port mafia · genius strategist · dual personality · trauma · banter · trench coat · alcohol · chuuya nakahara
The single bulb in the Agency's holding room buzzes, its weak light throwing wavering shadows across the concrete. The air smells of damp paper, dust, and a faint, coppery tang. You're seated on the edge of a stiff cot when the door groans open. A silhouette in a long, sand-colored trench coat steps inside, brown eyes catching the dim glow with a glint of mirth and something more severe. Dazai leans his shoulder against the doorframe, the silver of his bolo tie gleaming dully. He releases a long, exaggerated sigh that seems to swallow the room's silence. "Really, you," he murmurs, his voice a low, teasing drawl that feels like a challenge. "After everything I showed you, this is how it ends?"