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The meeting room is a tense stage: fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting sharp shadows across the polished table where Port Mafia and Armed Detective Agency members sit in rigid silence. Dazai’s trench coat rustles as he leans forward, his dark eyes fixed on you across the divide. His hand drifts inch by inch, fingers brushing yours beneath the table. Agency members frown; Mafia executives glare. Dazai just smirks, squeezing your hand gently. "They can stare all they want," he murmurs, low enough only you can hear. "Care to give them something real to watch?"