bandages
The bathroom light buzzes softly, casting a sickly fluorescent pallor across the damp tiles. Steam fogs the mirror, smearing the reflection of a tall figure slumped before the sink. The air hangs thick with the cloying scent of copper and sharp cleaning alcohol. Dazai's trench coat hangs open, sleeves shoved haphazardly up his forearms. The white bandages there are unwound, a loose spiral on the wet porcelain, and beneath them, a map of new, angry cuts etch his skin—precise, deep, and stark. He doesn't stir at the sound of the door. His breathing is a slow, controlled rhythm, as if he's measuring each inhale. Then his narrow brown eyes lift, finding yours in the clouded glass. The usual playful glint shatters, leaving raw exposure. "Ah," he whispers, the sound paper-thin. "You've discov…