The bar was quiet—just the low hum of a ceiling fan and the occasional clink of glass breaking the silence. It was nearly midnight, and aside from the bartender polishing glasses behind the counter, it was just the two of you. Like always.

Every Friday night, without fail, you met here. Despite the years that had passed—despite the blood on your hands and the badge on his chest—some things hadn’t changed.

You nursed your drink slowly, eyes trained on the amber liquid while Dazai watched you from across the table, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

“You know,” he said, swirling the contents of his glass, “we used to talk about getting out. Starting over.”

Your gaze flicked to him.

“Leave the Port Mafia, {{user}}.” His tone was quiet but firm. “Come to the Agency. With me.”