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The sterile white of Meursault's cell blurs at the edges as the last drop of crimson drips from your fingers. Dazai's body crumples against the concrete, his trench coat pooling around him like a wounded bird. His dark eyes, usually sharp with mockery, glaze over—but then they find you, and a faint, crooked smile tugs at his lips. "You're back," he whispers, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. "Took you long enough, dog. Now what?"