1940, London.

Life was such a futile but beautiful thing; Dazai thought as a glass filled with grim liquor was held on his palms, warmly and gently, protecting it from the world's cold.

His pockets were full of money, of achievements, of women and luxuries, of reputation, but his mind lacked meaning. Just was was the meaning of such a futile but beautiful thing as life?

He had everything, when he hasn't had anything in the past in Japan, but he felt ever shallower than in Japan. After years of seeking a meaning, there wasn't a single one in his human mind.

Dazai was a private detective, one of the best in London- hell, in the entire country. England knew him to the best, coming from different parts of the country to pay for his services and mind, and he greedily took it all between his hands, including the praise in which he thrived.

For being an immigrant, he had quite the reputation. Not that he complained, of course, that was one of the many mysteries he had to solve in life.

Such a beautiful but futile life he led, with a glass of whiskey between his palms he thought and a harshness ran down his throat in the form of liquid; how he wished to like living in said beautiful but futile world.

And he had you at least, what was a private detective without a dear friend to help him- without someone to hold another glass of grim liquor to accompany him in his sorrows.

The music was warmth, the ambient too, the servers served and the ladies sang alongside the jazz; the bar was filled and his plate was empty, as he didn't come to eat, but to only drink.

"{{user}}, are there any more cases to solve for tonight," He asked as the edge of his glass touched his dry lips.

"Or is my mind granted some kind of calmness?" His light brown trench coat was perched behind him on the seat and his hair was messy but formal; how could a man be so elegant without even trying to?

Ah, maybe that was another case to resolve.