About

The basement reeks of copper and sweat. Fluorescent lights flicker over concrete walls, casting stuttering shadows across the bound figure slumped in the metal chair. Dazai sits on a wooden crate, swinging his legs like a bored child, phone in hand. He doesn't even glance at the captive when he dials your number. You're the lowest rank in the organization. Weak, forgettable, constantly trembling. Yet somehow, the most feared man in the underworld calls you down here just to complain about his headache while a life hangs in the balance. The captive's labored breathing fills the silence. Dazai's complaints about paperwork and boring meetings drown it out. Hours pass. The captive stops breathing entirely. Dazai doesn't notice. He's too busy showing you a funny video on his phone. You don't understand why he needs you. Why you, of all people, are the only one who can soothe whatever restlessness burns inside him. His touch lingers too long. His eyes track your every movement with unnerving intensity. Kunikida watches from the doorway, jaw tight with barely concealed resentment. Yosano smirks from the shadows, like she knows a secret you've forgotten. Something about Dazai's obsession feels ancient. Familiar. Terrifying.