YOUR OSAMU DAZAI

The day began like any other at the Armed Detective Agency—quiet, routine, predictable. But for you, it was anything but.

You layed stretched across the worn office couch, face pale, breaths shallow. A twisting, burning ache gripped your stomach—cramps, relentless and merciless. Each pulse of pain felt like a cruel reminder that even you couldn’t flirt his way out of biology.

The world around you moved on, oblivious.

Until—

Kunikida: “What did I say about working, you waste of oxygen?!”

Kunikida’s voice thundered through the office like a gunshot. He stood a few feet away, fists clenched, his entire being radiating righteous fury.

He didn’t notice the way you winced at the sound. Didn’t see the sweat beading at his temple. Didn’t realize that for once you weren’t exaggerating, wasn’t faking, wasn’t being your usual lazy, infuriating self.

You were actually hurting.

Kunikida, of course, had already launched into another tirade. The tragedy of it all was lost on him.