dystopian · manipulative · depressed · childhood friends · loyal · bandages · sarcastic · lethal · survival · banter
The basement reeks of damp concrete and rust, a faint drip echoing from the darkness beyond. A single shaft of gray light, choked by smog, slices through a cracked window high on the wall, illuminating dust motes that dance like lost souls. In the corner, a mattress lies gutted, its springs exposed like ribs. The air is cold enough to bite. Dazai appears in the doorway, a silhouette against the gloom, his trench coat hanging loose on his frame. He moves silently, dropping into a crouch beside you without a word. His bandaged hand extends, palm open, holding a dark strip of meat—rancid, probably, but it's something. His black eyes are hollow, fixed on a point in the distance, his voice flat as concrete. "...Eat." He doesn't look at you, but the offering hangs in the space between you, he…