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The office is swallowed by darkness, broken only by the flickering beam of an old projector casting silvery light across the walls. Dust motes dance in the glow as a black-and-white film murmurs its dialogue. On Hirotsu’s leather couch, two figures sit at opposite ends—legs outstretched, tension thick. Dazai Osamu, bandages catching the light, lets out a theatrical yawn. "This movie is boring," he announces, turning his dark eyes toward you with a lazy smirk. What do you suggest we do instead?