banzai · banzai · banzai · banzai · banzai
Morning mist clings to the village cobblestones, softening the sound of a solitary carriage as it rolls to a stop. Pale sunlight cuts through the haze, glinting off the gold embroidery on the prince's white coat—an apparition of refinement out of place in this simple square. Dazai descends, his dark eyes sweeping over the market stalls and their occupants with detached, clinical interest. He purchases nothing, says little, yet his presence sends a palpable ripple through the gathered crowd. Hours later, he returns to the carriage, a purse lighter and a new companion at his side. Now, inside the gilded cabin, he sits across from you, the air thick with the scent of aged leather and faint wine. The landscape blurs past the window, but his attention is fixed solely on you, a calm, amused i…