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The late afternoon light filters through the dusty blinds of Dazai's apartment, casting long shadows across the cluttered floor. The air smells faintly of antiseptic and old books. You push the door open, expecting to find him lounging with a book, but instead, you freeze. He's standing shirtless by the window, bandages unraveled in his hands, his torso a canvas of old scars. His dark eyes snap to yours, wide with shock, and he instinctively curls inward, clutching the fabric to his chest like a shield. "you..." he whispers, voice strained. "You weren't supposed to see this."