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The sky was the same color as ash when Dazai Osamu strolled into the Armed Detective Agency, whistling an old jazz tune that didn’t match the dead air of winter. It was 7:58 a.m.
Kunikida dropped his pen mid-sentence.
“You’re early,” he said slowly, like testing the temperature of strange water. “You’re never early.”
Dazai waved both hands as if Kunikida had just handed him a medal. “I know! I’m trying to change, Kunikida-kun. New year, new me!” he grinned, too wide, too toothy, the light in his eyes not quite reaching the usual mischief. “Maybe this year I’ll even write a will on time!”
Kunikida stared at him, unconvinced. His eyes flicked downward—Dazai’s coat was rumpled, not in the usual thrown-on way, but creased. Like he’d slept in it. His bandages looked hastily wrapped, looser than usual. His shirt collar was uneven, and his shoes didn’t match.
“Did you walk here?” Kunikida asked.
Dazai just spun in a lazy circle. “Isn’t it beautiful today? A little breeze, the smell of cheap coffee in the air, and the sweet promise of death just around the corner…”
Atsushi walked in behind him, panting from the stairs. “Did… did Dazai-san beat me here?”
“Don’t look so betrayed, Atsushi-kun! I’m just full of surprises today,” Dazai chimed, plopping dramatically onto the couch, arms spread like a puppet with cut strings.
Yosano entered next, arching a brow. “Early? And alive? Miracles do happen.”
“Maybe I’m a ghost,” Dazai said lightly, folding his hands behind his head, smiling up at the ceiling. “Maybe I died last night and just haven’t noticed yet. Wouldn’t that be funny?”
Ranpo wandered in, already crunching through his second bag of chips. He paused, looking at Dazai for one long second. “You smell like you haven’t showered.”
“Honest as ever, Ranpo-san,” Dazai said with a lopsided laugh. “But I have showered! I just didn’t… feel like soap today.”
Silence.
It wasn’t like Dazai to come early, or unkempt, or… anything that resembled effort, really. But this wasn’t effort. This was avoidance. None of them knew it yet—not really. January was just cold and gray to them. But for Dazai, January was memory. The kind that sits on your chest like a ghost and whispers names you don’t say out loud.
Oda Sakunosuke.
He had died on a cold January evening, and every year since, Dazai could feel that day crawl back into his bones like frostbite.
He needed noise.
He needed people.
He needed to not be alone.
So he laughed louder, joked harder, and smiled wider. And no one, not even the Agency’s best, quite knew why their clown was unraveling quietly right in front of them.
“You look like a sleep-deprived raccoon who got into a fight with a laundry basket,” Kunikida finally said, pushing his glasses up with a sigh. “It’s unprofessional. Go change.”
Dazai gasped, clutching his heart dramatically. “Kunikida-kun, are you saying I’m not presentable enough for crime-solving?”
“I’m saying your coat has a suspicious ketchup stain and one of your shoes is brown. The other is gray.”
Yosano appeared behind Kunikida, peering at Dazai with a glint in her eye. “Let’s play dress-up.”
“I second that,” Ranpo chimed in through a mouthful of pocky. “To the supply closet!”
Before Dazai could protest, he was herded toward the Agency’s abandoned clothing stash—the chaotic "lost and found" closet of old uniforms, spare suits, forgotten coats, and mystery fashion choices no one dared claim.
“Ah, the closet of dreams,” Dazai mused. “Or nightmares.”
Yosano opened it with a flourish. “We’ll find something fabulous.”
Ten minutes passed in chaos. Yosano threw jackets at him with the fervor of a determined stylist. Ranpo picked out the weirdest combos on purpose—a bright pink blazer with orange plaid pants. Dazai played along with flair, twirling and posing as they howled with laughter.
But then he saw it.
A black coat. Sleek. Quiet. Heavy.
He reached for it without saying a word.
“Dazai in black?” Yosano blinked. “That’s new.”
“Trying out a darker aesthetic?” Ranpo smirked. “Emo phase?”
Dazai chuckled. “Well, since Kunikida-kun doesn’t want me looking like I crawled out of a trash can…”
He took the clothes—a black button-up shirt, fitted pants, and the coat—and disappeared into the bathroom.
The door clicked shut.
And the smile dropped.
Silence pressed in like water in his lungs. The mirror greeted him with his own hollow eyes.
He moved like clockwork. The mirror creaked open, revealing a narrow cabinet behind it—rarely touched, rarely noticed. From his wrinkled beige coat, he slid out a small blade. Familiar. Cold.
His fingers shook, but only slightly.
It was quick. A thin line of red bloomed just above his ribs, clean and quiet, like a whispered punishment. The sting grounded him, a tether to the guilt that never really left. He exhaled slowly, not in pain, but in shame. Still.
You promised, Oda.
He wrapped a bandage tightly over the cut. No one would see. They never did.
He slid the blade back into a hidden slot behind the mirror. Closed it. Locked it.
Then he changed.
When he stepped out, the hallway light caught him differently. Gone was the beige drifter in oversized clothes. The man standing there looked sharp. Structured. The black made his skin look paler, his eyes darker. Striking. Handsome in a way that made Yosano blink once, then twice.
“…Whoa,” Atsushi whispered from his desk, frozen halfway through a sip of tea.
“Look who finally grew up,” Yosano teased, but her voice had a hint of awe.
“Stylish and emotionally unstable,” Ranpo announced. “That’s our Dazai.”
Dazai spread his arms. “Do I look like someone who knows what taxes are?”
“You look like someone who’s about to break someone’s heart,” Yosano muttered under her breath.
Dazai laughed again. Light. Playful. Echoing down the hallway.
None of them saw the red seeping slowly beneath the fresh bandage.
None of them knew he had already broken his own.
The Agency had not known peace like this in years.
Dazai Osamu sat at his desk—yes, his desk—and not only acknowledged the stack of paperwork on it, but actually did it. With a pen. In handwriting that was legible. Kunikida had been staring at him for twenty minutes straight, unsure whether to feel relief or pure, existential dread.
He finally snapped out of it and muttered, “Who are you, and what have you done with Dazai?”
“I’ve turned over a new leaf, Kunikida-kun,” Dazai beamed, sliding a completed report into the outgoing tray. “I’m trying this thing called ‘productivity.’ Very avant-garde, very adult.”
“You did three days’ worth of reports in an hour,” Kunikida said slowly. “Correctly.”
“Are you feverish?” Yosano asked, placing a cool hand on his forehead with a mock-frown. “Or did you hit your head?”
“Maybe I’ve been abducted and replaced by an alien who thrives on tax forms,” Dazai mused. “Or maybe I’m just trying to better myself. What’s wrong with that?”
Ranpo stopped chewing his pocky. “Everything. It’s unnerving. Go back to being annoying.”
“I don’t mind this version of Dazai-san…” Atsushi mumbled nervously. “But it’s kind of… scary?”
It wasn’t just the paperwork. Dazai answered the phone on the first ring. He greeted clients with a charming, professional smile and even bowed slightly, which made Yosano knock over her coffee. He filed reports, submitted expense forms, updated case notes, and even corrected a few typos in Kunikida’s manual (earning him a near-death glare).
It was too clean. Too sharp. Too fast.
Too not Dazai.
Behind it all, he was drifting.
Every cheerful response, every sentence on a form, every perfect signature—it was a distraction. A ticking clock keeping him from remembering that today, years ago, Oda had bled out in his arms.
Be on the side that saves people.
Dazai had failed that once. Failed him. And for years, he’d buried the guilt under bandages and jokes and suicidal remarks that no one ever took seriously.
But today, he wanted to be better.
Or at least, pretend to be.
Maybe if he worked hard enough, maybe if he was kind enough, maybe if he didn’t cause any trouble for once, it would make up for something. Anything.
Maybe he’d feel less like a monster wearing a smile.
He dropped another finished report in the tray. Twenty-nine and counting.
“I think we should call the hospital,” Yosano whispered to Ranpo.
“I already checked for shapeshifters,” Ranpo muttered back. “This is really Dazai. That’s what makes it worse.”
Kunikida stood up suddenly, walking over to Dazai with crossed arms. “All right. What’s going on?”
“Whatever do you mean, my justice-obsessed friend?”
“You’ve done more work today than you have in six months.”
“Maybe I’m finally realizing the value of teamwork.”
“Or maybe,” Kunikida said evenly, “you’re avoiding something.”
Dazai’s smile didn’t falter. But his fingers tensed just slightly around his pen.
“Maybe I just want to be useful,” he said.
Kunikida blinked.
Dazai looked down, fiddling with a paperclip. “You’re always yelling at me for being lazy. Maybe you were right.”
Kunikida hesitated, then exhaled, walking away without another word. He didn’t push. Not yet.
But the air in the Agency felt heavier than usual.
And outside, snow began to fall—soft, silent, and cold as the memory Dazai had spent the whole day trying not to drown in.
By midafternoon, they’d stopped laughing about it.
Dazai had gone to the bathroom four times.
Each time, with a new joke.
“Too much coffee,” he said the first time, laughing.
“Forgot to fix my hair—can’t charm witnesses looking like a drowned rat,” was the second.
“Emergency pimple surgery,” he added on the third.
The fourth time, no one even asked. He just waved cheerfully and disappeared behind the hallway corner.
Yosano had stopped pretending to find it funny. Kunikida was silent, his jaw tight. Atsushi kept glancing at the clock. Ranpo crunched his pocky louder than usual.
In the bathroom, Dazai’s shirt hung off one shoulder, sticky with sweat and guilt. The 29th cut bled faster than the rest. His hands were trembling more than he wanted to admit.
You’re just fixing something broken, he told himself. You’re not dying. You’re just remembering.
The blade was no longer cold. It was warm from his palm. Familiar.
He pressed it to his skin again. 30. 31. 32.
The sting was dull now. The blood wasn’t.
He winced as he wrapped gauze clumsily around his upper arm, stuffing the bandage beneath his shirt sleeve. The medicine bottle in his pocket was lighter than it should’ve been—he’d taken one too many today. Two too many. His head was starting to feel floaty, disconnected. But at least he was still standing.
Still pretending.
He looked at himself in the mirror. The black shirt and gray coat looked too clean. Too composed. He looked like someone who had everything under control.
A lie wrapped in nice fabric.
When he stepped out, the hallway light hit him again—cool tones, professional lines. Like a shadow of himself.
But something was different.
Ranpo’s sharp eyes flicked down. Just for a second.
A tiny dot of blood. Near the sleeve. Barely there, but it hadn’t been there before.
Ranpo said nothing.
Yet.
“Dazai,” Yosano said slowly, arms crossed. “You feeling okay?”
“Never better,” he beamed. “Why? You miss me when I’m gone?”
Kunikida stood up. “You’ve gone to the bathroom five times. You’re pale. And you’re overworking yourself. I’m not stupid.”
Dazai blinked, tilting his head like a confused puppy. “You’re usually very stupid. Is this character development?”
“Don’t dodge the question,” Kunikida snapped.
A beat.
Then Dazai laughed again—louder, lighter, like he could deflect suspicion with volume alone.
“I’m just nervous about the new outfit,” he said. “You know how fragile my self-esteem is. Maybe the black isn’t working for me. Maybe I’m too handsome. It’s overwhelming.”
Yosano didn’t smile.
Atsushi bit his lip.
Kunikida stared at him, searching his face for cracks.
“Don’t lie to us,” he said finally.
“I’m not,” Dazai said, still smiling. “It’s just a long day.”
Ranpo stood up then. Slowly. Quietly.
And for once, he didn’t joke.
Instead, he said, “Your sleeve is bleeding.”
The room fell silent.
Dazai didn’t look down. He didn’t react. For just a breath, his smile froze—like a glitch in a loop.
But then, he chuckled softly.
“I nicked myself shaving,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe the places I grow hair.”
Still, no one spoke.
And Dazai just kept smiling.
But that bloodstain didn’t lie. And the Agency could finally smell the truth behind the cologne and coffee.
Something was breaking.
And none of them knew how to stop it yet.
4:03 p.m.
The Agency office had settled into its usual late-afternoon rhythm: Ranpo was halfway through a new snack, Yosano was polishing scalpels just to make Kunikida nervous, and Atsushi was squinting at paperwork like it might bite him.
Dazai sat on the old couch, arms draped lazily over the backrest, one leg crossed, still dressed in black and gray like a shadow pretending to be a man. His smile hadn’t faded once.
Until now.
Ranpo was the first to notice the shift — a faint twitch in Dazai’s fingers. His foot, tapping faster than before. And then, slowly, he stood up.
Except his balance failed him halfway.
He staggered forward a step, caught himself on the armrest. The cheerful mask slipped for half a second — just a breath — but enough for Ranpo to stand.
“Dazai,” he said sharply.
Dazai waved a shaky hand. “I just need… to fix my hair again. Can’t have it getting in my eyes. Dangerous for morale.”
His voice cracked on the joke.
He walked. More like swayed. His shoulders curved inward as if gravity had doubled. His breath came ragged. His face had gone pale, sickly gray against the black collar of his shirt. Everyone was watching now.
Yosano took one step toward him.
“Don’t,” Dazai muttered, not turning around. “Don’t follow.”
She ignored him and followed anyway.
The moment he crossed into the bathroom, the sound hit them like thunder: retching — deep, guttural, endless.
Then came the crash of his knees hitting the floor tile.
Yosano ran in without hesitation.
He was hunched over the toilet, trembling, his hands red — not with blood this time, but with pressure from how tightly he gripped the porcelain. His face was soaked in sweat, his lips pale. He looked up through a curtain of hair and barely choked out, “Don’t… want to be alone…”
And then he collapsed.
Yosano caught him before his head hit the floor.
“Ranpo!” she shouted. “Get me a wet cloth, bandages—call an ambulance!”
Ranpo didn’t move. Not right away.
Instead, he turned to the mirror.
And opened it.
Behind the mirror was a hidden shelf, and on that shelf sat a bloody knife.
Not rusted. Not old.
Still wet.
Next to it, an empty medicine bottle rattled softly as he pulled it forward. The label was smudged, but the dosage was obvious. Far too much.
Ranpo stared at it, his eyes unreadable for once. Then he turned around, sharp and angry.
“He’s been cutting,” he said flatly. “Since this morning. Maybe longer. And these—” he held up the bottle, “—he’s been overdosing on sedatives.”
Atsushi flinched.
Kunikida froze.
And Yosano, cradling Dazai’s unconscious body on the bathroom floor, swore under her breath, pressing her hand to his clammy forehead.
“Idiot,” she whispered. “You absolute idiot…”
Ranpo stood over them, still holding the knife like evidence at a crime scene.
“But he smiled the whole time,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “He smiled the whole damn time.”
The room stayed silent.
Only Dazai's faint breathing echoed between the walls.
Dazai wasn’t moving—but his body was still trembling.
Even in unconsciousness, his limbs twitched faintly, fingers curling like he was clutching something that wasn’t there. His forehead was slick with cold sweat, strands of his hair clinging to his skin. His breath came in shallow, erratic gasps, and worst of all—
Blood was soaking through his shirt.
Yosano froze when she felt the warmth blooming against her chest. She pulled her arm back slightly and saw it: dark red, seeping through the thin black fabric of Dazai’s clothes, staining her blouse beneath.
Her lips drew into a line.
“Kunikida,” she said, voice low and sharp.
Kunikida had already stepped forward, jaw tight, glasses slightly askew from how fast he moved. He didn’t hesitate. He bent down and carefully lifted Dazai into his arms like he weighed nothing. The brunet’s head lolled against his shoulder, the smell of blood now unmistakable.
“Yosano, infirmary. Now,” he snapped, all command.
She was already on her feet.
Atsushi, pale and shaken, followed close behind, his eyes never leaving the unconscious man in Kunikida’s arms. His mind was racing, heart pounding in guilt and confusion. How long had this been happening? How did they miss it? He should’ve seen it sooner. They all should’ve.
Behind them, Ranpo stood in the bathroom, gripping the bloody knife and the empty bottle in one hand. His expression was unreadable. His hat shadowed his eyes, but the tightness in his jaw said enough.
He turned on his heel and stormed out the door.
Not toward the infirmary.
Toward Fukuzawa’s office.
Someone had to tell him.
---
Agency Infirmary – 4:11 p.m.
Yosano yanked open the cabinet and threw on her white coat in one motion. Her gloves were on before Kunikida had even set Dazai down on the cot. Blood now smeared Kunikida’s sleeves and collar, the crimson stark against his pale beige.
Atsushi hovered near the wall, fists clenched, watching with wide, glassy eyes.
Yosano didn’t speak—didn’t need to. She pulled scissors from the drawer and began cutting through the blood-soaked shirt. The cloth parted with a snip and peeled away, revealing angry, fresh cuts—bandaged haphazardly, blood already soaking through. Some deeper than others. Twenty-eight, maybe more. Not all were fully clotted.
Dazai flinched as she touched a soaked bandage. Still unconscious.
Still shaking.
Kunikida’s voice cracked. “Why…?”
Yosano didn’t answer.
Not yet.
She needed to stop the bleeding first.
But even she could feel it — the weight in the room. The kind that came with guilt, grief, and helplessness all stitched together. The kind you couldn't bandage.
Yosano’s gloves were already stained red by the time she noticed Kunikida hovering.
His fists were clenched at his sides, jaw rigid, eyes locked on the pale, unconscious man lying broken on the cot. Atsushi stood next to him, trembling like a child who had just seen a ghost—and maybe he had. Because this wasn’t the Dazai they knew. Not the laughing, taunting, chaos-making Dazai who dragged them through hell with a smile.
This one was silent. Still. Bleeding.
“Kunikida. Atsushi,” Yosano said without looking up. Her voice was calm—but firm, razor-sharp beneath the surface. “Get out.”
“But—” Atsushi started, voice breaking. “He—what if—”
“You staying here helps no one,” she cut in coldly. “Do you want him to live?”
Both boys froze.
Yosano's eyes finally met theirs. And there was no softness in them—just steel.
“Then let me do my job.”
Kunikida hesitated a moment longer. Then, as if some invisible string finally snapped, he nodded once and placed a hand on Atsushi’s shoulder. “Come on.”
“But—”
“Atsushi. Come.”
Reluctantly, the boy followed him out, casting one last look at the crimson-streaked floor before Yosano shut the door behind them.
Inside, it was silence and blood.
Outside, Kunikida leaned against the wall and exhaled slowly. Atsushi sank onto the bench across the hall, burying his face in his hands.
They didn’t speak.
Not for a while.
Not until the soft sound of footsteps approached.
Kunikida looked up sharply, already knowing who it was.
Fukuzawa.
Stoic, calm, and unreadable, the President walked at a steady pace, Ranpo beside him—hat tilted down, hands in his pockets, eyes darker than usual.
The air in the hallway shifted.
Fukuzawa paused just outside the infirmary door, gaze heavy.
“Status?” he asked.
“Yosano’s inside. He passed out after vomiting—he’s… lost a lot of blood,” Kunikida answered, voice clipped.
Ranpo held up the knife and empty bottle, both sealed in an evidence bag now.
“He’s been cutting. A lot. And overdosing. Probably since this morning. Maybe longer. No one noticed.”
Fukuzawa looked at the items. Then at the closed door. He didn’t speak, but his hand curled into a tight fist behind his robes.
Atsushi finally looked up, eyes red.
“He… he asked not to be alone… before he fainted.”
Ranpo tilted his head. “And yet he’s never been more alone than he was today.”
No one disagreed.
Behind the door, Yosano worked in silence, and the hallway remained still.
Waiting.
Dreading.
Bleeding—quietly.
The hallway had gone still.
Kunikida stood rigid, back straight against the wall, but his fingers trembled slightly at his sides. Atsushi hadn't moved from the bench, his shoulders hunched forward, knuckles white from how tightly he clutched them. Ranpo leaned quietly against the far wall, arms crossed, hat shadowing his face. Fukuzawa hadn’t spoken a word in minutes—his gaze fixed on the infirmary door as if he could will it open.
Then—
Click.
The door creaked slightly, and Yosano stepped out.
Her coat was speckled with blood. Her gloves hung from one hand, stained red and wrinkled, as she gently closed the door behind her.
“You can come in,” she said simply.
Atsushi was the first on his feet, nearly stumbling. Kunikida followed, silent. Ranpo trailed behind, eyes unreadable. Fukuzawa entered last, every step as heavy as stone.
The room smelled of antiseptic and iron.
Dazai lay in the hospital bed, bathed in pale light.
His chest slowly rose and fell beneath the thin fabric of the white infirmary gown. His body was wrapped in layer upon layer of clean bandages—arms, torso, parts of his neck, even down to his legs. IVs ran from both arms, and machines surrounded him, quietly beeping, blinking, measuring life. Bags of blood hung to the side, slowly draining into his veins to make up for what he had lost.
He looked—
Peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Like a corpse prepared for burial, not rest.
The usual smirk was gone, lips parted slightly, skin ghostly white. His hair fanned out against the pillow, a stark contrast to the sterile white sheets. If it weren’t for the monitors, they might have thought—
“He’s alive,” Yosano said gently, as if reading their thoughts. “Barely. But he is.”
Atsushi pressed a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. Kunikida stood at the edge of the bed, staring at the boy he once considered a frustrating puzzle—and now saw clearly for the first time.
Ranpo didn’t speak.
He just stared.
Because somehow, seeing Dazai like this—fragile, broken, still—hurt more than all the chaos and jokes and suicide talk ever did.
Fukuzawa took a quiet step forward.
Then another.
He stopped beside the bed, looking down at the boy he once took in—the one with the haunted eyes, the reckless laughter, the endless silence behind his games.
He placed a hand gently on the bedrail.
And said, quietly, “You did not have to bleed to be good, Dazai.”
No one replied.
The machines kept beeping.
And Dazai didn’t stir.
The infirmary was dim now. The soft overhead light cast a golden glow over the sterile walls, softened by the warm presence of the people who refused to leave.
Fukuzawa sat in the corner, silent and unmoving, arms folded in quiet watch.
Kunikida took the seat closest to the bed, a notebook on his lap, though he hadn’t written a word.
Atsushi had curled up on a chair nearby, knees hugged to his chest, eyes flickering open every few minutes to check the figure on the bed. He couldn’t sleep. He didn’t want to sleep—not until those eyes opened first.
Ranpo sat on the floor, back against the wall, chewing slowly on the last of his snacks, though the usual light was absent from his expression. His eyes never left the monitors.
And Yosano stood closest.
She checked him every so often—his IV, his pulse, the bandages wrapped tight across his ribs and arms. She hadn’t changed out of her bloodied coat, as if taking it off now would mean surrender.
A monitor beeped slightly faster.
Her head snapped toward the bed.
His brow twitched.
His lips moved—barely.
“…no…”
Yosano stepped in closer.
His breathing hitched. Sweat glistened on his skin. His hands trembled beneath the blanket.
“…please… don’t… don’t…”
His voice cracked—low and hoarse and terrified.
The monitor began to spike.
“His heart rate’s increasing—he’s spiraling.”
“Is he dreaming?” Atsushi asked, rising.
“No,” Ranpo murmured from the corner, eyes narrowing. “He’s remembering.”
“Stop… please stop—don’t—no more—I didn’t mean to—”
The words poured from him now, slurred and pleading. His body tensed. Legs jerked. The covers shifted.
Beepbeepbeepbeep.
“His pulse is too fast,” Yosano muttered, reaching toward the IV.
Then—
He gasped.
Loud. Sharp. Broken.
His eyes flew open.
Wide. Wild. Glazed with fear.
For a moment, no one moved.
He wasn’t breathing right.
Chest rising too quickly. Eyes darting—everywhere and nowhere. Sweat rolled down his temples.
He stared at the ceiling.
White. Cold. Familiar.
He choked.
“No—no—no—!”
He flinched, trying to move—trying to escape.
The wires pulled tight. The IV tugged hard.
He thrashed in the sheets, breath ragged, voice rising in a panicked crescendo.
“Stop—stop—! I said I was sorry—I’m sorry—!”
Yosano didn’t speak.
She didn’t try to reach with words.
She stepped forward—and wrapped her arms around him.
Gently. Calmly.
Her hand cradled the back of his head, guiding him down.
He was stiff. Frozen. Trembling like a wounded animal.
He didn’t return the embrace.
Didn’t resist it either.
Just cried.
Silently.
As if everything inside him had finally broken loose.
Tears soaked her coat. His breath hitched. The trembling slowed, but didn’t stop.
His heart still raced—but the storm passed.
“I’ve got you,” she whispered. “You’re here. You’re safe. You’re not alone.”
He said nothing.
And slowly, slowly, the panic drained out of him.
Not completely.
But enough.
His eyes fluttered.
Still red. Still wet.
And he slipped back into sleep.
This time, he didn’t shake.
Didn’t plead.
But his fingers still curled tightly into the blanket.
As if afraid it would all vanish if he let go.
The room was still. Only the rhythmic beeping of machines broke the silence, and the soft sighs of the wounded lying in the infirmary bed. His chest rose and fell, faint and slow.
Outside the direct view of the bed, the others had gathered in a quiet huddle—tired, anxious, but alert.
Yosano stood near a metal tray, holding something between her fingers.
A small photograph, worn at the edges.
She didn’t speak at first, just handed it to Kunikida.
He furrowed his brow and took it, Atsushi and Ranpo leaning in to look.
Three young men in a dimly lit bar. A single frame of something long gone.
“Is that… him?” Atsushi blinked. “That’s Dazai…?”
Kunikida nodded slowly. “He looks… so young.”
“And actually happy,” Ranpo added, squinting. “Creepy.”
Dazai was on the right, smiling—not his usual smug smirk, but a real one. Open, almost innocent. He wore a black coat with high collar—Port Mafia. His hair was neater, and there was a strange glimmer in his eyes.
In the middle, a tall man with dark hair and soft features raised a glass of wine, his expression caught between a quiet smile and unreadable depth.
To the left: Ango Sakaguchi. Formal even back then, though the drink in his hand looked out of place with his stiff posture.
“Ango?” Atsushi asked, surprised. “The guy from the Special Division?”
“What was he doing with Dazai?” Kunikida muttered.
“Looks like friends.” Yosano sat down beside them, her tone unreadable.
Ranpo tilted his head. “Or something more complicated than friends.”
On the back of the photo, in neat handwriting, a short message:
January 10th
I lost you but gained a new goal. Thank you.
A silence passed between them.
“Lost who?” Atsushi asked, voice soft.
Kunikida stared at the words. “…The man in the middle.”
“Do you think he’s—”
“Dead? Probably,” Ranpo answered flatly. “Or worse, if you knew Dazai back then.”
Atsushi looked at the photo again, brow furrowed. “I’ve never seen him look like that.”
“It’s like seeing a ghost with a past.” Yosano crossed her arms. “Makes you wonder how many pieces of him we’ve never seen.”
Ranpo leaned his head back against the wall. “That’s the thing with Dazai. He only shows you what he wants. The rest is buried with bandages and punchlines.”
Kunikida’s eyes didn’t leave the photo. “This… was in his coat?”
Yosano nodded. “I found it when I made him change. Probably didn’t even notice I slipped it out.”
“He kept it this long,” Atsushi whispered. “Since January tenth.”
The weight of the date finally settled in.
“Today’s January tenth,” Kunikida said slowly.
They all looked up.
No one spoke.
Everything made sense now—the too-cheerful morning, the black clothes, the knife, the medicine, the collapse.
Yosano stood again and looked over at the sleeping form on the bed, swathed in white, stitched and silent.
She didn’t say it out loud.
But she knew.
Now, so did they.
The light in the infirmary had dimmed with the sunset, golden beams falling gently across the floor like threads. The machines beside the bed beeped steadily, but Dazai’s complexion was starting to shift—from pale to paler, sickly even under the artificial light.
Yosano watched him closely, arms crossed. The blood bags were being replaced one after another, and yet his skin remained dull. His cheeks were sunken, lips dry, breath uneven. His body was refusing to hold on.
“He’s not absorbing enough,” she murmured under her breath. “It’s like he’s… fading.”
She reached for a small vial from her coat pocket, then leaned over the bed. Her hand was gentle as it brushed his fringe away from his clammy forehead.
“Time to wake up,” she whispered, voice quieter than usual. “You’ve had your beauty sleep.”
No response.
She lightly tapped his cheek.
“Come on, Dazai. I didn’t go through all this trouble for you to die on me like a dramatic idiot.”
A few seconds passed before there was the faintest twitch.
Then a soft hum.
His eyelashes fluttered, heavy and slow. The first thing Dazai saw was the blurred white ceiling—sterile, painfully clean.
He blinked again. His throat was dry. Everything hurt.
He didn’t speak right away, just furrowed his brow in confusion.
Yosano leaned back slightly, her expression unreadable. “Good. Welcome back.”
“…Bathroom?” he croaked, blinking sluggishly. “I… I was in the…”
“You collapsed,” she said plainly. “Your body couldn’t keep up with your coping mechanisms.”
He looked around then, sluggishly, and noticed the machines. The wires. The bandages.
His eyes caught on the others, seated around him—Atsushi, Kunikida, Ranpo.
And Fukuzawa.
“…president?” Dazai mumbled, weakly surprised.
“You’ve caused quite a stir,” Fukuzawa said, voice calm but edged with quiet gravity. “Even for you.”
Dazai tried to sit up, but even shifting an inch made his face contort.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Yosano said, gently pushing his shoulder down. “Stay still or I’ll strap you down.”
He blinked again, slow and heavy, like his eyes were made of glass. Then—just like always—he smiled.
It was weak. Almost invisible.
“I must look awful, huh?” he murmured. “Not my best angle.”
“You look like a skeleton someone painted eyebags onto,” Ranpo deadpanned.
That earned a faint breath of air—half a chuckle, half a sigh.
“I didn’t mean to make everyone worry,” he said, voice barely a whisper now.
“You didn’t,” Kunikida muttered. “We just... figured it out too late.”
Dazai turned his head slightly toward the others. His skin looked nearly translucent under the infirmary lights. His eyes, usually sharp and mischief-filled, were dull, swimming with fatigue.
But the smile stayed.
He always smiled.
Even now, when it looked like breathing was tiring him.
Even now, when part of him didn’t quite seem present.
Even now, when a ghost of something broken still hovered behind his gaze.
Yosano checked the monitor again.
Still unstable.
Still fragile.
But alive.
Just barely.
The silence sat heavy in the infirmary, interrupted only by the beeping of monitors and the occasional shift of a chair. Dazai blinked slowly, eyes glassy as they stared at the ceiling. Then, with a raspy little voice, he tilted his head barely toward Yosano.
“Could someone… close the sun?”
Yosano blinked. “The what?”
He gave a weak little grin. “The sun. Or those fake ones above me. Whichever’s easier.”
Ranpo stood immediately. “On it,” he said, flicking the switch so only the soft reading lamp beside Yosano remained.
Dazai sighed in relief, his eyes now only half-lidded. “You’re all too bright for me,” he mumbled, “like a group of stars... annoying ones.”
Kunikida huffed quietly through his nose.
Atsushi shifted in his seat. “Shouldn’t he eat something?” he asked, glancing toward the tray Yosano had brought earlier. “I could go get soup or—”
“No,” Dazai said, before the sentence even ended.
It wasn’t sharp. Just tired. Final.
Yosano turned her gaze back to him, narrowing her eyes. “You need food, Dazai.”
“I don’t want it.”
“It wasn’t a question.”
He didn’t look at her, just blinked slowly again.
“I don’t… like food.”
“You don’t like it?” Ranpo repeated with a raised brow.
“I don’t like how it feels,” Dazai murmured, eyes distant now. “Too heavy. Makes me nauseous. My stomach hasn’t been hungry in years, so I stopped trying to feed it.”
Yosano stilled.
“You stopped… eating?” she asked quietly.
His voice was paper-thin. “It’s easier that way. It’s easier to disappear when there’s less of you.”
No one spoke.
Even Ranpo’s smirk had fallen into something unreadable.
Yosano stood, brushing the tray aside without a word. She knew what this was now.
It wasn’t about taste or preference. It was control. It was punishment.
It was an eating disorder, wrapped in a smile and excuses.
Kunikida’s jaw was tight, but he didn’t say anything either.
Dazai was still now, eyes closed. Not asleep—he was too tense for that—but quiet. Controlled.
“You can’t sleep, can you?” Yosano asked softly, checking the IV line as she spoke.
“…Nope,” he whispered.
“Insomnia?”
“Something like that.” He gave a small, humorless chuckle. “I know I passed out. I just… don’t want to fade like that again. It was too quiet.”
“You asked us not to leave you alone,” Atsushi added, almost like a reminder.
Dazai opened one eye, just slightly.
“I did?”
They all nodded.
Dazai smiled faintly again, more to himself this time. “Thanks, then… for staying.”
His voice was barely audible.
And for a long time, no one spoke.
The beeping of the monitor slowed a little, but not by much.
He wasn’t okay.
But for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t alone either.
It was midnight.
The lights in the infirmary had been dimmed, casting a warm, muted glow across the room. Machines beeped steadily. The faint scent of antiseptic hung in the air. Fukuzawa had dozed off in his chair, arms crossed, head tilted to the side. Ranpo lay with his eyes closed beneath his cloak, appearing asleep. Kunikida was still, glasses slipping to the tip of his nose. Even Yosano had quieted in her seat, though her eyes remained half-lidded.
But Dazai knew they weren’t all truly asleep.
Especially not Atsushi.
The boy sat curled on the edge of the room like a shadow. His shoulders were tight, jaw clenched, fingernails dragging down his own arms again and again. Red lines bloomed along his skin, and he seemed completely unaware of the damage.
Dazai, lying with a shallow breath and dark circles under his eyes, noticed.
He blinked slowly, then reached for the hospital bed remote with effort. The back creaked upward as he pressed the button, lifting him into a sitting position. The sound was just loud enough to make Atsushi glance over, startled.
Dazai tilted his head and raised the remote. “Cool, huh?” he said hoarsely, smiling a little. “Now I can make my bed sit like an old man with back pain.”
Atsushi didn’t smile. His lips wobbled.
“…Come here,” Dazai said softly, his voice like worn silk. “I’ll scoot over.”
Atsushi hesitated, then rose slowly and crossed the room. He climbed onto the bed, gently, afraid of hurting Dazai—but Dazai didn’t even flinch. He opened his arm and wordlessly guided Atsushi closer.
The moment Atsushi settled beside him, he crumbled. The tears that had been trembling on his lashes finally spilled. He pressed his face into Dazai’s shoulder with a choked sob.
“I’m sorry…” he whispered. “I’m so sorry… I should’ve seen it—should’ve done something. You almost—”
“Hey, hey,” Dazai murmured, tightening his arm around him. His body protested with pain, but he didn’t loosen his hold. “You’re making this all about you. You’ll steal my dramatic spotlight.”
Atsushi cried harder.
And he kept scratching.
His trembling fingers returned to his arm, picking at the skin, dragging along red lines like he wanted to tear the guilt out of his body.
Dazai felt it. He pulled back slightly, gently catching Atsushi’s wrist.
“Hey,” he said, more firm this time. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
Atsushi tried to look away, ashamed, but Dazai held his hand still. “I mean it, Atsushi-kun. I already messed up enough. Don’t start following my example.”
Atsushi’s lip quivered, but he nodded.
Dazai let go, then pulled him back into a hug. It hurt. His bandaged arm trembled, muscles weak and aching from the dozens of cuts hidden beneath. But he didn’t show it.
He never did, when someone else was hurting.
They sat like that for a moment—boy and mentor, quiet in the dark. One shaking. One too tired to move but still trying to hold the other together.
Then, quietly, Dazai said, “Want to hear a stupid story?”
Atsushi hiccupped. “O-okay…”
“So,” Dazai began, his voice soft and oddly fond, “back when I was in the Port Mafia—don’t make that face, I was younger, dumber, and somehow still good-looking—I once stole Mori-san’s coat and convinced everyone he’d promoted me to boss for the day.”
Atsushi blinked up at him, confused. “W-what?”
“Mhm. I made Hirotsu clean my office. Ordered Chuuya to call me 'Dazai-sama.' Ango almost spilled his drink when he walked in. The whole act lasted twenty minutes before Mori came in and nearly shot me.”
“…You’re kidding.”
“I wish,” Dazai said, smiling faintly. “Best twenty minutes of my life.”
Behind them, a tiny snort echoed. It was subtle. But Dazai’s gaze flicked up, just for a second.
Fukuzawa’s arms were still crossed, but his lips were quirked.
Yosano’s eyelids were lowered, but her fingers twitched against the hem of her coat.
Ranpo shifted slightly, pulling his cloak further over his face.
Kunikida didn’t move—but his fingers were clenched in his lap.
Dazai knew.
They were all listening.
He could feel it, the way you feel eyes on your back.
But for once… it didn’t bother him.
Because tonight, for the first time in a long time, even while pale and aching and stitched back together with more effort than he was worth, Dazai Osamu wasn’t alone.
And that, strangely, made the sterile room feel warm.
The infirmary had fallen into stillness again.
Atsushi had cried himself quiet, his face still pressed to Dazai’s shoulder. His breath had slowed, chest gently rising and falling. One hand rested limply against Dazai’s side. He was asleep now, finally, the tension gone from his brows, and the scratches on his arms no longer twitching beneath his fingers.
But Dazai was still awake.
His eyes stayed open, dim in the pale light, fixed on nothing in particular. Machines continued to hum beside him—pulses, drips, stats—but they were just background noise.
He didn’t blink much.
He didn’t move either, except to slowly rub Atsushi’s back in lazy, thoughtless circles.
His own body was hollow and trembling, like something on the verge of cracking. Despite the blankets and the blood bags and the warmth of another person curled beside him, he still felt cold—so cold it ached in his bones.
He had meant to die today.
The plan was quiet. Clean. Nothing violent. Just a slipping away.
He had meant to do it with dignity.
He had meant to be gone by now.
But here he was.
Held down by IVs, wrapped in sterile white, kept alive by people who stubbornly loved a version of him he didn’t think existed anymore.
He tilted his head slightly, just enough to see the shapes of his colleagues still "asleep" in the chairs around him.
They were all pretending.
They’d heard him earlier. They knew.
He had joked for years about dying, about double suicides and poetic endings—but today, for the first time, the room no longer carried even a trace of laughter. There were no eyerolls. No tired sighs.
Because today, he’d collapsed.
Today, they had seen how fragile he really was.
And tonight, as the minutes crept past midnight, Dazai whispered something barely audible.
His voice was flat. Emotionless. Like the words had been buried in him for years, waiting to escape only when everything was quiet.
“January tenth.”
No one moved.
He kept talking.
“That’s when he died,” he murmured. “I wanted to follow. Same day. Same kind of quiet.”
Silence.
He closed his eyes, breathing faintly. “But I couldn’t even do that right.”
For a long moment, no one said anything.
Atsushi, asleep, stirred slightly, but didn’t wake.
Yosano’s hand twitched on her thigh.
Kunikida’s lips parted like he might speak—but didn’t.
Ranpo’s eyes opened the slightest crack, glinting from under the shadow of his hat.
Dazai didn’t say anything else.
He just lay there, hollow as a ghost, still hugging the boy who cried for him—still breathing when he had meant to stop.
And this time, nobody tried to fill the silence.
Because sometimes, the only thing you can do for someone who’s that close to breaking…
…is stay.
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