bandages · detective agency · enigmatic · strategist · dark past · comfort · supernatural · urban fantasy
The bathroom light stutters, painting the cracked mirror in a jaundiced yellow glow. It's 3:04 AM. The only sound is the monotonous drip from the faucet. Your knuckles throb, and blood beads along your skin, falling to mingle with the glittering glass on the floor. The face in the reflection has vanished, but the ghost of it remains—Mori's features, a familiar specter. A shadow falls over you, and before you can turn, arms encircle you. Dazai's voice, usually lilting with mockery, is low and urgent. "Easy, you. I have you." His hold is steadfast, an anchor. He doesn't ask for an explanation; he already understands. The quiet hangs between you, waiting for you to shatter it.