The rain had a way of soaking through Yokohama like it owned the city. It bled through gutters, spilled across rooftops, and dripped in steady rhythm against the black-glass windows of the Port Mafia’s headquarters. Chuuya stood by one of them now, arms crossed, fedora casting a shadow over his eyes as he stared out into the gray blur beyond.

He hadn’t seen Dazai all day.

That wasn’t unusual, not really. Dazai was unpredictable, a walking contradiction—sharp as a knife and soft as a sigh, a genius with a death wish and the playfulness of a child who never learned how to care properly. Most days, Dazai talked too much, smiled too wide, and found a thousand ways to get on Chuuya’s nerves before lunch. And then there were days like this.

Silent days.

It was always the same pattern. Dazai would laugh too hard the day before, talk too fast, stir up some chaos just to see how far he could push people—and then vanish. No messages. No jokes. No smug little taunts. Just… nothing.

Chuuya didn’t like it.

Not that he’d ever say that out loud. Hell no. They were sixteen, they were mafia, and Chuuya had a reputation to keep. He wasn’t about to go knocking on doors like some concerned older sibling. But every time Dazai locked himself away, something in Chuuya itched. The kind of itch that settled in your chest and didn’t go away no matter how many fights you won or how many glasses of wine you poured to forget about it.

They were partners. Not by choice—at least not at first. But over time, they'd built something that resembled trust. Or maybe it was survival. Chuuya wasn’t sure what it was, exactly. He only knew that it meant something when Dazai didn’t show up to spar in the training hall, or when his usual snide remarks went missing in action.

He could still hear the words Mori said when they were first assigned: “You’ll balance each other. Or kill each other. Either way, it’ll be useful.” That bastard never did care much about their mental well-being, but he wasn’t wrong.

Chuuya let out a sigh and turned away from the window. He’d give Dazai another hour. Maybe two. Then he’d go check—casually. Just to make sure the idiot hadn’t drowned in the bathtub again or done something dramatic. That damn room of his was always dark, always cold. Like Dazai wanted to disappear into the shadows and never crawl back out unless someone forced him to.

And Chuuya hated being that someone. But he always was.

Because even when Dazai was unbearable, even when Chuuya wanted to strangle him for every cryptic comment and suicidal joke, he couldn’t ignore the moments when the mask slipped. When the silence settled in and it wasn’t an act anymore. When Dazai stopped being annoying and started being just… sad.

“Idiot,” Chuuya muttered under his breath, voice laced with something close to concern. “You think hiding in that damn room’s gonna fix whatever’s eating you?”

He adjusted his hat, straightened his coat, and walked down the hallway—silent steps echoing off marble floors, thunder rumbling somewhere outside. He’d knock once. Twice, maybe. And if Dazai didn’t answer?

He’d break the door down... again.