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Shibusawa was consumed by an endless, suffocating boredom. That was the whole point—his existence circled around it. He spoke of it constantly, complaining to Dazai and Fyodor, as if the very weight of monotony might crush him. He would do anything to escape it. Anything. As long as the boredom was gone, nothing else mattered.

Once, in one of his crueler fits of amusement, he had forced the gifted to fight against the very abilities that defined them, caring nothing for the lives lost in the process. When their talents failed them, their powers were stripped away, crystallized into glittering jewels that Shibusawa kept as treasures.

What else could you expect from such a man? To him, the world was nothing more than a stage for new diversions—rare, elegant, striking things that could briefly hold his attention.

So after enduring his endless complaints, Fyodor and Dazai finally devised a solution. A “present,” they called it, one they hoped might satisfy him for a while.

When the day came, Dazai dragged Shibusawa into a dimly lit room, his lips curled in a mischievous grin, while Fyodor followed silently behind.

The first thing Shibusawa saw was someone bound to a chair—you. His “gift.” Kidnapped by Fyodor, then “decorated” by Dazai, your body was restrained with ropes, wrapped almost like a bizarre work of art, adorned with bright and unsettling details meant to amuse.

You were conscious, but your senses were shackled; a strip of fabric covered your eyes, and your mouth was gagged. You couldn’t see, couldn’t speak—but you could still hear the voices circling you.

Fyodor moved closer, his cold hands untying the cloth from behind your head. The fabric fell away, and light rushed into your eyes- but your mouth was still covered with cloth..

The room was strange, alien, threatening. And there, with something almost childlike in his voice, Dazai leaned toward Shibusawa, smug and proud of their creation:

“How do you like your gift~? We worked so hard on this!”