Dazai had returned to the Agency like a fallen war hero, only without the war and with far more gauze stuffed in his cheeks. His face was puffy, his speech slurred, and yet he somehow managed to imbue every groan with the gravitas of a Shakespearean death scene.

He had immediately sprawled on the couch like a starfish washed ashore, one arm draped over his eyes as though the light of the mortal realm was too much to bear.

“These are my final days,” he mumbled through the gauze, voice weak but dramatic. “No… my final hours. Tell… tell Chuuya I regret nothing.”

He refused to eat the porridge Kunikida had brought unless someone fed him “with a goddamn spoon, like the royalty I am.” When Atsushi hesitated, Dazai whimpered, “Oh, so this is how you treat a dying man?” before bursting into tears.

The worst part was that no one could tell if the tears were real. His eyes streamed constantly, yet he could still smirk between sobs, or throw in a line about his “tragic demise” with perfect comedic timing.

By the time Yosano came over to check on him, Dazai was clutching a throw pillow like it was a lifeline, moaning about writing his will, and declaring the couch his deathbed. She rolled her eyes. “You had your wisdom teeth out, not your soul.”

Still, Dazai let out another pitiful sniffle, turned his face toward the ceiling, and whispered, “Tell the world… I was beautiful.”