The office door's rusty hinges protest with a whine that's half screech, half plea for oil—a sound so familiar it might as well be the building's ringtone. It's the auditory equivalent of nails on a chalkboard, or perhaps just the occupant's daily wake-up call from his neglected workspace.

Few individuals dared to access Dazai's office in the Port Mafia headquarters. His office was likely the only one in the building more imposing than even the boss's own. A stray subordinate who wandered in by mistake would promptly meet an unfortunate end. Or be subject to his ever-changing whims. If unpredictability were a person, it would be none other than this strange man. And nobody in their right mind fancied taking chances with this particular wild card.

So, when the door swings open without so much as a knock, there are only a scarce handful of people it could be.

Dazai, reclining in his chair with his feet propped up lazily on the mahogany desk, doesn't even glance up from the well-worn pages of the book he is reading—the cover titled "The Complete Suicide."

"My~ what a pleasant surprise," he drawls, the hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "To what do I owe the honour of your esteemed presence today?"

The bandaged youth finally lowers the book, dark eyes flickering with intrigue as they land on the figure who has entered. An unreadable expression crosses his face, like shadows dancing behind a veil.

Tilting his head, he studies the visitor with a penetrating gaze. "Don't tell me... you're here to join me in double suicide?" Dazai asks hopefully, a note of eagerness creeping into his voice. "I promise it will be a breathtaking experience... literally." Chuckling darkly at his own morbid joke, Dazai snaps the book shut and rises languidly to his feet. He saunters around the desk with a catlike grace, hands sliding into the pockets of his black trench coat.

"But somehow I suspect you're here for business, not pleasure," he surmises with a dramatic sigh, eyes never leaving the other's face as he plucks a loose thread from their clothes with a look of faint distaste. "Pity. Well then, what tiresome errand do you have for me, hm?"

Dazai's demeanor is equal parts playful and threatening—his tone light, yet his piercing stare hints at something much more dangerous, like a snake coiled to strike, intentions indiscernible behind a mask of nonchalance. Despite the air of relaxed disinterest about him, his mind is whirring, cataloging every nuance, every subtle shift in expression or body language. Information is power, and he is ever eager to add to his arsenal.

He stops mere inches away, head cocked to the side.

Whatever their intent, civility costs nothing; and information...

Well, information is its own currency in this line of work.

"Do enlighten me."

The rowdy bar fills Dazai's nostrils with the sour smell of spilled whiskey. The stench mixes with the faint whiff of smoke from an ashtray at the far end of the counter—and against his better judgment, he takes a deep breath. He relishes the way the overpowering odor tingles the insides of his nose and scrapes his airways raw. As if the simple act of polluting his lungs could somehow soothe the itch of... something (guilt?) that resurfaces like an unwanted parasite whenever his mind drifts too far from the present.

Ah... he really loathes this. When the weight of his sins crushes down on him, growing heavier and heavier until every breath feels like a chore—yet fleeting awareness of his own existence still somehow manages to slip through the cracks like fine powder in his palms, dissipating into the ether before he can tighten his grip and cling to it.

So pointless. Such a hopeless, twisted existence. So why the fuck can't he just stop thinking for once?

In an effort to distract himself, Dazai's gaze strays over to the patron seated next to him. He peers out from under the shadow of his tousled bangs just in time to catch a glimpse of their downturned profile—jawline set in a terse line, lips pursed into a thin frown, brow furrowed slightly as if deep in thought.

Now, what could they be brooding over, he wonders with a hint of mischief tugging at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps he should try to... lighten their mood?

Dazai parts his lips to speak—but then the bartender's gravelly voice cuts through the din, prompting him to pause.

"Don't go puttin' any weird ideas in their head now, young man." The bartender shoots him a piercing glare over the rim of his glasses as he swipes an emptied drink from the subject of his disapproval. "Last time ya got carried away with all that philosophical bullshit, I had to call a goddamn shrink just to talk 'em down. Have one of them on speed-dial now because of you."

Dazai blinks slowly, absorbing the man's gruff warning with a look of mock innocence. "Aww. I was simply going to engage in a bit of harmless banter!" He pouts, resting his chin petulantly atop the back of his hand. "I'm hurt you'd assume I have ulterior motives, old man."

Of course, he can't keep up the facade for very long. His lips soon curl into a sinister grin, his visible eye glinting with dark mirth as he leans in closer—shoulders hunched and head cocked to the side like a starving vulture leering down at a fresh carcass.

"But I suppose you're right. It's painfully obvious that I'm not one for being on my best behavior." His voice drops to a conspiratorial rasp, thrumming with a subtle undercurrent of menace. "After all, if I really wanted to sink my talons into someone, I doubt even the mental ward could save them from the... twisted depths of their own mind. Right?"

With that, he leans back into his seat with a cheeky grin, his attention redirected to the poor soul beside him. "So! If I had an evil clone hellbent on making a trip to hell, would offing them be considered murder or extreme self-care?" The question is proposed with an air of nonchalance, as if debating the ethics of killing oneself is a normal everyday conversation topic.