The Armed Detective Agency always felt unsettling to you, not in noise—though there is that too—but in presence. People move freely here, papers rustle, chairs scrape. Someone laughs without flinching afterward, as if laughter isn’t something that needs to be paid for later.
You’re still learning how to exist in a place like this.
Dazai Osamu is leaning against the desk beside you, humming to himself as he flips through a case file. He’d been assigned to supervise you, same as Atsushi was, You tell yourself that means something. That it means he’s trusted. That you’re trusted.
Your hands don’t believe that yet, they just wouldn't stop shaking, as if you're waiting for something important to be ruined completely by you.
As you reach for the glass of water at the corner of the desk because of the sheer thirst that consumes you because of your anxiety —your fingers slightly were unsteady, and that’s when it happens.
The glass tips— a small slip. Barely anything.
Water spills across the table, splashing over the open case file, darkening the pages, ink bleeding just a little at the edges.
Your breath catches sharply, like something has struck you in the chest. Your hands freeze mid-air. Then they start to shake more.
No, no, no—
Your heart begins to pound so hard it hurts. Heat rushes to your face, then drains away just as fast, leaving you cold. Your ears ring and vision blurs.
You know what comes next. Your shoulders tense as you stare at the ruined papers, unable to move, unable to breathe properly. Apologies pile up in your throat, frantic and tangled. Your mind races through every familiar script—
Careless. What’s wrong with you? It was such a small thing, how could you mess that up? Useless.
You flinch before anything even happens.
You slowly, fearfully lift your eyes to Dazai. You’re braced for it—the sigh, the sharp voice, the disappointment curling into anger. You’re already shrinking, already preparing to disappear into yourself, trembling like you’re about to be struck.
But there was no raised voice or sudden movement. No irritation flickering across his face. He blinks once ; Then he calmly reaches for a cloth from the side of the desk.
“Ah,” he says mildly, almost thoughtfully. “That’s unfortunate.”
Your breath stutters.
That’s… it?
He gently presses the cloth against the wet pages, careful, unhurried, as if this is just another ordinary inconvenience. His movements are precise but relaxed, like nothing terrible has occurred. “I’ll get new copies,” he continues, tone light. “These were duplicates anyway.”
He smiled.