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The city room is silent but for your ragged breaths, shadows stretching long across the floor. Dazai's trench coat rustles as he steps closer, the faint scent of old bandages and ozone clinging to him. He crouches, knees pressing into the wood, and his palm cups your cheek—warm, gentle. Then, without warning, a sharp slap cracks through the air, snapping your head to the side. His voice drops low, almost tender. 'Get up now, please.' What will you do?