Chapter Text
Fifteen-year-old Osamu Dazai did not knock.
He never knocked.
Locks existed to slow down normal people, and Dazai had stopped being normal a long time ago.
The hallway of the Port Mafia dormitory was silent at two in the morning, lit only by dim yellow wall lamps that buzzed faintly overhead. Most of the building slept. Missions ended late, paperwork ended later, and exhaustion usually knocked subordinates unconscious before dawn.
But not Dazai.
Dazai moved down the corridor with sharp, measured steps, black coat fluttering slightly behind him. His expression was blank in the way only his could be—too empty to even qualify as annoyed.
Someone had reported that Ryunosuke Akutagawa had failed to answer his communicator for thirty-seven minutes earlier that evening.
Thirty-seven minutes.
Unacceptable.
Dazai had decided he would personally deal with it.
Not because he cared.
Because insubordination irritated him.
He slipped a thin tool into the lock, twisted once, and the apartment door clicked open.
The room beyond was dark.
Silent.
Cold.
Dazai stepped inside and immediately paused.
The apartment was spotless.
Not “clean” spotless.
Disturbingly spotless.
Every shoe aligned perfectly by the entrance. Every surface wiped down to a shine. The couch cushions sat with military precision, not a wrinkle in sight. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and detergent instead of food or dust or humanity.
It didn’t feel lived in.
It felt staged.
Dazai shut the door quietly behind him.
“…Akutagawa,” he called flatly.
No response.
He clicked on a lamp.
The tiny living room illuminated in warm gold light, exposing more wrongness.
There were no dishes.
None.
No cups in the sink. No bowls left out. No crumbs. No takeout containers.
Dazai opened a cabinet.
Medicine.
Bottles and bottles of it.
Cough suppressants. Painkillers. Fever reducers. Prescription labels. Sleeping medication. Antibiotics.
Another cabinet.
More medicine.
Another.
Bandages.
Sterile gauze.
Alcohol wipes.
His expression didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened slightly.
He he walked over and opened the refrigerator.
Almost empty.
A single water bottle.
Nothing else.
No food.
Not even expired food.
The trash can was empty too.
No wrappers.
No evidence of eating.
No evidence of existing.
Dazai shut the fridge slowly.
“…What the hell?”
For the first time since entering, genuine confusion flickered faintly across his face.
He moved toward the bedroom.
The room looked untouched.
The bed was perfectly made, sheets tucked with impossible precision. The dresser was orderly, clothes folded neatly inside. Black shirts. Dark trousers. Coats.
The only proof anyone actually slept here.
Then Dazai saw the desk.
And stopped.
Blood droplets.
Tiny rust-colored stains scattered across pale wood.
Several box cutters lay discarded beside each other.
All stained dark red.
Rusty razor blades sat in careful rows beside folded cloths and medical tape.
The trash can beside the desk overflowed with bloodied bandages.
Dazai’s gaze shifted.
A book sat open beneath the desk lamp.
*99 Ways to Die.*
The page displayed detailed information about terminal lung illnesses.
Tuberculosis.
Pulmonary hemorrhaging.
Organ failure.
The paper beneath the book was stained with blood fingerprints.
For a long moment, Dazai simply stared.
Then—
A violent cough echoed from deeper in the apartment.
Wet.
Horrible.
Followed by the unmistakable sound of liquid hitting porcelain.
Dazai moved instantly.
The bathroom door was locked.
He kicked it open hard enough for it to slam against the wall.
And froze.
Blood.
The sink was full of it.
Dark crimson splattered across white porcelain, dripping down the counter, staining the floor in scattered streaks.
Ryunosuke Akutagawa stood hunched over the sink, one trembling hand gripping the counter hard enough for his knuckles to bleach white.
The other hand covered his mouth.
Blood poured between his fingers.
It ran down his chin.
Down his throat.
Dropped steadily into the sink below.
His shoulders shook violently with another cough and more blood splattered across porcelain.
Dazai stared.
Akutagawa looked… wrong.
Not the sharp, vicious Port Mafia dog that snarled and tore through enemies with Rashomon.
Just—
Small.
Painfully thin beneath unfamiliar clothes.
A pale pink spaghetti-strap shirt hung loosely from his narrow frame, soft lace trimming the neckline. It looked delicate. Too delicate for him. Black pajama pants sat low on bony hips, the fabric loose from obvious weight loss.
His arms—
Dazai’s eyes locked there immediately.
Scars.
Hundreds.
Raised white lines crossing every inch of visible skin.
Some old and silvered.
Some red and fresh.
Some still healing beneath poorly wrapped bandages.
All unmistakably self-inflicted.
Akutagawa noticed him.
His eyes widened in raw panic.
He immediately turned away, coughing violently into his hand again as if trying to hide it.
“S-stay back—”
Blood splattered the sink.
Dazai remained in the doorway.
Silent.
Watching.
Akutagawa’s breathing was ragged and wet.
“…You broke into my apartment,” he rasped weakly.
Dazai ignored that.
“What is this?”
His voice was cold.
Flat.
Akutagawa flinched harder at that than the coughing fit.
“It is nothing.”
Another cough interrupted him violently.
Blood spilled through his fingers again.
Dazai’s gaze swept over the bathroom.
Clean.
Meticulously clean.
Despite the blood.
There were disinfectants lined along the shelves in perfect rows. Towels folded neatly. Medication organized alphabetically beside the mirror.
The blood looked almost unnatural against such obsessive order.
Like someone trying desperately to control one thing while another destroyed him from the inside out.
Akutagawa shakily rinsed the sink while still coughing.
As if cleaning mattered more than breathing.
Dazai watched him silently for several seconds.
Then his eyes dropped again to the scars.
To fresh cuts crossing old ones.
To trembling fingers stained red.
To shoulders so thin they looked fragile beneath pink lace.
“Are you dying?” Dazai asked bluntly.
Akutagawa went still.
Not fully.
His body still trembled with suppressed coughing.
But still enough.
“…No.”
A lie.
An obvious one.
Dazai stepped closer.
Akutagawa immediately recoiled.
“Do not.”
Dazai ignored him again.
Up close, it looked worse.
Blood coated Akutagawa’s lips thickly.
His skin was ghostly pale beneath the bathroom light.
Dark shadows hollowed out the skin beneath his eyes.
His wrists—
Bandages wrapped around them beneath the scars.
Too many layers.
Too fresh.
“You missed work yesterday,” Dazai said.
Akutagawa stared at the sink.
“I completed the mission reports.”
“That was not the question.”
Silence.
Dazai tilted his head slightly.
“You’re pathetic.”
Akutagawa’s fingers tightened against the counter.
Normally those words would have earned immediate frantic apologies. Desperate promises to improve.
Tonight—
Nothing.
Just exhausted silence.
Another cough ripped through him so violently his knees buckled.
Blood splattered the floor.
Dazai grabbed his arm before he could fall.
The contact was strange.
Akutagawa was burning up.
And terrifyingly light.
Dazai could feel every bone through his arm.
Akutagawa immediately tried to wrench away despite shaking hard enough to barely stand.
“I can stand.”
“You’re bleeding everywhere.”
“It will stop.”
“It clearly won’t.”
Akutagawa finally looked at him then.
And Dazai unexpectedly saw it.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Just humiliation.
Raw and awful.
Like being seen like this was worse than physical pain.
Another cough bent him double.
This time blood spilled onto Dazai’s sleeve.
Akutagawa’s eyes widened in horror.
“I—”
He started scrubbing frantically at the stain with shaking hands.
“I apologize—”
Dazai grabbed his wrist.
Akutagawa instantly went silent.
Dazai stared at the cuts there.
Fresh cuts.
Deep ones.
Not accidental.
Not shallow.
The kind that could become dangerous very quickly.
Akutagawa immediately jerked his arm back and shoved the sleeve down.
His breathing sounded uneven now.
“…Do not look at me.”
Dazai blinked once.
“What?”
Akutagawa stared at the floor.
“Do not look.”
His voice cracked slightly.
“I know I look disgusting.”
For some reason, that sentence lodged strangely in Dazai’s chest.
Disgusting.
Dazai closed his eyes and thought back to evrything.
At the blood.
At the medicine.
At the empty fridge.
At the book about dying.
At the scars.
At the teenager standing barefoot in blood while apologizing for staining someone else’s sleeve.
And for the first time in a very long time—
Dazai did not know what he was supposed to say.
His eyes slowly opened again.
Akutagawa suddenly coughed again, harsher than before.
Blood hit the sink.
Then more.
Too much.
Way too much.
His body shook violently.
Dazai’s eyes narrowed.
“That amount isn’t normal.”
Akutagawa let out a breath.
The sound was awful.
“…Astute observation.”
Then his knees gave out completely.
Dazai caught him before he hit the floor.
Akutagawa’s entire body was trembling now, breath stuttering painfully as blood dripped from his mouth onto the front of the pale pink shirt.
The color looked almost cruel against all that red.
“Let go,” Akutagawa whispered.
Dazai didn’t.
“Why haven’t you gone to a doctor?”
Silence.
Dazai tightened his grip slightly.
“Answer.”
Akutagawa’s eyes remained fixed somewhere over Dazai’s shoulder.
“…Because if I am dying,” he said quietly, “then perhaps it would finally make you acknowledge me.”
The bathroom went silent except for uneven breathing.
Dazai stared at him.
Akutagawa looked exhausted.
Not dramatic.
Not attention-seeking.
Just genuinely tired beyond words.
Like he had already accepted something terrible.
Dazai had seen people terrified of death.
He had seen people beg for life.
But this—
This was different.
Akutagawa spoke about dying like someone discussing the weather.
Like it didn’t matter.
Like *he* didn’t matter.
Another weak cough escaped him.
Blood slid down his chin again.
And for reasons Dazai himself could not explain—
Something sharp and unpleasant twisted low in his chest.
The bathroom light buzzed softly overhead.
It was the only sound besides the wet crackle in Akutagawa’s lungs.
Dazai still held him upright.
Barely.
Akutagawa’s weight against him felt to light, frighteningly light for someone who destroyed entire squads with Rashomon. His shoulders trembled weakly beneath the thin pink straps of the shirt, dark hair clinging damply to his forehead from fever and exertion.
Blood continued dripping steadily from his mouth.
This time, though—
He stopped trying to hide it.
A few minutes ago he had desperately covered his lips with shaking hands, turned away, scrubbed at every stain like he could erase the evidence of weakness through sheer force of will.
Now his hand slowly lowered from his face.
Red smeared across pale fingers.
Blood slipped freely past his lips instead, trailing down his chin and throat in thin streams. His teeth were stained crimson every time his mouth parted for another ragged breath.
Dazai noticed the exact moment Akutagawa gave up pretending he was okay.
It was subtle.
Terrifyingly subtle.
His posture loosened slightly.
Not relaxed.
Never relaxed.
Just…
Like he no longer had the energy to keep himself held together.
His hand drifted instead toward his opposite arm, fingers weakly gripping the skin there as though suddenly aware of the exposed scars covering his skin.
Too late.
Dazai had already seen all of it.
Fresh cuts layered over old ones.
Raised scar tissue.
Healing wounds reopened repeatedly.
The skin looked ruined.
No.
Not ruined.
Destroyed methodically.
Carefully.
Repeatedly.
Dazai’s gaze lingered there for a second too long.
Akutagawa noticed.
Immediately his fingers tightened around his arm.
A defensive movement.
Ashamed.
Dazai frowned faintly.
That was when he saw it.
A dark ring around Akutagawa’s neck.
He was to distracted with the blood to notice the bruising.
Deep purple and red fingerprints of pressure circling pale skin.
Dazai’s eyes narrowed.
He reached out before thinking and tilted Akutagawa’s chin upward slightly.
Akutagawa flinched violently.
“Don’t—”
The movement exposed the marks fully.
Not fingerprints.
A ligature mark.
Rope burn.
Fresh.
The skin looked irritated and raw, angry red at the edges like whatever had caused it had happened recently.
Very recently.
Dazai stared at it.
Then at him.
“When?”
Akutagawa’s eyes flickered away.
Silence.
Dazai’s grip tightened slightly under his jaw.
“When?”
“…This morning.”
The answer came flatly.
Like discussing something insignificant.
Dazai’s expression didn’t visibly change, but something cold settled heavily into the air around him.
“You tried to hang yourself.”
Akutagawa gave the tiniest shrug.
Another weak cough interrupted him, blood spilling easily over his lips again.
“I failed,” he murmured.
The words should not have sounded that empty.
Not regretful.
Not frightened.
Just tired.
Dazai released his chin slowly.
Akutagawa leaned weakly against the sink afterward as though standing itself had become difficult.
His breathing rasped wetly in the tiny bathroom.
Dazai kept staring at the bruises.
Fresh.
Recent.
Akutagawa had done that this morning.
Then attended work.
Then completed reports.
Then cleaned his apartment.
Then sat alone in silence while coughing himself half to death.
Dazai suddenly noticed more details.
A folded chair near the shower.
A snapped piece of rope shoved halfway into the trash beneath paper towels.
Ceiling paint slightly cracked around the ventilation pipe.
His gaze returned to Akutagawa.
“…Why did it fail?”
Akutagawa looked almost confused by the question.
“The rope broke.”
Dazai felt something ugly twist in his stomach.
Akutagawa said it so simply.
No dramatics.
No emotion.
Just fact.
Blood dripped from Akutagawa’s mouth onto the bathroom floor.
He didn’t wipe it away anymore.
Didn’t apologize.
Didn’t hide.
It was as if the effort required to pretend exceeded what little strength he had left.
Dazai studied his face carefully.
And slowly realized something deeply unsettling.
Akutagawa’s eyes looked different.
Usually they burned.
Even exhausted or injured, there was always something violent in them. Sharp hunger. Rage. Desperation. The frantic need to prove himself.
Now—
Nothing.
The dark eyes staring vaguely toward the floor looked dull.
Clouded.
Not empty exactly.
Just…
Fading.
Like a candle nearing the end of its wick.
There was sadness there too.
Not dramatic grief.
Not tears.
Something quieter.
Older.
The kind of sadness that settled into bones and stayed there until it hollowed a person out from the inside.
Dazai suddenly understood why the apartment disturbed him so much.
It wasn’t merely clean.
It was controlled.
Every inch arranged with obsessive precision because Akutagawa himself was falling apart beyond repair.
If everything stayed perfectly ordered—
Maybe he could ignore the fact that he was dying.
Or trying to.
Akutagawa coughed again.
This time the blood came heavier.
It splattered against the sink in thick crimson drops.
His knees nearly buckled.
Dazai caught his arm automatically again.
Akutagawa didn’t protest now.
That frightened Dazai more than resistance would have.
“Sit down,” Dazai ordered.
“I am fin—”
“You’re barely conscious.”
Akutagawa fell silent.
After a moment, he allowed Dazai to guide him to the closed toilet lid.
The motion seemed to exhaust him completely.
He sat there breathing unevenly, one hand still weakly gripping his arm while blood continued slipping intermittently from the corner of his mouth.
The pink shirt exposed too much.
Sharp collarbones.
Thin shoulders.
Bruises scattered faintly along his body along translucent skin.
Dazai noticed older marks too.
Not self-inflicted.
Finger-shaped bruises yellowing with age.
Signs of past violence worn casually across skin already shredded by his own hands.
Akutagawa noticed where Dazai was looking and immediately tried pulling the loose fabric higher.
The motion made him cough violently again.
Blood streaked down his chin.
“…Pathetic,” he whispered hoarsely.
Dazai blinked.
Akutagawa wasn’t talking to him.
He was talking about himself.
“You are not even yelling anymore,” Akutagawa said quietly, staring at the bloody floor tiles. “I must look truly revolting.”
Dazai stared.
Revolting.
Disgusting.
Pathetic.
The words Akutagawa used for himself were harsher than anything Dazai had ever said aloud.
And Dazai had said horrible things.
Akutagawa suddenly laughed weakly under his breath.
The sound bordered on delirious.
“I cleaned before you arrived.”
Dazai frowned.
“What?”
“The blood.” Akutagawa looked vaguely toward the bathtub. “There was more earlier.”
Silence.
“…More?”
“I did not wish for the apartment to smell unpleasant.”
Dazai looked toward the drain.
For the first time he noticed diluted pink stains near the tub.
Akutagawa had cleaned up after attempting suicide.
Then gone to work.
Something about that realization made the room feel freezing cold.
Akutagawa’s head tipped back slightly against the wall behind him.
His eyes drifted half-shut.
“Do not report it to Mori-san,” he mumbled tiredly.
Dazai crossed his arms.
“You think I care about protecting you?”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
Not bitter.
Not angry.
Certain.
Akutagawa slowly opened dull eyes again.
“But reporting a failed suicide attempt would reflect poorly on the Port Mafia.”
Dazai stared at him in disbelief.
“You’re worried about performance reviews right now?”
Akutagawa’s lips twitched faintly.
A broken imitation of delirious humor.
“I failed at dying too.”
Blood slipped between red-stained teeth again.
Dazai suddenly crouched in front of him.
Akutagawa looked startled by the abrupt movement.
Dazai grabbed his wrist before he could recoil.
Pulse racing.
Fever dangerously high.
Hands freezing cold despite it.
“You need medical attention.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
Akutagawa’s gaze drifted away again.
“I do not want help.”
“Clearly.”
Silence settled heavily.
Then quietly—
“I am tired, Dazai-san.”
The title sounded weaker than usual.
Less reverent.
Not because he respected Dazai less.
Because he barely had enough energy left to speak.
Dazai looked up at him.
Actually looked.
At the bruised neck.
The hollow eyes.
The blood-covered mouth.
The trembling shoulders.
The self-inflicted scars.
The exhaustion so deep it seemed carved into his body permanently.
And suddenly Dazai realized something horrifying.
Akutagawa truly believed this was all he deserved.
Not attention.
Not concern.
Certainly not kindness.
Just pain.
Work.
Punishment.
Death.
And the worst part—
The Port Mafia had taught him that.
Dazai had taught him that.
Akutagawa’s eyes slowly unfocused again.
His breathing hitched wetly.
Then his body swayed sideways.
Dazai caught him before he slid off the toilet lid entirely.
Akutagawa didn’t even seem aware of it anymore.
His head lolled weakly against Dazai’s shoulder, blood staining the bandages wrapped around Dazai’s arm.
“…Akutagawa.”
No response.
Only shallow breathing.
Dazai felt something unfamiliar claw sharply through his chest as he looked down at the boy curled weakly against him.
Fear.
Not for himself.
For someone else.
Osamu Dazai felt the exact moment something changed.
At first it was small.
So small most people would have missed it.
Akutagawa’s body, tense for what felt like forever, slowly relaxed against him.
Not in pain.
Not from another coughing fit.
Just… easing.
Akutagawa’s fingers loosened where they weakly clutched his own arm. The trembling in his shoulders gradually quieted. Blood still stained his mouth and chin, dark against pale skin, but he no longer seemed to notice it.
His eyes opened slightly.
Not fully.
Just enough for Dazai to see the dullness there clearly now.
The exhaustion.
The sadness.
And underneath it all—
Relief.
Akutagawa looked at him for a long moment.
Really looked at him.
Not with desperate hunger for approval.
Not with fear.
Not with frantic devotion.
Just quiet exhaustion.
Then, unexpectedly—
He smiled.
Soft.
Tiny.
Painfully fragile.
Dazai froze.
He had never seen Akutagawa smile like that before.
Not sharp.
Not smug.
Not cruel.
Just gentle.
The expression looked wrong on him only because suffering had worn itself so deeply into his features that peace seemed unnatural.
Akutagawa’s lips parted slightly, red staining his teeth.
His head slowly tipped sideways against Dazai’s shoulder.
And his eyes closed.
Dazai frowned immediately.
“Akutagawa.”
No response.
The bathroom suddenly felt too quiet.
A horrible kind of quiet.
Dazai adjusted his grip slightly.
Akutagawa didn’t react.
His breathing, already shallow, grew fainter.
Slower.
Uneven.
Dazai’s pulse spiked hard in his chest.
“Akutagawa.”
He said, panic in his tone.
Still nothing.
Another breath.
Weak.
Wet.
Then another.
Smaller.
Dazai grabbed his shoulder harder.
“hey.”
Akutagawa’s head lolled slightly with the motion.
No resistance.
No irritated response.
No immediate apology.
Dazai felt cold crawl suddenly down his spine.
The next breath barely happened at all.
And then—
Nothing.
Silence.
The kind of silence that swallowed the room whole.
Dazai stared.
No.
No, that was—
He pressed trembling fingers against Akutagawa’s throat.
The bruises from the rope burned dark beneath pale skin.
Pulse.
Find a pulse.
There—
Weak.
Faint.
Barely there.
Then slower.
And slower.
Dazai’s eyes widened.
“Hey.”
For the first time in years, genuine panic cracked through his voice.
“Akutagawa.”
Nothing.
The weak heartbeat beneath his fingers fluttered unsteadily.
Then began fading.
Dazai grabbed his face sharply.
Blood smeared across his gloves.
“Look at me.”
Akutagawa didn’t move.
A single tear escaped from beneath his closed eye.
It slid silently down his cheek through drying blood.
And then the heartbeat stopped.
Dazai froze completely.
The world seemed to narrow violently into one impossible fact.
No pulse.
No breathing.
Nothing.
Akutagawa hung limply in his arms, head tilted against his shoulder as though merely asleep.
But he wasn’t.
Dazai stared blankly for half a second.
Then all at once he moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
He shoved Akutagawa desperately onto the bathroom floor, hands slipping slightly in blood as he pressed trembling fingers against his throat again.
Nothing.
“No.”
The word came out sharp.
Immediate.
Wrong.
Dazai pressed both hands against Akutagawa’s chest and started compressions.
“Breathe.”
Nothing.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Blood stained Dazai’s sleeves.
The floor.
His hands.
Akutagawa’s limp pink shirt twisted beneath his grip as he desperately forced air back into lungs already ruined by blood.
“Breathe.”
Dazai had watched countless people die.
Men begging.
Men screaming.
Men bleeding out in alleyways.
He had felt nothing.
Nothing.
But now his hands shook violently as he tilted Akutagawa’s head back, ignoring the bruised throat, forcing breath into his lungs.
“Don’t do this.”
The words escaped before he could stop them.
Dazai pressed harder against his chest.
“One more breath.”
Nothing.
Akutagawa remained still beneath him.
Dark hair spread across bloody tile.
Long lashes resting peacefully against pale skin.
That tiny smile still barely visible.
Like dying had finally allowed him to rest.
“No.”
Dazai hit his chest once.
Hard.
“Wake up!"
Nothing.
Panic spread sharp and acidic through Dazai’s veins.
Real panic.
Not annoyance.
Not frustration.
Fear.
Over and over he tried.
Compressions.
Breaths.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The bathroom echoed with ragged breathing that no longer belonged to Akutagawa.
Dazai barely noticed tears forming until one hit the back of Akutagawa’s hand.
He stopped.
Stared.
His own tears.
He couldn’t remember the last time he cried.
Maybe he never really had.
Yet suddenly his vision blurred violently as he grabbed Akutagawa’s shoulders.
“You idiot—”
His voice cracked.
“You absolute idiot—”
Akutagawa remained limp in his arms.
Cold creeping slowly into skin already too pale.
Dazai felt like something inside his chest was being carved open.
Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.
Akutagawa was supposed to survive everything.
That was the entire point.
The violent stray dog who crawled out of the slums and tore through enemies with bloody teeth and stubborn rage—
He was supposed to keep surviving.
Even when hurt.
Even when starving.
Even when broken.
Dazai suddenly remembered the empty refrigerator.
The medicine-filled cabinets.
The book about death.
The snapped rope in the trash.
The dullness in Akutagawa’s eyes.
The way he said he was tired.
Warning signs.
Every single one.
And Dazai—
Dazai had come there planning to yell at him, beat him, punish him.
Something inside him twisted so painfully he could barely breathe.
He pulled Akutagawa back into his arms desperately, blood soaking through both their clothes.
“You can’t die yet.”
His voice sounded small.
Young.
Fifteen instead of terrifying.
“You still have to prove yourself.”
No response.
Dazai held him tighter.
“You still have missions.”
Silence.
“You still…”
His voice broke completely.
Akutagawa’s head rested against his shoulder exactly where it had moments ago, except now there was no fragile warmth left behind it.
Just stillness.
The finality of it crashed into Dazai all at once.
Akutagawa had died believing he was disgusting.
Pathetic.
Unwanted.
And Dazai had helped build those beliefs piece by piece until they buried him alive.
The realization hit like a knife driven straight through his ribs.
Dazai bowed his head shakily against Akutagawa’s hair.
For the first time in his life, he wished desperately that he could take something back.
One word.
One insult.
One cruel lesson.
Anything.
But the bathroom remained silent.
And in Dazai’s arms, Akutagawa did not wake up.