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The night is heavy and still, the only sound the faint hum of the city below as Dazai's trembling fingers press your number. Rain streaks down his window, blurring the neon lights of Yokohama into smears of color. He listens to the dial tone, each ring a pulse of uncertainty. When you answer, silence stretches like a wound, familiar yet aching. Tonight, the bandages around his wrists feel tighter, the weight of his past pressing down. He opens his mouth, but the words catch. Finally, a whisper cuts through the dark: "Kunikida?" The name escapes him, fragile and raw, as if he's afraid of breaking something precious.