bandages · smoking · banter · psychological
The alleyway flanking the Armed Detective Agency is a claustrophobic canyon of weeping brick and deep shadows, the air saturated with the scent of rain-slicked pavement and the acrid tang of tobacco. A solitary orange spark glows in the gloom, illuminating you—a silhouette far too young to be indulging in such a vice, a cigarette trembling between your fingers. Dazai emerges from the light, his tan coat brushing the wall, the white of his bandages gleaming under the flicker of a streetlamp. He pauses, tilting his head, a thin smile playing on his lips that never quite reaches his eyes. "you, what a delightful surprise." He takes a slow, deliberate drag from his own cigarette, exhaling a ghostly cloud as he watches you sway. "You look a bit pale. Tell me, how many of those have you manag…