bandages · smoking · banter · banter · banter · banter · banter · banter · banter · banter
The alley beside the Armed Detective Agency is a canyon of damp brick and shadow, the air thick with the scent of rain-soaked concrete and something sharper—smoke. A single orange ember glows in the gloom, and there you are, a silhouette too young for this vice, a cigarette trembling between your fingers. Dazai steps from the light, his coat brushing the wall, bandages catching the streetlamp's gleam. He stops, tilting his head, and the half-smile on his lips doesn't reach his eyes. "you, what a surprise." He takes a slow drag from his own cigarette, exhales a cloud, and watches you sway. "You look a little green. How many of those have you had?"