Chapter Text
Hospitals were always clean. Too clean.
Like they were pretending nothing sent there was destined to hell.
Osamu Dazai stared up at the ceiling tiles above his hospital bed. One of them was off-center just slightly.
It bothered him—not enough to mention, but enough to keep him tethered to something resembling awareness.
He counted seconds, minutes, then nothing, because what did it matter?
From what Dazai could gather, the hospital was cold and reeked of chemical cleaning products.
He’d hardly even left his bed throughout his entire stay—not like the parchment paper he had for sheets was the least bit comfortable.
Outside the window, the sky was the colour of cigarette ash. The trees stood stiff against the wind, their leaves turning shades of rust and gold. A few swirled down with lazy indifference, as if even gravity didn’t care anymore either.
Autumn had always felt like a season in freefall, like everything was letting go.
The trees, the light, the days.
He shifted under the stiff hospital blanket.
His wrist stung, but he didn’t look at it. There wasn’t a point in doing so when the nurses had already seen it. They whispered in the hallway when they thought he was asleep.
“Another failed attempt,” One said to another nurse. “That makes three this year.” Most staff around here knew Dazai’s name well.
Four, he thought, eyes dull.
They never counted the one in the river. As long as it was clean, quiet, and involved no paperwork, it hardly mattered.
No visitors came. There wasn’t no emergency contact either, nor fuss.
He was the kind of file they marked with red tabs and carried an awkward silence when spoken of.
Until the man in white showed up.
His first visitor.
The first time that man stepped into the room, Dazai thought he was a mortician or some kind of lab worker.
Not because of the white coat—though it was pressed and spotless—and not even because of the gloves tucked neatly into his breast pocket, like he was always prepared for contamination.
It was the way he moved. The air of his presence.
It was too precise. Too calm, like he’d long since made peace with death and found it unimpressive.
He didn’t introduce himself at first, just sat in the plastic chair near the window and flipped open a file, paying no mind to the sad excuse of a boy in front of him.
The silence stretched beneath rainfall, measured in heart monitor beeps.
“If you’re gonna give me a ‘life is worth living’ speech,” Dazai’s mumble broke the silence, voice scratchy, “don’t bother, I’ve heard them all.”
“I imagine you have,” The man in white replied, flipping a page as raindrops raced down the window behind him.
The man’s response almost made Dazai’s chin perk up with what he couldn’t tell was perplexity or amusement.
Most adults flinched at that, or at least softened their gaze on him.
This man did none of that.
“You’re not with child services, are you?”
“No.”
“Therapist?”
“No.”
“Undertaker?”
A flicker of amusement, “doctor.”
“Of what?”
“Everything,” He said simply. “But mostly, potential.”
“That’s vague,” Dazai blinked. “Potential for what, exactly?”
“Potential for anything,” The man replied, crossing his leg over his other like he owned the very air between them. “You’ve been called brilliant, haven’t you? Genius, prodigy, a little terrifying, perhaps?”
Dazai’s expression remained hollow. “I’ve been called worse.”
He let out an empty chuckle. “I read your records. Age eight—offered a spot in three universities before you even knew how to tie your shoelaces. Every standardized exam? Top percentile. Every problem set? Solved before the ink was dry.”
Dazai’s bleak gaze trailed up at the ceiling, “My, look how well that turned out,” his indifferent humour wavered in his tone.
“That’s why I’m here,” The man continued smoothly. “A mind like yours doesn’t fail because it’s weak, it fails because the world can’t keep up. When the game becomes too easy, you’ll feel the only option that remains is to quit playing.”
A beat of silence. Dazai’s eyes narrowed. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
“Oh, I am. It’s because you remind me of someone I know dearly,” The man’s smile sharpened, “But, you could say I’ve curated a collection of remarkable minds. Some became scholars. Some, leaders. Some… chose other paths.”
“Other paths,” Dazai repeated, voice dry, “That’s a delicate way of saying ‘criminal.’”
“Labels are for people who can’t see the whole board,” He said, “I prefer results.”
“And you think I’d be interested in your collection?”
“I think,” The man replied, leaning forward now, his gaze precise and unblinking, “you’re bored, Dazai. And boredom, in someone like you, is far more dangerous than malice.”
Dazai stared back at him, silent for a long moment, “Well Doctor, you may have a point.”
He stood, closing the folder, “I’ll see you again tomorrow.”
Dazai spoke up from his hospital bed before the man in white could step through the door.
”Who is this person I remind you of?”
The man stared back quietly for a beat before his lips curved into a smile.
“Myself, of course.”
Dazai blinked.
“My name is Ougai Mori,” The man in white smiled for the first time, though it lacked any sense of warmth, “But soon enough you’ll be able to call me father.”
Dazai’s eyes didn’t cease to stare, slightly dumbfounded.
“Tell me, Dazai,” Mori began, “Why is it you wish to die?”
Another beat of silence passed.
”Let’s turn that question around,” Dazai paused grimly, “Is there any value to this thing we call living?”
Once Dazai had been transferred from the general hospital into a psychiatric unit, the man in white continued to visit.
Every day.
Same time, same coat, same unreadable expression.
Few words were shared between them during his visits.
Sometimes he spoke about literature, psychology, art, or different philosophical views. Sometimes he just read in silence while Dazai stared at the ceiling. Sometimes he brought books—always one, always left on the table without much comment.
Dazai ignored them for days. He let them stack up in a pile as if they were sympathy letters from visitors who cared about the condition he was in.
Then one night, long after the nurses dimmed the lights and the hallway settled into late-shift silence, he cracked one open just to spite the quiet.
It was The Stranger by Camus. He read three chapters before sunrise.
The next day, the man left Crime and Punishment beside the tray of untouched breakfast with hardly a word.
Dazai didn’t thank him, but read that one too.
Once Dazai’s 21-day sentence was over, he was released.
He didn’t ask where he was going when they emitted him.
Didn’t care.
The front desk doctor barely made eye contact, just handed Mori a clipboard and a release form.
Dazai followed the man out the hospital doors without anybody to stop them.
No one even looked up—why would they?
They never called it an adoption.
There wasn’t no legal fuss, nor overexposed flash of a social worker with a pamphlet, and certainly no sitcom “welcome to your new home” moment.
There was only a pen, a signature, and a near silent car ride.
Mori’s house was a model of restraint—wood-paneled floors, immaculate surfaces, and not a cushion out of place. Cold and clinical, like a doctor’s office or a display room at a high-end furniture store.
The guest bedroom—his room now, supposedly—had one window, a plain desk, and a neatly made bed. From afar it looked like a hotel room.
But it had a door he could close with no locks on the outside.
That was new.
He wasn’t asked to call Mori anything. Not “Father,” not “Sensei,” not even “sir.”
Sure, Mori encouraged him, but it was a pitiful effort.
Mori had another child, a daughter he was biologically related to.
Her name was Elise—a 7 year old girl who Mori spoiled to bits. She had long blonde hair, a large collection of frilly dresses, and an attitude. She was certainly a high-demanding child from what Dazai could tell.
At meals, Mori read files while Dazai picked at rice and drank lukewarm soup. They rarely spoke to one another when Elise was at school.
The silence between them never echoed, it simply settled like dust.
And yet, Dazai stayed. He took the pills laid out each morning, read the books Mori continued the habit of leaving on his desk, ate the food, showered, changed clothes, and breathed—to his utter misfortune.
Not because he cared, but because falling again meant starting from the bottom.
Again.
Even he was tired of that.
Three weeks passed like molasses in October.
He had just settled into the routine of existing without trying when Mori entered the dining room with a manila envelope.
“I’ve enrolled you into school,” he said, “What kind of father would I be if only one of my children were in school?”
Dazai raised an eyebrow mid-bite of toast, “Wanna get rid of me already?”
Mori didn’t do much as crack a smile.
”You’re a smart kid, Osamu. You may as well put that gift to use. Besides, you might make a few friends,” He shrugged vaguely, “Socializing will deem beneficial for you, I’m sure, considering your recent history.”
Dazai held his toast between his fingers in mid-air, staring vacantly at Mori.
”Friends, huh?” Dazai repeated with disinterest.
“It’s a private boarding academy. You’ve been accepted on a full academic scholarship. Dormitory included,” Mori explained, “You start a week from now. I’ve already collected most of your essentials—books, stationary, your uniform.”
Dazai’s nose crinkled at “uniform.”
Great. A private boarding school filled with prissy rich kids.
”The only thing left for you to do is pack anything you’d like to bring with you,” Mori explained, as if Dazai had any hobbies, interests, or anything worth bringing with him.
“And if I refuse?”
“You won’t.”
He supposed he couldn’t.
Yokohama Private Academy looked like something out of a colonial fever dream. Ivy-curtained buildings, cobblestone walkways, and prudish rich teenagers wearing uniforms with too many buttons.
It was the kind of place that looked too mechanical—where the trees looked hand selected and even the breeze felt like it had passed inspection.
Autumn hit the campus like a painting—red-orange canopies, crunchy leaves underfoot, and the sky like cooled metal.
Dazai stood outside the iron gate in his new uniform, the collar starched enough to bruise. He adjusted it with irritation.
It all felt too proper—too polished, like a lie you just couldn’t argue with.
He sighed, slung his bag over his shoulder, and stepped through.
Eyes followed him down the hall.
“That’s the new transfer.”
“He’s weird. Quiet.”
“I heard he’s on some kind of academic scholarship.”
”Fuckin’ nerd.”
It was a wonder how all of these kids knew Dazai’s history upon first glance, albeit only a small chunk.
It was likely Mori had connections with many of their parents, but Dazai didn’t care much to entertain that thought.
People filled in the blanks faster than you could stop them.
By lunch, he was already bored.
He wandered the courtyard, browsed the library shelves, hovered by the vending machines with no money, nor interest in any food. Everything reeked of properness.
Then he heard it—shouting. Fists hitting flesh.
A scuffle on the field.
He walked toward the noise. He allowed the spark of curiosity that entertained his boredom to guide him.
Two boys were fighting near the soccer goal on the edge of the large track-field. Coaches yelled and whistles shrieked, but no one was fast enough to stop it.
The taller one—Shirase, according to someone whispering nearby—swung wide, his aim cocky and careless.
But the redhead? He didn’t flinch. He moved like someone who’d done this before.
His movements certainly weren’t precise, but they were compact. Sharp. Furious.
Dazai tilted his head, almost amazed.
He was amused to say the least.
There was a stray soccer ball at the edge of the field. He picked it up, tossing it in his hands.
Then he launched it.
It smacked Shirase square in the ribs.
“OW—what the hell?!”
The two boys had both turned to face Dazai.
“Oops,” He said, expression and tone unapologetically neutral.
The kid with grey hair stormed toward him.
But the redhead stepped between them, “Back off, Shirase,” He hissed.
“You his bodyguard now?!” Shirase snapped.
“I’m making sure you don’t embarrass yourself twice in one day.”
More shouting pursued before Shirase backed off with a huff.
Then it was just the two of them.
The redhead glared, “You’re an idiot.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“What the hell was that for?”
“I was bored.”
“You’re deranged.”
“And you should drink more milk. You’re really short, y’know.”
The redhead shoved him—light, but firm, without the intention to actually hurt him.
Dazai stumbled back a step and laughed.
“God, you’re annoying,” The kid muttered.
“That’s a lot of talk coming from someone pocket-sized.”
“You’re asking for it.”
“Perhaps that’s so. Would you be so kind to grant me a kiss?”
”EUGH—STOP THAT! YOU FREAK!”
“Joking!” Dazai’s grin was empty.
The redhead narrowed his eyes, “Who even are you?”
“Osamu Dazai,” He replied, holding out a hand.
The redhead didn’t shake it.
“Chuuya Nakahara,” He sneered.
“Nice to meet you, Chuuya.”
“Piss off.”
He walked away, flipping him off from behind.
Dazai watched him go with a rare grin tugging at his lips.
Something about that fire, it cut through the fog in his head.
He didn’t know what this school had in store.
But something told him with Chuuya around, It wouldn’t be boring.