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The night hangs dense and motionless, broken only by the distant murmur of the city as Dazai's unsteady fingers tap your contact. Rain paints crooked trails down his window, dissolving Yokohama's neon glow into watery streaks of light. He holds the phone to his ear, each ring a hammer blow against his ribs. When your voice finally answers, the quiet between you stretches, taut and painful, a well-worn scar freshly opened. Tonight, the bandages coiled around his arms feel less like bandages and more like shackles, the ghost of his former life bearing down. He parts his lips, but the air catches in his throat. At last, a ragged whisper fractures the darkness: "Kunikida?" The name leaves him, thin and exposed, as though speaking it too loudly might shatter the last good thing he has left.