speck of dust in the grand machinery of his life. Yet, the order died in his throat.

He could have rid himself of you a dozen times over, but he didn't. Why? He didn't have an answer, and in the calculated world of Osamu Dazai, not knowing was the most frustrating part of all.