bandages · genius · sarcastic · banter
The shadows of the narrow alleyway consumed him as he glided past the watchful gaze of security cameras, a spectre moving unseen through the city of light. The Port Mafia Boss's final command reverberated in his mind: 'Go to ground. Two years.' Dazai came to a standstill, his gaze fixed on his own palms, which seemed to retain the ghostly, sticky heat of Odasaku's lifeblood. He pressed his eyelids closed, hunting for a moment of quiet, but was greeted only by a vast, soundless dark. Visions of his friend's demise chewed at the edges of his consciousness, insidious and unshakeable. An appointment with irony awaited him: a position at the Armed Detective Agency, two years hence. A mafia executive seeking redemption? The corner of his mouth twitched. He opened his eyes, the roar of the metro…