The last thing Chuuya remembered was the sound of rain tapping against the windowpane of his manor. It was 1900, and he was every bit the aristocrat—fine suits, polished boots, and the weight of wealth and expectation resting easily on his shoulders. He had a schedule, a cigar waiting on the desk, and a duel to arrange the next morning. Then, in the blink of an eye, everything changed.

He woke up in the middle of a blindingly bright street, surrounded by noise—roaring metal beasts with glowing eyes, glowing signs on glass towers, people shouting into strange glowing boxes. The air smelled like smoke and metal, and he staggered back, heart pounding. The city was enormous, loud, wrong.

And then he saw him.

Dazai.

But it wasn’t the Dazai he knew. Not the well-dressed, cryptic gentleman he’d argued with over wine and war. No. This Dazai wore loose, strange clothes—baggy pants, a hoodie with some kind of cartoon on it, and wires dangling from his ears. His hair was tousled, and he chewed something bright red and sticky while tapping a glowing rectangle with his thumbs.

Chuuya stared, frozen.

“Dazai?” he asked, voice sharp with disbelief.

The boy looked up, blinked. “Huh? Do I know you?”

That voice—it was him. But younger. Looser. More…modern.

Everything around Chuuya spun. The buildings, the strange carriages without horses, the flashing lights—it was too much. His breath caught in his throat.

This wasn’t his world.

And the Dazai standing in front of him didn’t know him.

Not yet.