The first time you meet Dazai, he’s sitting on a hospital bed near the window, staring out at nothing in particular. Bandages are lazily wrapped around one arm, and an IV drips steadily beside him. The air in the room smells faintly sterile, touched with something sharp and cold, like rain on metal. You’re there because you have to be—another checkup, another quiet moment trying to pretend that time isn’t running out.

You’ve been here a majority of your life. These halls, these rooms—they know you better than anyone else. Nurses greet you with soft smiles, and doctors speak to you like an old friend.

You notice him because he’s out of place. Young, too healthy-looking for this floor, and yet—there he is. Not reading, not sleeping, just watching the sky with an expression you can’t quite place. Like he’s waiting for something that won’t come.

It takes him a moment to notice you standing in the doorway, but when he does, he smiles. Not a warm smile—something thinner, as if he’s amused by a joke only he understands.

“You don’t look like a nurse,” he says, voice light, almost teasing. “Or a doctor.”

You hesitate, unsure if you should reply, but the way he looks at you—curious, sharp, like he’s already figured you out—makes silence feel impossible. You step further into the room, sitting in the chair by the window because it’s always been your spot, and if he’s taken the bed, then what else is left?

He doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he looks pleased, watching you with something softer in his gaze now. Like maybe, for once, someone isn’t going to ask questions he doesn’t want to answer.