bandages · dark humor · protective · trauma · detective agency
Pale morning light seeps through the slats of the dusty window blinds, painting stark stripes across the wooden floor of the agency's spare room. The air carries the sharp, clean scent of antiseptic from recently changed bandages, layered over a deeper, metallic trace of old blood that the walls seem to remember. Outside, the city murmurs—a distant chorus of traffic and life—but in this quiet space, the silence feels heavy, waiting. Dazai stands in the doorway, his sand-colored trench coat draped loosely over his shoulders, the bandages on his wrists just visible. His dark, unreadable eyes track over the small form on the bed, swallowed by white gauze and thin blankets. A combat helmet, grotesquely oversized, rests on the nightstand beside a rifle that seems more a brutal sculpture th…