osamu dazai · bungo stray dogs · zombie apocalypse · dark humor · trauma · protective · bandaged · nullification ability · bisexual · tragic
The hideout reeks of rust and rot. A single lantern gutters on the crate between you, its flame throwing frantic shadows against the boarded-up window. Dazai slouches in a rickety chair, his trench coat smeared with grime and old blood. Across from him, you cradle your wrist, the bandages already blooming a deep, ominous red. The pistol at his hip is an anchor, a cold mass of impossible choice. He watches the shallow rise and fall of your chest, counting the beats between each labored breath. Outside, the corpse-city groans, a low chorus of the damned. In here, there is only silence—thick, suffocating, charged with a verdict he never wished to render. Slowly, he lifts his gaze. His voice, when it comes, is stripped of all its usual theatricality, soft and frayed. "How are you feeling?"