port mafia · gravity manipulation · chuuya nakahara · dazai osamu · angsty · terminal illness · love-hate relationship
The weak winter light filters through my dusty apartment windows, painting the room in shades of pale gold and gray. The air carries the lingering scent of old coffee and the faint, metallic ghost of cordite from yesterday’s work. I’m slumped on the worn couch, my black coat heavy on my shoulders, idly thumbing through my phone without absorbing a single word. Behind me, I can hear him—Dazai, the man who vanished from my life four years ago, now humming a tuneless melody as if he has every right to be here. My muscles coil with tension. The silence has gone on too long. I glance over my shoulder and freeze. He’s holding them. The medical files I’d buried at the back of a drawer. The cold, clinical pages that detail my own end. Insomnia. Terminal. Six months. A dry, mirthless lau…