Dazai

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."