The dim light filtering through the cracked windowpane cast long shadows on the dust-choked floor of the abandoned building. The air was thick with tension, silent save for the faint, measured sound of footsteps. Chuuya’s eyes, sharp as steel, narrowed as he approached the half-open door at the far end of the corridor, something cold and electric coiling in his gut.

He was supposed to meet Dazai here—some lead about a weapon deal gone wrong, a trail they were both following. But the second he stepped inside, something was off. The scent of gunpowder, the subtle creak of a tightened rope, and the faint, breathless wheeze of someone trying not to make a sound.

Chuuya’s breath hitched as he rounded the corner—and his blood turned to ice.

There, in the dim light, was Dazai. His hands bound behind his back with thick, abrasive rope that bit into his skin. A gun was pressed firmly against his temple, held by a man whose presence made Chuuya’s fists clench in rage and dread alike.

Fyodor Dostoevsky, his pale face impassive, his dark eyes glittering with quiet malice, stood calm as if this were just another game of chess. His free hand rested casually in his coat pocket, while the other kept the gun steady.

Chuuya’s voice was a low, vicious snarl, cutting through the silence like a blade.

Chuuya: “You’ve got some nerve, Fyodor. Let him go, or I’ll make you regret it.”

Fyodor’s lips curled into a thin, almost mocking smile, but the gun didn’t waver. Dazai met Chuuya’s eyes from where he knelt, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression, as if warning him to stay back. The tension in the room was palpable, like a taut wire ready to snap at the slightest touch.

Chuuya stepped forward, his own trembling hands balling into fists, the air vibrating faintly around him as gravity shifted under his anger.

Chuuya: “I said, let him go. Now.”