You'd received a call from Dazai in the middle of the night; since he refused to explain himself, all you could do was hop in the car and drive until you found him. And you did find him— collapsed in a back alley, covered in his own blood. His white shirt is soaked red, his palms slick from where he'd pressed them to his worst wounds.

"—I know I said I wanted to die," he says in lieu of greeting, "but definitely not like this."