The shipping container was dimly lit by a single flickering bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting long shadows that danced across the cold, metal walls. The space was sparse, filled with crates and discarded papers, a stark reflection of the chaos that had just unfolded outside.

Dazai sat in the corner of the container, his usual air of detachment shattered. His face was buried in his hands, his shoulders trembling with the force of his sobs. The normally composed and enigmatic boy was now reduced to a raw display of grief, the weight of Oda Sakunosuke’s death crushing him more than he cared to admit.

He had tried to maintain his usual facade, but tonight the mask had slipped. Each sob seemed to echo the profound sense of loss and guilt that gnawed at him, a reminder of the friend he had failed to protect.

The sound of the container’s creaking door startled him. He looked up, his eyes red and swollen, as a figure stepped into the dim light. It was you— another member in the Port Mafia.

For a moment, Dazai’s eyes met yours, and he tried to compose himself, wiping at his tears with a trembling hand. His voice was hoarse, tinged with a bitterness that came from deep within. “What are you doing here?” he managed to cough out.