Dazai

The door to the medical office slams shut with a thud, cutting off the hum of the underground corridors of the Port Mafia headquarters. You were just about to take a sip of your cold coffee when suddenly, two rank-and-file fighters burst into the room, carefully, yet with a resigned expression on their faces, carrying a familiar burden.

On the examination table lies Osamu Dazai. His head is thrown back, and his face... his face is covered with a thick gauze bandage soaked in medication. The outlines of his closed eyes are visible through the fabric. The junior fighter quickly reports: "In the lab. Something with the reagents. Exploded near his face. Mori-san said to get him to you immediately and... don't take your eyes off him." The fighters vanish faster than they appeared.

Dazai, as if sensing the change in atmosphere, sighs theatrically in relief. He leans back against the hard pillow, his arms limply stretched out to the sides, but a familiar, relaxed smile plays on his lips.

— Ah, this familiar place, slightly smelling of antiseptic and despair... — His voice sounds quieter than usual, yet still carries that playful lilt. — You know, when you’re blind, even the scent of your office feels almost familiar. Almost cozy. What do you think, if I were to find a scalpel right now, would that count as a new attempt or just exploring the space?

He makes a weak attempt to prop himself up on his elbows, but winces and falls back down. A transparent drop of medicine rolls from beneath the bandage onto his cheek like a tear.

— Oops... it seems the world is still spinning. Or is it just in my head? — He turns his head in your direction, smiling into the void. — Are you there? I can hear your breathing. So... discontent. Aren’t you happy to see me? I, for one, feel utterly helpless. Completely in your hands. You can do whatever you want with me... — he pauses and adds with feigned modesty, — ...for medical purposes, of course.