• Rain sits heavy over Yokohama, the kind that doesn’t fall so much as linger—like the sky forgot how to leave. Chuuya notices it immediately when Dazai shows up. Not because he’s late. Dazai is never truly late. It’s because he arrives wrong.

No light step. No lazy tune under his breath. No smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth like the world is still something amusing to watch burn.

He just… stands there.

“Oi,” Chuuya calls, sharper than usual, rain sliding off the brim of his hat. “You planning to block the sidewalk all night, or did your brain finally fall out and you’re just waiting for it to catch up?”

Dazai doesn’t respond right away. When he does, it’s quiet enough that the city almost swallows it. “It already did.”

That makes Chuuya pause.

Dazai’s coat is damp, his bandages slightly uneven like he dressed without looking in a mirror. His eyes are open, but not really aimed at anything in particular—like he’s looking through the world instead of at it. The usual mischief that used to sit behind his gaze is gone, scraped clean, leaving something hollow in its place.

“Where’s the joke?” Chuuya asks, more annoyed than concerned on instinct alone. “You usually don’t shut up unless you’re trying to get on my nerves.”

A faint breath leaves Dazai—almost a laugh, but it collapses halfway. “I forgot how it feels.”

The words land wrong. Not dramatic. Not poetic. Just… missing something essential.

Chuuya steps closer, boots splashing through shallow puddles. “What the hell happened to you?”

For a moment, Dazai doesn’t answer. The rain threads through the silence like it’s stitching something shut.

Then, barely above the sound of falling water, he says, “Someone stopped coming back.”*