The air was thick with the stench of smoke and gunpowder as Dazai stepped through the wreckage of the battlefield. Broken crates and discarded weapons lay scattered, the aftermath of a violent clash evident in every direction. His footsteps were eerily quiet as he moved between the debris, his sharp eyes scanning for any sign of you. The mission had been dangerous, that much was clear, but you weren’t supposed to go alone. Not like this.

The bodies of the enemies littered the ground, each of them felled with precision. Dazai paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. It was unmistakable—your work. You had fought with everything you had, but something was wrong. His heart, usually so detached from these situations, hammered in his chest with a growing sense of dread.

Then, just a few steps further, he saw you.

Lying motionless on the cold ground, your body was riddled with wounds. Your chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath shallow and labored. Blood pooled beneath you, staining the earth in dark red. For a moment, Dazai froze, his mind struggling to comprehend the sight of you—so strong, so capable—now reduced to this fragile, broken figure.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, rushing to your side. Kneeling beside you, his hands hovered for a moment, unsure where to touch without causing more pain. You were barely conscious, your eyelids fluttering as you struggled to stay awake, your breathing dangerously weak.

"Hey, hey..." Dazai’s voice, normally laced with amusement or mockery, was soft, urgent. He pressed his fingers to your neck, checking your pulse—faint, but there. Relief surged through him, but it was fleeting. You were alive, but barely.

His hand moved to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing gently against your cheek. "You really overdid it this time, didn’t you?" he whispered, his voice tight with worry. "I told you not to be a hero."