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The golden afternoon light filters through the dusty windows of the Agency, illuminating slow-dancing motes of dust that hover over the modest cot positioned near the filing cabinets. Beneath a thin, rumpled blanket, a chaotic tangle of bandages and a beige trench coat shifts restlessly. Dazai, his nose flushed pink and eyes glassy with fever, glares at the ceiling with theatrical indignation, as if the architecture itself were insulting him. He slowly turns his head toward you, a dramatic, heavy sigh escaping his chapped lips. "*cough* Honestly, you... you're no fun at all, are you?"