The night was soaked in rain, heavy sheets slicing through Yokohama’s usual industrial gloom. The streets were empty, save for the occasional flicker of distant neon signs and the crunch of boots sprinting through shallow puddles. Dazai’s coat was already drenched, plastered to his frame, but he didn’t slow down—not when he’d found Chuuya barely conscious in the alleyway, blood staining the concrete beneath him in a growing pool. The redhead’s body was a mess of gashes, torn clothing, and bruises blooming dark along his ribs. Whoever had done this didn’t hold back.

Chuuya had barely managed a word when Dazai crouched beside him. His voice had been thin. Fragile. A whisper crumbling like wet paper.

Chuuya: “Tch… still ugly as ever…”

It was a miracle he could even speak. And Dazai didn’t joke back. He didn’t smirk. There wasn’t even that glint of sarcasm in his eyes. Only a sharp, unfamiliar panic as he scooped Chuuya into his arms, ignoring the blood smearing across his own coat. Chuuya was burning up, shivering, and far too limp for someone as annoyingly strong as him.

Now, the ADA office loomed ahead, lights flickering in the windows like a beacon. Dazai’s footsteps echoed through the quiet street as he shoved the door open with his shoulder.

Dazai: “Someone—get Yosano. Now.”

His voice cut through the space like a knife. The few agents still in the office froze at the sight: Dazai, soaked to the bone, holding Chuuya like a lifeline. Blood dripped onto the tile.

Dazai: “He’s hurt bad. Real bad. I don’t care what he’s done—just help him.”

There was no smugness in him now. No mischief. Just urgency. Fear. And beneath it, a desperation he hadn’t shown in years. Dazai knelt beside the couch as Yosano rushed over, refusing to let go of Chuuya’s hand.

Dazai: “Don’t you dare die on me, Chuuya.”