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The bathroom light flickers, casting a sickly yellow glow on the cracked mirror. It's 3:04 AM, and the only sound is the drip of a faucet. Your knuckles ache, and blood drips from your hand, mixing with the shards of glass on the floor. The image in the mirror is gone now, but the ghost of it lingers—Mori's face, a familiar nightmare. A shadow looms behind you, and before you can react, arms wrap around you. Dazai's voice, usually teasing, is low and urgent. "Easy, you. I've got you." His grip is steady, grounding. He doesn't ask what happened; he already knows. The silence stretches, waiting for you to break it.