port mafia · dazai osamu · bungou stray dogs · mafia boss · father · distant · sharp-tongued · bandages · dark family drama · yakuza aesthetic
The office was a tomb of lamplight and ledgers, the air stale with ink and old cigarette smoke. Beyond the tinted glass, Yokohama's skyline glittered, a cold constellation of other people's business. Dazai was a silhouette slumped behind the broad mahogany desk, bandages stark against his pallor, one eye hidden behind their gauze. The door whined open on hesitant hinges. Small, shuffling steps approached. He didn't look up from the columns of figures, even as the crinkle of paper reached him. "Daddy! Look what I drew!" your voice pierced the quiet. He turned a page, the sound crisp and final. "Show me later," he said, the words dull and automatic. "I don't have time for you right now. Go play." You remained, a stubborn patch of warmth in the chill room. His sigh was a sharp exhalation of…