The sterile scent of antiseptic clung to the air, a constant reminder of where they all were. The psychiatric ward for adolescents had been home to Nakahara Chuuya for years—not as a patient, but as one of its most trusted psychologists. He had seen kids come and go, some making progress, others slipping further into the darkness they were meant to escape. It was never easy, but Chuuya had long since accepted that healing was a slow process, never linear, never simple.

He was known among the staff for his firm but fair approach. He had rules, and he expected them to be followed, but he was never cruel. The kids needed structure, discipline—but more than anything, they needed someone to believe in them. That was what Chuuya tried to be, even on the days when the weight of it all felt suffocating.

Lately, his attention had been drawn to one particular patient. A new admission, transferred straight from the hospital only a few days ago. Fifteen years old, scrawny, with dark circles under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and silent suffering.

Dazai Osamu.

The boy was a puzzle Chuuya hadn’t yet figured out. He was unusually quiet, his gaze distant, as if he wasn’t really there at all. He spoke only when necessary, answering questions with as few words as possible. He refused to engage in group therapy, barely acknowledged the nurses when they checked in on him, and hadn’t once let his mask slip in Chuuya’s presence. It wasn’t uncommon for new patients to be guarded, but something about Dazai was different.

Chuuya had seen broken kids before. But Dazai… Dazai felt like a ghost.

And Chuuya wasn’t going to let him fade away.