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The Armed Detective Agency was never quiet for long. Between the ticking of Kunikida’s watch, the rustling of paperwork, and Ranpo's snack wrappers crinkling every five minutes, there was always some noise.
But today, there was a different kind of silence. It settled thick and strange over the room like mist.
Dazai was the first to break routine. He arrived earlier than expected—no dramatic entrance, no usual lazy banter, no announcement about double suicide attempts or failed flirts.
He just… walked in.
His steps were slow, uneven, like the world had shifted under his feet. He didn’t even glance at the others. Instead, he went straight to his desk, dropped into his chair like his bones couldn’t hold him up anymore, and immediately buried his face in his folded arms.
Kunikida noticed first, of course. “You’re early,” he said, suspicion already lining his voice. “What’s the catch?”
No reply.
Ranpo leaned sideways in his chair, peering at Dazai with idle curiosity. “He’s not even faking sleep properly. Look at his neck. He's all red.”
Yosano walked past him with her coffee, giving Dazai a brief glance before pausing. “Flushed cheeks. Pale skin. Is he hungover again?”
“That’s normal,” Kunikida muttered, but something about the way he said it betrayed unease. “But he usually makes noise. Whines. Complains. Talks our ears off.”
Atsushi, timidly watching from the side, frowned. “He looks… sick. Like, actually sick.”
And he did.
His skin was a strange contrast—pale as paper except for the flushed heat across his cheeks. There was a fine sheen of sweat on his brow despite the cool morning air drifting through the open window. His coat, usually loose and elegant, looked too heavy on him today. Like it was dragging him down.
Still, Dazai didn’t speak. He didn’t even look up.
The only movement was the subtle, almost imperceptible twitch of his fingers—clenching, unclenching. Like he was trying to grip onto something invisible.
“Hey,” Kunikida said again, softer this time. “If you’re feeling sick, go home.”
Nothing.
Then a whisper, hoarse and muffled: “Too loud…”
Everyone went still.
Ranpo blinked. “What is?”
“The lights.”
Kunikida glanced up at the overhead fluorescents. “They’re the same as always.”
Dazai didn’t respond.
Just stayed curled up at his desk, breathing shallow, face hidden, as the morning light slanted across the floor and the silence settled again—heavier now, like a warning.
The morning passed like molasses—slow, heavy, and uncomfortable.
No one said it out loud, but every glance in Dazai’s direction was loaded with tension. He hadn’t moved in over an hour, still hunched over his desk with his head in his arms. Occasionally, his fingers twitched, or his shoulders gave a faint shiver. But mostly, he was still.
Too still.
At some point, maybe hoping to shift the weird atmosphere, Atsushi offered a quiet, “Should we turn off the lights?”
Kunikida, arms crossed but clearly concerned, gave a short nod. Yosano flicked off the fluorescents, letting the room fall into the gentler gray-blue of overcast daylight. But it didn’t really help.
Because the silence didn’t lift.
And then—finally—Dazai moved.
His chair creaked as he sat up, movements sluggish and strained. For a second, it looked like he might speak. Instead, he brought his fingers to his temples, pressing them hard like he was trying to physically hold his skull together.
Kunikida tensed.
That gesture—his gesture. The one he only used when stress or pain was unbearable.
Dazai’s hands lingered at his temples for a long moment before drifting down to his coat. He fumbled at the buttons. Slow. Slower. It was like his arms were made of stone. He struggled to shrug the long beige coat off his shoulders, half-asleep and half in pain, and let it fall into a heap beside his chair.
Underneath, his shirt clung faintly to his back with sweat.
His eyes barely opened. Glazed. Dull. The spark that made Dazai Dazai—chaotic, smug, infuriating—was gone.
He leaned forward again, face pressing into the crook of his arm, and exhaled shakily.
He was asleep—if you could call it that—within seconds. Or passed out. No one was really sure.
Ranpo didn’t even reach for another snack.
Yosano leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowed. “This is worse than a hangover.”
Kunikida stared at Dazai with a tight jaw. “This kind of silence… I hate it.”
Atsushi nodded quietly. “It’s like he’s not even here.”
The air was tense. The type of quiet that felt wrong. Unnatural.
Because Dazai never shut up.
Dazai never stayed still.
And Dazai never looked like he was breaking apart from the inside out.
By noon, the Agency had all but frozen in a strange, collective tension.
Every tick of the wall clock was like a countdown no one wanted to reach. Dazai hadn’t moved again since shedding his coat, face buried in his arms, breath shallow. Occasionally he twitched, but no one could tell if it was from sleep or pain.
Atsushi had tried bringing him a glass of water. It remained untouched.
Even Ranpo, usually detached from anything not involving sugar or mysteries, kept glancing over with narrowed eyes.
Then—without warning—Dazai moved.
The chair scraped back sharply, screeching against the floor. He stood up too fast, like his body didn’t get the message in time. His knees buckled slightly. One hand shot out to brace himself on the desk, the other reaching instinctively for the wall.
“Dazai?” Kunikida stood instantly.
No response.
Dazai staggered forward, swaying like a puppet with tangled strings. He dragged himself toward the hallway, shoulder bumping hard into the wall as he walked. One step. Another. The world was clearly spinning under his feet.
Kunikida hesitated for only a second before following. “Wait—at least let me—”
He barely finished the sentence before Dazai shoved open the bathroom door and fell to his knees in front of the toilet.
The sound of retching was loud and immediate.
Kunikida reached the doorway and froze.
It wasn’t just vomit.
Red streaked the water—deep, alarming, unmistakable.
“Shit,” Kunikida breathed, dropping to a crouch but not stepping in yet. “Dazai—! That’s blood.”
The others, hearing the sudden noise, gathered behind him in the hall.
Atsushi paled. Ranpo’s expression darkened. Even Yosano dropped her coffee, the mug clattering to the floor.
“Yosano!” Kunikida barked. “In here. Now.”
Dazai coughed violently, hand gripping the toilet like it was the only thing tethering him to Earth. More blood came up with the next heave, splattering against porcelain. His body shook with the effort.
Yosano pushed past the others and dropped to her knees beside him, hands already moving.
“Move,” she said quickly, voice sharp and calm. “All of you. Out.”
Kunikida lingered just a second longer, staring at the crumpled figure by the toilet—the dark strands of hair plastered to his sweat-slicked skin, the trembling in his shoulders, the raw, wet gasps for breath—and then stepped back.
The door shut behind Yosano with a definitive snap.
Inside, she was already pulling his hair back with one hand, the other pressed firmly between his shoulder blades to steady him.
“Dazai,” she said, voice quieter now. “Talk to me. When did this start?”
His answer came between painful, wrenching heaves. “Morning… maybe last night… hurts…”
“Your head?” she asked.
He gave a weak nod. “Behind the eyes… ringing… everything’s spinning…”
Yosano’s frown deepened. She pulled a glove from her coat pocket and slipped it on quickly, checking the blood. “Dark. Not fresh. This isn’t just from vomiting too hard—you’ve got internal bleeding somewhere.”
His breathing hitched, throat raw and ruined. “Didn’t… want to cause trouble…”
“You are trouble,” she snapped, but it was gentle. Familiar. Her hand stayed steady on his back. “You're burning up, dehydrated, and clearly in more pain than you’re letting on. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“…didn’t think it was important…”
Yosano exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to curse. “You idiot.”
He leaned further forward, arms draped over the toilet seat like dead weight, forehead resting against porcelain. His body was giving out fast.
“I need to get you stabilized,” she muttered, pulling her phone from her coat. “No hospital. Not yet. I can handle this here.”
And as she worked, alone in the quiet of the bathroom, she glanced down at him—pale, trembling, helpless—and thought, This is worse than anything I've seen from him before.
On the other side of the door, the Agency remained silent.
And it wasn’t the comfortable kind.
The hallway was dead silent, save for the faint ticking of the office clock and the low murmur of running water behind the bathroom door.
Everyone stood rooted in place — Atsushi with worry etched across his face, Tanizaki and Naomi shifting anxiously, even Ranpo unusually still. Kunikida’s arms were crossed, jaw tight. But he hadn’t moved from the spot nearest the door.
Then, finally, it opened.
Yosano stepped out, sleeves rolled up, gloved hands streaked faintly with blood. She didn’t say a word at first — just looked at them all, a rare grimness in her face.
Then, with a grunt, she dragged Dazai out with one arm slung around her shoulders, his other dangling limply. His legs dragged behind him like a doll’s, utterly lifeless. His head lolled forward, hair hiding most of his face. Only the sickly pale of his skin and the dark stains on his shirt stood out.
Even for Yosano, he was too light.
Way too light for a man in his twenties.
Kunikida stepped forward instantly. “Let me—”
“Good,” she interrupted, voice clipped. “Help me get him to the infirmary. He needs fluids, something for the nausea, and rest. I’ll meet you there.”
Kunikida didn’t hesitate. He bent, gently hooking an arm under Dazai’s knees and lifting him bridal-style — easily, too easily — as if he were nothing more than hollow bones and soaked cloth. Dazai stirred weakly in his arms, a soft groan slipping out, but didn’t open his eyes.
“Yosano-san,” Atsushi asked quietly, “is he… going to be okay?”
“I don’t know yet,” she answered, walking briskly past them. “But I’m not taking chances.”
She veered into one of the back rooms, rummaging quickly through the cabinets and locked drawers. Her hands moved automatically — saline packs, antiemetics, gauze, gloves, antiseptic — all of it loaded into her arms. She didn’t pause until she reached the locked filing cabinet in the corner and pulled out a single folder.
Dazai Osamu. Thick with reports.
Physical exams. Scars logged. Weight fluctuations. Notes from old specialists. Sleep deprivation incidents. Mental health red flags.
She tucked it under her arm, barely glancing up as the others began trailing after her.
Ranpo, arms folded, tilted his head as he fell into step beside her. “You never look this tense unless it’s serious.”
“It is serious.”
“I didn’t think he could still scare you,” he added, quieter now.
Yosano didn’t reply.
She only walked faster.
The infirmary was dim, lit only by the filtered afternoon light through the frosted windows. It was quiet in a way that made every breath and footstep feel too loud.
Kunikida pushed open the door with his shoulder, Dazai still limp in his arms. He crossed the room with deliberate care, like he was carrying something fragile. Maybe he was.
He set Dazai down on the nearest cot.
The younger man barely reacted. A low, hoarse breath escaped him as his head lolled to the side, cheek pressing into the pillow. His skin looked even paler against the white sheets, lips tinged faintly blue, hair damp with sweat.
Kunikida stood over him for a second longer than necessary, hands clenched at his sides.
This wasn’t a trick. This wasn’t one of Dazai’s dramatic games.
This was real.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Kunikida muttered under his breath.
No answer.
He sighed, removing Dazai’s shoes and pulling a blanket halfway up his legs. The sight of the bandages already stained faintly red at his side made his stomach twist.
The door creaked open behind him.
Yosano entered, brisk and focused, arms full of supplies and Dazai’s thick medical folder tucked under one elbow. Ranpo, Atsushi, and the others trailed in silently behind her. She set everything down on the side table and snapped on a pair of gloves.
“Out,” she said, not unkindly, but firm. “Let me work.”
The others hesitated — Atsushi looked like he wanted to argue — but one glance from her made them fall back.
Kunikida lingered by the foot of the cot.
“I’ll help if you need anything.”
Yosano nodded once. “Close the door behind you.”
He did, after one last look at Dazai’s unconscious form.
The infirmary door clicked shut, and the others sat just outside, quiet in a way none of them were used to.
Inside, Yosano rolled up her sleeves.
She flipped open Dazai’s file. Her eyes scanned through his medical history — dozens of entries, many pages filled with vague notes and concerning gaps. Malnutrition. Sleep deprivation. Multiple untreated concussions. Self-inflicted wounds. A suicide attempt logged by a previous employer.
And now this.
She checked his pulse, blood pressure, temperature. Hooked up an IV. Cleaned the blood from his mouth with gentle fingers. Propped his head to help with nausea. Checked for abdominal tenderness. He moaned once in his sleep, brow furrowed in pain.
“You really are a mess, aren’t you,” she murmured.
But there was no judgment in her voice.
Only worry.
The hallway outside the infirmary had never felt this heavy.
They sat scattered on the benches and floor — Atsushi hunched forward, elbows on his knees; Naomi leaning against her brother’s shoulder; Ranpo chewing thoughtfully on a lollipop, though he hadn't moved to get another one in a while.
It was too quiet.
And they hated it.
“Has he ever been… like this before?” Atsushi asked hesitantly, glancing toward the closed door.
Tanizaki shook his head. “He’s always weird, but not sick. Not like that.”
“Honestly,” Naomi added, “I didn’t think anything could actually get to Dazai-san.”
Ranpo didn’t look at them when he spoke. “It can. He just hides it better than most.”
Kunikida stood nearby, arms crossed so tightly it looked painful. His jaw worked like he was grinding his teeth.
“It’s not just today,” he said quietly. “He’s been coming in later. Sleeping more. Eating less. I just thought it was the usual… Dazai nonsense.”
“But it wasn’t,” Atsushi whispered. “He must’ve been hiding it the whole time.”
Kunikida exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair.
“I should’ve noticed earlier. I’m supposed to be his partner.”
None of them responded to that.
They didn’t have to.
The thought had already occurred to all of them — this was Dazai. Loud, obnoxious, dramatic. Constantly provoking Kunikida, annoying Yosano, teasing Ranpo. He never stopped talking, never seemed tired, never acted like anything could touch him.
But today, he’d looked like a ghost.
And bled like a broken thing.
The door stayed shut.
From inside, faint movement — clinking metal, Yosano’s voice, a cough — made them go silent every time.
Ranpo finally spoke again, softer this time.
“…I hate this version of him.”
Atsushi looked up. “What do you mean?”
“This. Quiet. Fragile. Real.” He stared at the door like it had insulted him. “I like him better when he’s irritating.”
Kunikida gave a bitter sort of smile. “We all do.”
The door opened with a soft creak.
Yosano stood there, her sleeves stained faintly with antiseptic and blood, gloves tucked into her belt, and a clipboard held against her chest. Her eyes were tired but steady.
“You can come in,” she said quietly.
No one moved at first.
Then Kunikida stood, followed by Atsushi, Tanizaki, Naomi, and finally Ranpo. The air inside the infirmary was colder than the hallway, filled with the faint hum of machines and the soft beeping of a monitor.
And in the center of it all — Dazai.
He was asleep, half-sunken into the cot, skin pale against the clean white blanket covering him from shoulders to feet. Someone — probably Yosano — had changed his clothes into a soft gray t-shirt and loose sweatpants. His bandaged arms lay limply at his sides, one hand loosely curled near his face. A small oxygen tube ran beneath his nose. Wires trailed from under his sleeve to the monitor above, blinking slowly.
He looked peaceful.
More peaceful than they’d ever seen him.
It was unsettling.
Atsushi stepped forward hesitantly. “Is he… okay?”
Yosano exhaled, glancing at her notes. “He had internal bleeding. Most likely from an untreated ulcer that burst sometime this morning. Combine that with dehydration, malnutrition, and exhaustion—” She didn’t finish the sentence. “He’s stable now. But if he hadn’t thrown up when he did, we might not have caught it in time.”
Kunikida stared at Dazai’s sleeping face. “So he’s been walking around with internal bleeding for how long?”
“Days,” Yosano answered. “Maybe longer.”
Tanizaki flinched. “How can someone ignore that kind of pain?”
Yosano’s expression was grim. “You’d be surprised what people get used to when they think they deserve it.”
The room fell silent again.
Ranpo was the one who broke it, voice unusually flat. “What else did you find?”
She hesitated.
Then opened the folder.
“Multiple stress fractures. Stomach erosion. Severe iron deficiency. Sleep deprivation. He’s barely eating — and even when he does, it probably hurts. There are signs of past surgeries that were never logged officially. And a few scars that look… self-treated.”
She paused, closing the file.
“I don’t think he was expecting to live much longer.”
No one spoke.
Dazai stirred slightly in the bed — just a soft twitch of his fingers, a shift in breath — but he didn’t wake.
Kunikida stepped closer and sat beside the bed, adjusting the blanket so it covered Dazai’s shoulder more fully.
“He’s an idiot,” he muttered.
“Yeah,” Ranpo agreed, hands in his pockets. “But he’s our idiot.”
And in that moment, surrounded by quiet machines and sharp truths, they all realized the same thing:
They hadn’t really known Dazai at all.
The hum of machines filled the infirmary, steady and soft. Outside, the sun had risen high, casting long shadows across the Agency’s wooden floors. But in the infirmary, it might as well have been twilight — the curtains were drawn halfway, and all the warmth of day stopped at the threshold.
Dazai hadn’t moved in hours.
His skin, usually golden under the glow of Yokohama sun, was pale — ghostly pale. The heart monitor beside him beeped in quiet rhythm, grounding everyone’s nerves. Still, that sound was the only real proof he was still alive.
Kunikida sat closest, leaning forward with elbows on his knees, Dazai’s medical file open in his lap. His eyes scanned every line over and over, as if rereading it would somehow make it less horrifying. Each time he reached the part about “internal bleeding,” his jaw clenched tighter.
Across the room, Atsushi hovered awkwardly near the sink, fidgeting with a cloth in his hands.
“Do you think he’s... in pain?” he asked softly.
“He’s asleep,” Yosano replied without looking up. “He’s not feeling much of anything right now.”
Ranpo lay upside down in a chair, legs hooked over the back. “Well, not physically. But he’s always in pain in the head. You know, emotionally.”
Naomi sighed. “Ranpo-san…”
“What? He is! He has that whole ‘tragedy prince’ aura. I bet he’d be offended if we didn’t acknowledge it.”
Kunikida finally spoke, low and tired. “He hid it so well. The vomiting, the weight loss, the insomnia. We didn’t notice a thing.”
“You noticed,” Yosano corrected gently. “Just not early enough.”
Kunikida looked at her. “Do you think he wanted to die?”
Yosano didn't answer immediately. She stood by the window, her back straight, watching the curtain flutter slightly. Finally, she said, “I don’t think he ever stopped wanting to.”
Atsushi looked down at the cloth in his hands. “Why… didn’t he say anything?”
“He never does,” Naomi murmured, watching the motionless figure in the bed. “Even when he’s hurting, he makes it about something else. A joke. A trick.”
Ranpo sat up suddenly. “That’s what happens when someone expects no one to care. You start building sarcasm like armor. And sometimes… people get too good at pretending.”
There was a heavy silence after that.
Yosano checked her watch. Then she checked the IV lines again, the monitor, and the tray that had been left untouched for hours.
“He hasn’t had solid food in days,” she said. “He’s surviving on fluids, but that’s not enough anymore. His body needs vitamins, and his stomach has to adjust. If he doesn’t start eating… we’ll be back here again.”
She walked out for a moment and returned with a small tray. A plain bowl of rice porridge. Warm broth. Juice. Nothing overwhelming.
Kunikida raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”
“You try forcing real food into someone who just puked blood,” she said. “Small steps.”
She placed the tray on the bedside table and gently leaned over Dazai.
“Time to wake up,” she murmured, tapping his shoulder.
He didn’t stir.
She touched his temple. “Dazai. Osamu.”
A low groan answered her, soft and hoarse. Dazai’s brows twitched faintly, then his eyes fluttered open — slow, reluctant.
For a moment, he stared at the ceiling like he didn’t recognize it.
Then his gaze shifted, blurry, toward the group.
“…This again?” he rasped.
Kunikida exhaled through his nose. “Good morning to you too.”
Dazai’s lips curled weakly. “I was having a nice dream. Funeral bells, crying women, rain... very poetic.”
“You’re hilarious,” Yosano deadpanned. “Eat.”
He blinked at the tray beside him. “Did you poison it?”
“Only if you refuse to finish it.”
He squinted. “Where… are my clothes?”
Naomi snorted quietly. “Cleaned. You’re welcome.”
Dazai leaned back into the pillow, hand raised to his eyes. “So much for dying in style...”
Ranpo grinned. “You did look gross, though.”
Dazai chuckled, and it came out like a cough. “Thanks, Ranpo-kun. Always comforting.”
Yosano crossed her arms. “If you can joke, you can eat.”
He groaned and turned his head away. “My mouth is dry. My body’s weak. My soul has left the building—”
Kunikida handed him the spoon wordlessly.
Dazai gave him a half-lidded glare. Then sighed in defeat.
“…Fine. But if I vomit again, I’m haunting all of you.”
He dipped the spoon into the rice and brought it to his mouth — slowly, like he was afraid of it. Everyone watched. He paused, tasted it, swallowed.
Made a face.
“That’s vile.”
Yosano smiled sweetly. “Better get used to it.”
He took another bite. Slower. But he did it.
And for the first time all day, everyone exhaled — just a little.
It was late afternoon when the others finally left. Kunikida was the last one out the infirmary door, casting a long look over his shoulder at Dazai before quietly closing it behind him.
Yosano stood still for a moment. The only sound in the room was the faint hum of the IV machine. Dazai was half-sitting in the bed, blanket pulled to his waist, pushing around the last spoonful of broth like it might attack him if provoked.
She didn’t speak immediately. Instead, she watched him — the way his hand trembled slightly as he held the spoon, the way his shoulders hunched inward like a child waiting for scolding. When he finally looked up, she noticed how quickly he looked away again.
“You’re not very good at hiding guilt,” she said.
Dazai’s smile was faint and hollow. “Comes with practice.”
She stepped closer, her voice firm. “Do you want to die?”
He didn’t flinch. Just stared at the blanket. “You already know the answer to that.”
“I’m asking again,” she said, now standing beside his bed. “Because wanting to die and letting your body rot are different kinds of self-destruction.”
“Bit dramatic,” he murmured.
“You haven’t seen dramatic yet,” Yosano replied.
She sat down on the edge of his bed and pulled the clipboard from the table. Her voice was matter-of-fact as she flipped to a page.
“Chronic gastritis. Malnutrition. Severe iron deficiency. Irregular sleep patterns. Migraines that have left permanent effects on your nervous system. Dehydration. Anemia. And the lovely addition of internal bleeding, just for flair.”
Dazai looked down again.
She let the silence hang before leaning in closer. “Why are you doing this?”
His jaw tightened. He didn’t answer.
Yosano sighed — not angrily, but like someone exhausted from worrying too long. Then, gently, she reached forward and placed her hands on either side of his face.
Dazai tensed immediately, eyes flicking away, but she held him steady — not forcefully, but with surprising tenderness.
“Look at me,” she said, soft but unyielding.
He hesitated… then reluctantly met her eyes.
“You think I’m mad because you got sick?” she asked. “I’m mad because you hid it. You lied about your health until you collapsed.”
“I didn’t lie,” he mumbled, avoiding her gaze again. “I just didn’t… say anything.”
“Same thing.”
He tried to look away again, but she gently cupped his cheek, thumb brushing lightly under his eye.
“You are not some ghost, Dazai. Not a shadow we ignore until it fades. You're part of this Agency. You're part of us. And we don’t leave each other behind — not even when one of us keeps trying to disappear.”
He blinked quickly, mouth slightly parted. Her touch was too gentle for the walls he usually built.
“I don’t know how to stop,” he finally whispered.
Her expression softened. She dropped her hands and sat back, still watching him.
“Then let me teach you.”
She pulled a chair beside the bed and sat.
“First: food. You eat what I tell you to eat, when I tell you to. No more skipping meals. If you ‘forget,’ I’ll personally feed you like a baby bird.”
“…Disturbing visual,” Dazai muttered.
“Second: sleep. At least five hours. If you pull another all-nighter, I’m handcuffing you to the bed.”
“Not the fun kind, I assume.”
She rolled her eyes but smiled faintly.
“Third: weekly infirmary check-ins. I’ll examine you from top to bottom. If you skip a single one, I’m sending Kunikida with a PowerPoint presentation on ‘Responsibility and Bodily Maintenance.’”
Dazai groaned dramatically and threw an arm over his face.
“Lastly,” she said, reaching to pull the blanket up over his chest, “no more secrets. If you’re hurting, you tell me. If you’re dizzy, sick, cold, tired — you say it. Out loud. No one here can read your mind, no matter how loud it is in there.”
She stood, glancing back one more time before moving toward her desk.
“You’re not alone anymore, Dazai. So stop acting like it.”
He didn’t say anything for a while. Then, softly:
“You’re too kind to me, Yosano-san.”
She looked over her shoulder with a quiet, tired smile.
“Don’t mistake ‘kind’ for ‘determined.’ I’m going to fix you whether you like it or not.”
And as she turned off one of the overhead lights and returned to her notes, Dazai laid back, staring up at the ceiling.
For once, his heart wasn’t racing. The silence wasn’t painful. It was still. And warm.
Maybe healing didn’t begin with medicine.
Maybe it began with someone who refused to give up on you.
It had been exactly seven days since Dazai collapsed in the Agency office.
Seven days since Yosano peeled apart the carefully constructed walls he’d built around himself and found the wreckage he called a body.
Seven days since Fukuzawa gave an official order: No missions. No weapons. No disappearing.
And now, on the eighth day, Dazai Osamu was sitting sulkily at his desk… with a thermos of homemade soup, a neatly packed lunchbox, and a hawk-eyed medic watching him from across the room.
“Eat,” Yosano warned without even looking up from her paperwork.
“I am,” Dazai lied, subtly shifting his chair to block her view.
“I can see your reflection in the window.”
“…Tch.”
Ranpo, chewing lazily on a Pocky stick, snorted. “You should’ve known better, Dazai. She has ‘health laser eyes.’”
“I’m starting to think this Agency is less about solving crimes and more about slowly murdering my will to live,” Dazai grumbled.
“You already tried that,” Atsushi said before immediately choking on his tea in embarrassment. “I—I mean—”
“No, no,” Dazai chuckled weakly. “Fair point.”
A moment of quiet passed, unusually soft. Dazai poked at his rice with a frown before finally taking a bite under Yosano’s watchful gaze.
It hadn’t been easy.
That first night in the Agency’s spare bedroom had been strange — the bed too clean, the silence too gentle. He’d barely slept, unsure what to do in a space that wasn’t cold, broken, or entirely his own.
But someone had left extra blankets. A nightlight. Even a warm water bottle.
He suspected it was Kunikida — though the man denied it with such force he only confirmed it.
The days after blurred together. Yosano checked his vitals every morning. Ranpo tried to sneak him snacks at least twice a day. One afternoon, Kenji burst into his room with a bouquet of wildflowers and absolutely no explanation. Kyouka brought him quiet companionship, sitting across from him with her phone and never pressuring him to talk.
He wasn’t allowed near missions. Not even simple ones.
Fukuzawa was firm.
“You want to throw yourself into danger?” the President had said, sipping tea like it was gospel. “Get medically cleared first.”
So Dazai spent his days surrounded by laughter, paperwork, lunch trays, and an increasing number of people who noticed every time he winced or rubbed at his temple.
No one let him hide anymore.
And that included lunch.
No more escaping to the bathroom.
No more “I’m not hungry.”
Now, there was a designated Dazai Table. If he didn’t sit at it, Kunikida would drag him by the collar.
Ranpo leaned over now, whispering conspicuously loudly, “I tried sneaking you a doughnut earlier but Yosano made me eat it myself.”
“Tragic,” Dazai muttered.
“She said if I do it again, she’ll ‘administer iron supplements where the sun don’t shine.’ What does that mean?”
“I… think you’re safer not knowing.”
Across the room, Yosano raised an eyebrow. “Want to find out?”
Ranpo went pale and zipped his mouth shut.
Dazai grinned faintly and took another bite of food.
Truthfully, he still hated it — the way his stomach twisted at the idea of eating, the way his body felt foreign, heavy, and slow. But there was a warmth to the discomfort now. A gentle rhythm to the way people cared, even if he didn’t know what to do with it.
Later that day, he returned to the Agency’s bedroom. His things — what little there was — had been brought over quietly. He still wasn’t allowed to go back to his apartment.
“Too easy for you to slip away,” Fukuzawa had said.
And they were right.
Dazai sat on the edge of the bed now, watching dust motes swirl in the afternoon light.
For once, the silence didn’t feel empty.
It felt… lived in.
“Dazai,” came Yosano’s voice from the doorway. She stood there with a new bottle of medication and a tray of warm tea. “Time for your evening check-in.”
He didn’t groan. Not this time.
Instead, he gave her a tired smile.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
She stepped in and began her usual routine — checking his temperature, his pulse, asking quiet questions about dizziness and pain. He answered honestly. For once. His answers were better now. Clearer. More stable. His vitals weren’t great, but they weren’t a disaster anymore either.
“You’re improving,” Yosano said, eyes softening. “Slowly. But you are.”
She set the tray down and paused, looking at him for a moment too long. Then, with a rare gentleness, she bent down and wrapped her arms around his shoulders in a short, quiet hug.
Dazai blinked, caught off guard.
“I'm proud of you,” she murmured against his hair. “Even if you still drive me insane.”
His throat tightened.
“…Thanks, doc,” he whispered, not knowing what else to say.
She pulled away with a smirk. “Now finish your tea before I finish it for you.”
And just like that, she was gone again — but something warm lingered in the room, gentle and steady.
Maybe he was healing.
Slowly. Stubbornly.
Surrounded by chaos, complaints, far too much tea… and people who truly wanted him alive.
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