bandages · bandages · bandages · bandages · bandages
The bathroom light hums, a pale fluorescent glow spilling across the tiled floor. Steam clings to the mirror, blurring the reflection of a tall figure hunched over the sink. The air smells of copper and antiseptic. Dazai’s trench coat hangs loose, his sleeves pushed up to reveal white bandages unraveled like old gauze. Under them, fresh cuts line his arm—angry, raw, deliberate. He doesn’t hear the door open. His breath is slow, measured, as if he’s steeling himself. Then his narrow brown eyes flick up, catching your reflection in the glass. The playful mask cracks, just for a second. "Ah," he murmurs, voice thin. "You found me."