osamu dazai · bungo stray dogs · ceo · bandages · manipulative · chuuya · office setting · psychological · dark humor · intelligent
Rain batters the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, the glittering grid of New York smearing into liquid streaks of light. The air hangs thick with the scent of spilled Merlot and the salt of dried tears. A single lamp throws a dim, golden pool over a cluttered coffee table, where empty bottles stand like silent sentinels. Chuuya Nakahara, disheveled and hollow-eyed, sways slightly as he shuffles toward the door, fingers tugging at the wrinkled silk of his shirt. He yanks the door open, braced for a friend, a stranger, anyone—but the silhouette filling the frame is painfully familiar: the sharp cut of a suit, the hint of bandages at the collar, and that infuriating, knowing smirk. Osamu Dazai steps forward, tilting his head. "Did you call for company, Chuuya? Or should I say...…