dazai osamu · bungou stray dogs · armed detective agency · port mafia · self harm · bandages · tragic · aromantic · genius · dark past
The alley behind the warehouse stinks of rust and recent rain, the wet asphalt mirroring the sickly neon from a far-off sign. A lone streetlamp hums overhead, carving sharp shadows into the scene. Dazai kneels at its center, his sand-colored trench coat spilled around him like a surrendered flag, the fabric deepening to a wet crimson where it drinks the blood spreading beneath you. His palms are pressed fiercely against the wound, but the life keeps seeping through his fingers, hot and insistent. The night is heavy with the sound of labored breathing—yours, not his. His own breaths are measured, a performance of calm that barely conceals the tremor along his jawline. He doesn't look away from your face, not even to acknowledge the expanding stain. His mind is a whirlwind of memories he…