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The apartment was silent in the way only very late nights could be.
Not peaceful. Not calm.
Silent like something holding its breath.
Atsushi Nakajima sat curled against the side of his bed with his knees pulled to his chest, staring at the pale strip of moonlight stretched across the floorboards. The digital clock beside him blinked 1:03 AM in soft blue numbers.
He had been awake since midnight.
Before that, he had only pretended to sleep.
The sheets tangled around his legs felt suffocating. Every time he closed his eyes, memories dragged themselves up from somewhere deep and ugly.
The orphanage corridor.
The headmaster’s voice.
Worthless.
Useless.
A burden.
The words had been dead for years, but somehow they still breathed inside him.
Atsushi pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until sparks burst behind them. His chest hurt. Not sharply. Just a constant ache that had settled somewhere beneath his ribs weeks ago and refused to leave.
The Agency had praised him earlier.
That was the worst part.
“You did good today, Atsushi-kun.”
“You saved people.”
“We’re proud of you.”
He could still hear it.
And all he could think was:
If they knew me properly, they’d take it back.
The thought slid into his mind so naturally it barely felt like thinking anymore.
It felt like fact.
Atsushi lowered his hands slowly. His apartment was small enough that he could see nearly everything from where he sat: the tiny kitchen, the worn sofa, the coat hanging by the door. His gaze drifted without purpose until it landed on the counter.
On the knife left beside the sink after dinner.
He froze.
His stomach twisted immediately.
No.
No, he wasn’t—
He swallowed hard.
The room suddenly felt too hot.
Atsushi stood before he fully realized he was moving.
His feet carried him across the apartment in slow, uncertain steps. The floor creaked softly beneath him. He stopped in front of the counter and stared at the knife.
Just stared.
It wasn’t even large. Plain steel. Cheap handle.
Ordinary.
His reflection warped faintly along the blade.
Pathetic.
The word surfaced again.
Atsushi gripped the edge of the counter hard enough for his knuckles to whiten.
He was so tired.
Not physically.
He knew physical exhaustion. Knew injuries and hunger and sleepless nights. This was different. This felt like his entire existence had worn thin.
Like one more harsh word would tear him open completely.
The tiger inside him stirred uneasily beneath his skin, reacting to his distress. Fingertips threatening to sharpen into claws before he forced them back.
“Get a grip,” he whispered hoarsely.
His voice sounded unfamiliar.
He hated that it shook.
A normal person would be asleep right now.
A normal person wouldn’t stand in their kitchen at one in the morning staring at a knife like it was speaking to them.
The thought hit so suddenly his breath caught.
Would anyone even notice if he disappeared?
Of course they would, another part of him answered immediately.
The Agency would notice.
Kyouka would notice.
Maybe even Dazai, though Dazai would probably hide it behind some irritating joke.
But noticing wasn’t the same as caring forever.
People moved on.
People always moved on.
Atsushi reached for the knife before he could stop himself.
The metal was cold against his palm.
His breath stuttered.
Immediately, shame crashed over him so violently it made him dizzy.
What was wrong with him?
What kind of person did this?
His hands began trembling harder.
The knife slipped slightly in his grip.
Images flashed through his head in brutal fragments:
Blood on white tiles.
The Director looking disappointed.
The Agency office empty because everyone had finally realized he ruined everything he touched.
“You should never have existed.”
Atsushi squeezed his eyes shut.
“No,” he whispered.
But the thoughts kept coming.
Louder.
Crueler.
He pressed the blade against his forearm through the sleeve of his shirt—not enough to break skin, barely enough to feel—but the contact alone made something inside him crack.
A horrible sound escaped his throat.
Not quite a sob.
Not quite breathing either.
Suddenly he couldn’t think properly.
The room blurred.
His chest tightened so painfully he genuinely thought for one terrified second that he might be dying.
The knife clattered onto the floor.
Atsushi stumbled backwards, hitting the counter hard enough to rattle dishes. His breathing spiraled into sharp, uneven gasps.
Too fast.
Too fast—
He slid down onto the floor before his legs gave out entirely, curling in on himself as panic tore through him.
“I can’t—”
His voice broke.
Tears finally spilled over.
Hot. Humiliating. Endless.
Atsushi pressed both hands over his mouth to muffle the sounds coming out of him, but it didn’t help much. His shoulders shook violently.
He felt fourteen again.
Small.
Terrified.
Unwanted.
The worst part was that a tiny piece of him still believed the headmaster had been right. Even after the Agency. Even after everything.
Because if Atsushi truly deserved kindness, why did he feel this awful all the time?
Minutes passed.
Or maybe longer.
Eventually his breathing slowed enough for him to hear the apartment again: the hum of the refrigerator, rain tapping softly against the window, the faint buzz of the overhead light.
Atsushi stared blankly at the knife lying a few feet away.
He hated it.
He hated himself more for touching it.
With trembling fingers, he reached for his phone instead.
His contacts blurred through tears.
For a long moment he hovered over Dazai’s name.
No.
Dazai would joke. Atsushi couldn’t survive joking right now.
His thumb moved lower.
Doppo Kunikida.
Atsushi nearly laughed weakly at the absurdity of calling Kunikida at one in the morning. The man would absolutely kill him.
Still—
Kunikida answered on the third ring.
“…Atsushi?”
Groggy. Confused.
Atsushi opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Silence stretched.
Then Kunikida’s voice changed instantly.
Sharp. Awake. Serious.
“What happened?”
That almost broke him again.
Because Kunikida sounded worried.
Actually worried.
“I…” Atsushi’s throat tightened painfully. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
The question came immediately.
Atsushi pressed a shaking hand against his eyes.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Another silence.
Not cold. Not impatient.
Just listening.
Finally, Kunikida spoke carefully. “Are you hurt?”
Atsushi looked toward the knife on the floor.
“…No.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“I’m coming over.”
“No, you don’t have to—”
“I’m coming over,” Kunikida repeated firmly.
Something in Atsushi finally gave out entirely at that.
Not in a destructive way.
In the way ice cracks when it can no longer hold its own weight.
A tiny, awful sound escaped him.
A choked sob.
And Kunikida, very quietly, said:
“Stay on the phone with me until I get there.”