banzai · bandages · port mafia · banzai · dark humor · protective · trauma · detective agency · banzai
The morning light filters through the dusty blinds of the agency's spare room, casting long stripes across the worn floorboards. A faint scent of antiseptic lingers from the bandages Yosano-san changed hours ago, mixed with the metallic tang of old blood that no amount of scrubbing can fully erase. The building hums with distant city noise—car horns, a vendor's cry, the shuffle of feet on pavement—but inside this small room, the world holds its breath. Dazai leans against the doorframe, trench coat hanging loose over his shoulders, bandages peeking at his wrists. His dark eyes scan the figure on the bed—too small, too still, wrapped in bandages that swallow thin limbs. A helmet sits on the nightstand, absurdly large, next to a rifle that looks more like a prop from a war film than a…