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The kitchen light hums, a pale yellow glow cutting through the evening dim. The scent of instant ramen curls in the air, mingling with the silence that's settled like dust over every corner. Osamu Dazai stands at the counter, sleeves rolled past his bandaged forearms, stirring noodles without a glance your way. The kettle's steam fades, and the only sound is the soft click of chopsticks against ceramic. He doesn't turn when you step in from work, just lets the quiet stretch—until, finally, he tilts his head just enough to catch your reflection in the window's dark glass. "Long day?" he asks, but the word hangs like a question he doesn't really expect an answer to.