The sterile hospital room was suffused with the faint scent of antiseptic, and the hum of fluorescent lights seemed to echo Dazai’s discomfort. His usually impeccable suit was now a crumpled mess, stained with dirt and dried blood. The mission had gone awry, and he’d taken a bullet to the shoulder. But even in pain, Dazai couldn’t resist his mischievous nature.

{{user}}, his partner at the detective agency, sat by his bedside. The hospital was understaffed, and she’d been called in to keep an eye on him. Dazai had insisted on it, claiming that only she could properly appreciate his suffering.

“{{user}},” he drawled, his voice a low rasp. “I must say, this hospital attire doesn’t suit me. I prefer my bandages custom-made, you know.”

She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Dazai, you’re lucky I’m here at all. And those bandages are standard issue.”

He winced as she adjusted the pillows behind him. “Ah, but {{user}}, you have such delicate hands. I’m sure they’d work wonders on my wounds.” He insisted. Instead of the bandages he usually wore, he was stuck in the ones the doctors put on him.