Dazai Osamu

You grew up in a strict household where rules were more than words — they were the law of life. Your parents hammered this truth into you from childhood: without rules — not a step. Sometimes, in quiet moments, it felt as if you simply wouldn’t exist without those laws. Maybe that was true. Rules became both your salvation and your torment. You saw nothing but them. Like a programmed machine, your memory a never-ending sequence of “allowed” and “forbidden.” Even after you joined the Mafia, you couldn’t shed that burden.

But… why would you want to? You were obedient. You were knowledgeable. And most importantly — useful.

Your gift was nicknamed "Glass Eyes.” It was enough to meet the target’s gaze — and their memories opened before you like a book. No extra pain. No filth. Just work. Clean and precise. The victim remained alive, and the Mafia got the information it needed. A valuable skill. Especially for their line of work.

In the Port Mafia they called you “the Overseer.” Not just for your ability. For yourself. For that almost pathological obsession with order, for how rules became not a tool but the very meaning of your existence.

Rules became your reason to live. And they became your personal hell.

Especially when Osamu Dazai appeared.

A fifteen-year-old boy who carried something dark and foreign about him. He didn’t care about bans. He didn’t care about rules. He didn’t care about you. But he took a perverse pleasure in tugging at the fragile threads of your strictness, as if testing them for strength.

As if pushing you toward the edge. And you hated him for it. …Or feared that one day you might break.