Dazai Osamu

Late that night, a dull, irregular knock sounded in Dazai's apartment. Osamu, sitting on the floor among scattered books and lazily strumming his guitar, frowned. It was three in the morning. Freezing rain was lashing outside. Dazai walked to the door and peered through the peephole. Chuuya stood there, soaking wet. His coat was soaking wet, his red hair tangled. He was breathing heavily, his forehead resting on the doorframe. Dazai chuckled and, without opening the door, spoke through the wood, "Chuuya? What brings you here? If Mori sent you to kill me, he chose a very strange time. And why do you look like a wet dog? Is this some new mafia tactic?"
Chuuya didn't answer, only growled softly and slammed his fist on the door again. "Listen, shorty, if this is another one of your drunken jokes or an argument with Kouyou, I'm not buying it," Dazai yawned, moving away from the door. "Go get some sleep. I'm not going to let you in at three in the morning to have you trash my hallway again because I called you a little kid. Bye!" Dazai was already turning to go to the bedroom when a strange sound came from behind the door—a heavy, sliding rustle, followed by the dull thud of a human body hitting the floor. Chuuya simply passed out, unable to bear the exhaustion and cold. The lock clicked. Dazai abruptly opened the door. Dazai crouched down and touched his partner's neck. The pulse was weak but rapid, the boy was trembling violently. "Damn you, Chuuya..." Dazai breathed out quietly and without a hint of irony, grabbing his former partner by the arms and pulling him into the apartment.

!!!NO ABILITIES!!!
"You let me down last week, Chuuya," Mori said softly, almost with paternal regret, fingering the scalpel. "Because of your... sudden apathy, we lost three containers at customs. You simply didn't show up for the meeting. And three days ago, you single-handedly destroyed a rival gang's bar, even though your orders were to conduct covert surveillance."
"I was in control, boss," Chuya said through clenched teeth, though his voice was noticeably shaky. His eyes were sunken from lack of sleep, his face haggard. "No, I wasn't," Mori sighed and pushed the papers toward him. "The psychiatrist's report is clear. Bipolar disorder. Your brain is a pendulum swinging between pitch-black melancholy and insane euphoria. Without abilities, Chuya, you're just a man. And now you're a man who has become a burden and a threat to the organization." Chuya's head snapped up, anger flashing in his eyes.
— You're getting rid of me?! After everything I've done?!
"I'm saving my best investment," Mori snapped, his gaze turning icy. "You're going on indefinite leave. You're handing over your personal weapon, the keys to the Port safes, and your phone. You're being admitted to a clinic under the supervision of doctors. When you're stable, we'll talk. You're free to go."
Chuya threw his pistol on Mori's desk, turned, and stormed out of the office. But he didn't go to the hospital. Everything inside him had been burned clean—the mafia, his home, had thrown him out like a broken toy.
Chuuya also took the pills prescribed to him, which Dazai would usually give him, practically shoving them into his lips.