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soupthatistohot · 2 years ago

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BSD: An Absurdist Analysis - Chapter 2

Atsushi 's entrance exam, a test of will

[BSD 001] [Masterpost]

This chapter is about Atsushi’s entrance exam, which is basically the test of his will and whether he has the moral compass necessary to join the Armed Detective Agency.

Also, personal sidenote: It’s really funny to read this chapter with the full knowledge that everything about it is completely staged.

Anyway, we start with one of Dazai’s infamous suicide attempts.

Please excuse the watermarks on some of the pages/panels I provide. The online version of the manga that's easily accessible to me has these watermarks and I’m not going to remove them, nor do I know how to.

I’d like to take a moment here to explain the difference between something being “silly” and “absurd,” because BSD toes the line of this a lot, and I think this is a good example. Silly is more lighthearted and just plain stupid, whereas absurd is something just plain illogical or insensible. Dazai getting himself stuck in the oil barrel while attempting suicide is silly in of itself, but this becomes absurd when he explains that he wishes to die painlessly.

This is because of the fact that while it’s technically possible to die painlessly and even commit suicide painlessly, it kind of goes against what we consider to be logical or normal. Death and pain live in the same family in our brains, so, therefore, Dazai wanting to die and consistently attempting to take his own life but not wanting to deal with the pain of it is kind of absurd.

It’s the hypocritical nature of Dazai’s suicidality that lends to absurdity, especially because it’s sort of a “boy who cried wolf” situation (Dazai explains that his coworkers don’t come to save him anymore because of the number of times he has attempted, and even treat him callously when he tries to ask for help). While I’m not a huge fan of this trait of his and how others respond to it because of the lack of sensitivity it’s handled with (especially earlier in the story), I do think it plays into the overall theme. Asagiri’s intention likely wasn’t to make light of suicide or the fact that Dazai’s irl counterpart succeeded in taking his own life, but rather to emphasize the absurdity of such behavior within the framework of absurdist storytelling. That being said, this can also co-exist with the fact that a lot of manga Dazai’s suicide jokes are really insensitive, to say the least.

Anyway, Atsushi helps him (begrudgingly), and they head towards the agency, where Tanizaki is pretending to be a bomber, threatening to blow the place to bits unless he is brought the president of the agency. When Kunikida tries to approach him, he “recognizes” him as an agency member due to his “grudge” against the organization and threatens him. It’s then decided that Atsushi should go out to confront the bomber since he wouldn’t be recognized as an agency member.

I’m going to pause here and take this opportunity to explain the difference between absurdism and nihilism. While it's true that both philosophies contend that life is inherently meaningless, the difference lies in what we do with this information. The nihilist believes that because life has no purpose, it cannot be found under any circumstances and therefore you can basically do whatever you want. Life is what you make it, essentially. The absurdist believes that in order to find meaning, one must both embrace life’s inherent absurdity and use it as a means to fight back against it.

So with that context in mind, Atsushi basically tries to tell Tanizaki that there’s meaning in life, to which Tanizaki responds “It’s better if everyone dies!” Atsushi then goes on a self-deprecating ramble, but still ends it with “but I’m desperately trying to live!”

Essentially, Tanizaki is playing the part of the nihilist here (it doesn’t matter if I and everyone here die), while Atsushi is presenting an absurdist argument (my life sucks, but I’m still trying, regardless).

And then we get the most important part of the entrance exam: Atsushi throwing himself on top of the bomb.

I know I talked about suicide being something that absurdists hate in my chapter 1 post, but I will note here that I think context matters! Dazai’s suicidality is different than Atsushi trying to sacrifice himself, because for Atsushi it’s a last-ditch effort to save everyone.

Realistically, would his body be enough to dampen the explosion? Probably not, but what matters is that he did the “idiotic” (read: absurd) thing, and tried anyway. He didn’t give up hope that he could do something to protect everyone in that room, despite barely knowing any of them.

Luckily for Atsushi, it’s all fake, and this was a test of his will, basically. Fukuzawa and Tanizaki are formally introduced and he gets offered a job at the Armed Detective Agency… which he basically can’t turn down because otherwise he’s completely penniless. So, Dazai has kind of trapped him there by wanting to hire him, which I think is kind of funny.

And thus ends the second chapter! As I mentioned in the previous post, I might not be doing one chapter at a time like this as I go, but for some of these earlier, establishing chapters, it feels necessary. I’ll be considering it on a case-by-case basis, pretty much.

Thanks for reading! Please feel free to reply or send asks, I love talking about this stuff :)

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#bsd #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bsd manga #atsushi nakajima #dazai osamu #armed detective agency #bsd chapter 2 #bsd 2 #bsd absurdism analysis #soup rants

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chuuyrrkissrr · 1 month ago

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I was taught to heal, yet thrown into war—so I will mend you with hands that still bleed. | reader-insert (22,579 words) by chuuyrrkisser

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Ayatsuji Yukito (Bungou Stray Dogs) & Reader, Dazai Osamu (Bungou Stray Dogs)/Reader, Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs)/Reader Characters: Ayatsuji Yukito (Bungou Stray Dogs), Dazai Osamu (Bungou Stray Dogs), Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs) Additional Tags: I wrote this because I feel bad for what I'm about to write in my other fics..., shojo coded reader, somewhat shojo coded fic, I know it sounds horrible from the first chapter but trust it's not, Dazai-Typical Suicide Mentions (Bungou Stray Dogs), Isekai and Transmigration, Reader-Insert

content warning… sexual exploitation [implied/referenced], non-consensual touching, prostitution, trauma & abuse, gore…

You dip the ragged cloth into the cold bucket of water again, watch it soak, then pull it out, dripping. The water runs through your fingers, tinged a dull gray. You press it to the floorboards and begin to scrub—again. And again. And again.

It doesn’t help.

The filth isn’t just in the wood. It’s in the walls. The air. The sound.

Down the hallway, the groans begin again—low, muffled at first, then louder. Guttural. Laughter. Moans. You don’t want to hear it, but there’s no escape from it. No walls thick enough to block it out, no hallway far enough to drown it.

You clench your jaw and keep scrubbing, though every swipe of the rag only spreads the filth in your mind. The hallway reeks of old perfume and something bitter underneath. The floorboards feel sticky even after you’ve gone over them twice.

You know why she placed you here.

The owner hadn’t hidden her intent—she wanted you to break. She placed you in the heart of it, the long hall that stretches past the rooms where those awful sounds echo. You can still feel the smug smile she gave you before ordering you to clean it thoroughly.

You press the cloth harder into the floor. Your arms ache. Your knees burn against the wood.

It’s been three days.

Three days of washing sheets that come back stained and reeking. Of scrubbing basins, emptying slop, bowing to women who sometimes look at you with pity and sometimes not at all. Serving tea with shaking hands, pretending not to see what happens after.

You haven’t slept much. You haven’t spoken unless spoken to.

But you haven’t changed your mind.

Not yet.

Not ever.

Some of the women here—strangers who should’ve had every reason to look past you—didn’t.

They weren’t kind in the way stories describe kindness. No gentle lullabies or comforting embraces. But they noticed when your hands trembled too hard to hold the serving tray. They noticed when your lips looked too pale. They noticed when you hadn’t eaten, again.

And so, they made sure you did.

A rice ball quietly placed beside your bucket in the morning. A piece of sweet potato pressed into your palm after the sun fell. Not a word said, not a demand for thanks. Just small offerings passed between long silences and exhausted glances.

You were grateful.

They had been here long enough to build walls—walls thick enough to survive what they heard, what they endured. You watched how they moved—heads held high, faces painted with precision, backs straight even under weight you couldn't begin to imagine. They were used to this life in a way that terrified you.

But even with their strength, they never let you slip too far.

Still… eating was hard.

You tried, for their sake. You tried to swallow mouthfuls of rice that turned to paste in your throat, tried to chew while the sounds behind the paper doors crept under your skin. But most times, you couldn’t. Most times, the nausea twisted your stomach tighter than hunger ever could.

Sometimes, you just sat there—food in front of you, hands in your lap, jaw locked shut.

Even the scent of perfume that clung to your sleeves made your stomach turn.

Today was just another day. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

You couldn’t tell anymore. Time moved strangely in this place—slow and heavy, like syrup left out in the cold. The routine dulled everything: wake, clean, serve, scrub, avoid the wrong looks, flinch at the wrong sounds. You didn’t know if you were hopeful or if your mind had just gone quiet out of necessity.

Most days, you didn’t even leave the building. The rare times you did, it was to hang soaked linens in the tiny courtyard out back. That courtyard—if you could call it that—was barely the size of a room. Fenced in by walls on three sides, open to the sky but choked by hanging laundry and the thick scent of damp fabric.

Even then, you were always watched.

Still, you made use of it.

You forced your eyes up and out. Over rooftops. Along the narrow corridors connecting building to building. You studied the alleyways lined with paper lanterns, the bridges of cracked wood between houses, the twisting paths that led into other brothels and tea houses, all wrapped in a haze of smoke and color.

From above, it might look beautiful.

From where you stood, it felt like a maze meant to keep you in.

The Red Light District had no end that you could see. Just bends that led into more corners, more doorways, more painted faces. You didn’t know how many brothels there were—ten, twenty, more? It felt like they folded into each other, the boundaries blurring until even the walls seemed to lean too close, pressing the air from your lungs.

Claustrophobic.

But you still looked. Every single time. Memorized every crack in the walls, every bend in the alleys, every crooked tile.

You told yourself it was for when you needed to run. Not if . When.

But even if you made it past the maze, past the guards, past the owner’s knowing eyes… what then?

The district was fenced by a forest you couldn’t name and roads that vanished into nothing. You hadn’t seen a single landmark—no town, no sign, not even a trader’s cart to hint at what lay beyond.

Just trees.

Tall, dark, endless trees.

And yet… you kept watching.

Because hope, even when it’s quiet and tired and maybe dying, still watches for an opening.

A tap on your shoulder pulls you out of your thoughts so suddenly your breath catches.

You turn quickly, heart already thudding from the jolt, and find one of the women standing behind you. She’s older than most—sharp eyes, lined face, a silk ribbon tied around her wrist instead of her hair. You’d seen her around before, quiet but purposeful.

“She’s calling for you,” the woman says simply, voice low. “Go upstairs..”

You blink, the words slow to settle. Your hand tightens around the handle of the water bucket as you gesture toward the floor, toward the still-damp rag and grime you’d been scrubbing at for the past hour.

“I was told to—”

“Leave it,” she interrupts gently. “She said now.”

The woman’s tone isn’t cruel, but there’s a trace of something resigned in her eyes. Something that makes your stomach twist tighter than it already was.

You hesitate. Then set the bucket down with a quiet clink. Your knees ache as you rise, legs stiff, fingers wrinkled from the water. You wipe them half-heartedly on your clothes as you turn toward the stairs.

The old hag never calls without reason.

And that reason is never good.

You knock once, knuckles tapping against the thin wood.

For a moment, there's only silence. Then, her voice—faint, smooth, but loud enough to carry through.

“Come in, little dove.”

You push the door open slowly. The room is quiet. Still.

The owner sits alone at a low table, her fingers curled delicately around a porcelain teacup. Steam rises from it in lazy spirals, the scent of roasted leaves thick in the air. Her eyes lift to meet yours, sharp and far too amused.

You step inside without speaking, closing the door behind you. The silence feels heavier than usual.

She sets the cup down with a soft clink.

“My, my… Still standing.” Her smile cuts slowly across her face. “You look… almost appetizing, for someone who’s barely functioning like a normal person.”

You flinch. She notices, of course. That’s the point.

“But,” she continues, eyes raking over you as if appraising meat at market, “not quite as radiant as you did when you first came crashing into my parlor. It’s such a shame what grime and sleepless nights do to the skin.”

She lifts her cup again, takes a slow sip. Her pause is deliberate.

“You’re being given… an opportunity.”

Your stomach knots.

“A wealthy gentleman visited today,” she says lightly, swirling her tea. “Old money. Proper silk robes, lacquered carriage wheels, the sort who knows what he wants and doesn’t like to ask twice.”

You stay still.

She leans forward just a little, eyes glinting. “He asked for someone young. Untouched. Foreign.” A beat. “Delicate, of course. A pet to display. A treasure to handle—gently, at first.”

She never says it outright. She never has to.

Her smile widens, too warm for the cold she carries. “Naturally, I thought of you.”

You swallow down the rising bile and say, quietly, “No… thank you.”

The words barely come out. They’re not brave, not defiant—just soft, almost trembling. But they are clear.

The old woman doesn’t frown. She doesn’t scold. She only smiles, as if you’ve just said something silly and childish.

“It’s all right to be nervous,” she says, gently placing her teacup down with a click. “They often are.”

She stands up slowly, smoothing the wrinkles from her robes with deliberate grace.

“Come here, dear.”

You don’t move at first. The instinct to bolt flickers under your skin—but your legs feel like stone. Still, your feet start to move, as if pulled by invisible strings. You step forward, one reluctant step at a time, until you’re standing before her. The floor feels cold beneath your soles.

Her hands reach out, fingers cool and dry against your skin. She pinches your cheeks—not cruelly, but firmly enough to make you feel small. Her long nails press lightly into the softness of your face as she hums in thought, tilting your head side to side like she’s inspecting a piece of fruit.

“So sweet,” she murmurs. “Still soft in all the right places.”

Your breath hitches as she lets go of your cheek and taps your chin.

“Open your mouth, little dove.”

You hesitate. Your lips part slightly, but it’s not enough.

Her expression flattens.

Then, without warning, her thumb forces its way between your teeth.

The intrusion is rough, and her nail scrapes against your tongue and the roof of your mouth. You gag, choking on the pressure and sudden taste of iron where her ring grazes the inside of your lip. Your body reacts before you can think—you shove back, stumbling as the floor rushes up beneath you.

You land hard, coughing, spitting, trying to breathe.

But she follows.

Kneeling beside you, one hand seizing your jaw again. Her fingers dig into your cheeks, forcing your face up as her other hand trails down your neck—fingertips pressing, feeling, assessing.

“Stop—stop,” you manage, voice cracking around the soreness in your throat.

She only hums again. A soft sound. A lie wrapped in sugar.

“There, there,” she coos. “Don’t fuss. I just need to make sure you’re in working order.”

Her smile never fades. Not even when her eyes go dead.

Her fingers begin to drift—sliding down from your throat to the dip of your collarbones, slow and testing, as if mapping out territory she already thinks she owns.

Then her hand moves lower.

That’s when it snaps.

You shove her with all the force your trembling arms can manage. The push lands sharp, sending her back just enough to break contact—but not far. Not enough.

Her expression changes.

The smile vanishes.

And in its place, something cold and angry settles into her face. Her hand lashes out, seizing your arm, and the other grips your hair, twisting hard enough to make your scalp scream.

You cry out, clawing at her wrist, trying to tear free.

"Ungrateful little wretch," she hisses, the sweetness in her tone gone, shredded by venom. "You think you get to choose?”

Your scream rips from your throat, raw and full of terror. You twist, kick, drag your nails across her arm—anything to push her away. You don’t care if it hurts her. You want it to hurt. You want her off you.

But her grip tightens. Iron fingers, cruel and bruising.

Your voice rises in sheer panic, the room spinning as you thrash beneath her weight.

And then—just as suddenly—

The weight on your chest disappears.

For a moment, your body remains frozen—fingers still gripping her wrist, nails digging into her skin—but then, it’s gone. The crushing pressure lifts, leaving you gasping for air, your pulse thundering in your ears.

You blink rapidly, trying to clear your vision through the tears that blurred your sight. You look up, chest heaving with the weight of fear and confusion.

The room is empty.

The old woman is gone.

There’s no sound—no movement. The teacup she had been holding is still on the table, unmoved, as though everything had paused. You don’t understand what just happened. Where did she go? Why is she gone?

A cold, awful shiver runs down your spine, but you don’t have time to process it.

Suddenly, the air shifts.

Without warning, something heavy splashes onto your face. At first, it’s so sudden, so forceful, you think it’s water. A torrent pouring over you, soaking into your hair, dripping onto your clothes. You can feel the coldness seeping in, drenching your skin.

You push your hair away from your face, too shocked to even flinch.

Your fingers go to your eyes, wiping at the wetness. But when you bring your hand back—

It’s not water.

It’s blood.

A sick, coppery scent fills the room as you rub at your eyes, the red liquid spreading across your hands. Your stomach lurches, but you can’t make yourself move. You can’t pull your eyes away from the sight.

You’re drenched.

Covered in blood.

And it’s still dripping.

The world tilts beneath you as you stare at your hands, feeling the weight of it, the confusion mixing with growing panic.

Where did it come from?

You can’t breathe. You can’t think.

It wasn’t just on you. The blood was everywhere—on the floor, the walls, as though the room itself had bled.

The tatami mat beneath you is beginning to stain.

You sit frozen, unable to move, trapped in a whirlpool of confusion and terror. The blood drips steadily from your hair, from your body, pooling at your feet in an almost unnatural stillness. Your mind is numb, the weight of it suffocating, as you try to make sense of what’s happening.

Then, the door slams open with a force that snaps you out of your stupor.

A woman rushes in, her footsteps hurried, but when she sees you, her words die in her throat. She freezes in the doorway, eyes wide with shock as her gaze locks onto you.

Her breath catches as her eyes flick from your blood-soaked form to the walls, to the floor, to the air as if she can’t decide where to focus. The blood is everywhere. The whole room feels wrong—like something impossible has happened.

“Wh-What...?” she breathes, stepping back slightly, her face pale.

You don’t know what to say. You don’t even know how to explain yourself, or what’s even happening.

You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a strangled, desperate gasp.

The woman’s expression hardens, quickly slipping into something controlled, but the tremor in her voice betrays her as she finally manages to speak. “What happened? How… how are you…?"

You can’t answer. You don’t have words. The blood is too much. It’s suffocating you.

She steps forward slowly, but her eyes don’t leave your figure. “Stay where you are. Don’t move. I’ll—”

She stops herself, as though realizing how futile it is to try to offer comfort when she doesn’t even understand what’s going on. But even then, she can’t help but inch closer, torn between fear and something else—something protective.

“Stay... still,” she repeats, more firmly now. She sounds like she’s trying to calm herself as much as you.

The woman’s steps echo louder than they should, each one a reminder of the reality that’s closing in on you. You feel her presence, hear her voice trying to steady you, but none of it means anything right now. Right now, nothing can comfort you. The blood on your skin, the suffocating weight of it all—none of it can be made right by the hands of another.

Before she can reach you, before she can say another word, your instincts take over.

You push past her, shoving your shoulder into her frame. The sharpness of her gasp cuts through the thick air, but you don’t wait. You don’t look back. You just run.

You dart through the narrow hallways of the brothel, your breath ragged, skin still slick with blood. The walls feel like they’re closing in on you, but you can’t stop. Not now.

The sound of moans and muffled laughter from the rooms on either side mix with the shuffle of footsteps and the clinking of coins. You pass rooms where people— those people —are intertwined in public indecency, their bodies on display for anyone who dares to look. The sounds grate on your nerves, the cries of pleasure mingling with the dread building in your chest.

But you don’t slow down. You won’t.

You burst through the back door and spill out into the colorful street beyond.

The maze of brothels and vendors stretches before you, a sprawling, chaotic mess of neon lights and raucous sounds. The streets are packed with people—customers, onlookers, sellers—all blending together in a blur of movement. The air smells of incense and cheap perfumes, mixed with the unmistakable stench of sweat and alcohol.

The main road splits in multiple directions, the pathways leading god knows where. Each corner, each turn feels like an escape. And you choose the first one you see.

Your legs burn with each frantic step, the cobblestones beneath your feet uneven, threatening to trip you up at any moment. But you don’t stop. You push through, faster, faster.

Your mind races—Where am I going? How far can I run?

But you don’t care.

You just need to get away.

The road stretches out before you, splitting again and again, and you follow it without hesitation, without any thought of where it leads. Every breath feels like it’s suffocating you more. Your heart is pounding so hard you think it might burst out of your chest.

The world around you is an endless blur of lights, shapes, and faces—each one a reminder of how far you are from anything familiar.

Just keep running.

The ground beneath you shifts with each frantic step, your feet pounding against the cracked concrete, the sound swallowed by the stillness of the night. The chaos of the brothel, the neon lights, the noise—it all feels distant now, swallowed by the weight of the forest that surrounds you.

You don’t know where you’re going.

You don’t care.

The roads stretch out in front of you, endless and barren, no street lamps, no traffic lights—just endless stretches of gray, lifeless concrete. The air is heavy and damp, thick with the earthy scent of the forest pressing in from all sides, but the trees offer no solace. The only sound is your ragged breathing and the hurried beat of your heart, slamming against your ribcage as though it might break free.

Each corner you round only leads to more emptiness—more dark stretches of road. The farther you go, the darker it gets. The oppressive silence presses down on you, the weight of your own footsteps starting to feel like a punishment. The blood on your skin grows colder with every second, the sticky feeling like a constant reminder of what you’ve just escaped. It feels like you’re running through a nightmare, where the road itself keeps shifting, as if mocking your desperation.

The trees, tall and twisted, loom on either side of the road, their branches stretching up to the sky like gnarled fingers. Their shadows stretch across the path, dark and consuming, blurring the already faint distinction between what’s real and what’s not. The road, at times, feels like it’s alive, curling and twisting into paths that lead nowhere, only to force you to choose again, running without knowing where you’ll end up.

You push yourself harder, not daring to slow, even as your body screams for rest. You can barely see through the blur of sweat and blood on your face, but you don’t dare stop. Not yet.

You trip once, stumbling over a crack in the road, but you don’t pause. The ground feels uneven beneath you, unpredictable, as though it’s conspiring to keep you trapped. You catch yourself, hands scraping against the concrete as you propel yourself forward again, fear burning in your veins.

The cold of the night air bites at your exposed skin, but it’s nothing compared to the chill gnawing at your bones. There’s no warmth here, no sense of security—just the raw, empty stretch of the road ahead.

You hear nothing but the rustling of leaves far off in the distance. The soft hiss of the wind doesn’t comfort you, only reminds you of the vast emptiness that surrounds you. The forest feels alive, but not in a way that offers any hope. Every sound you hear, every shadow you see, feels like it’s waiting to swallow you whole.

But you can’t stop. You can’t afford to.

Your mind races with thoughts you can’t catch, too scrambled, too panicked. All you know is the urgency that pulses through your veins—the overwhelming need to get away . It doesn’t matter if you’re running blind into the night, doesn’t matter that you can barely see or breathe. You just have to run.

The road ahead doesn’t change. It’s still the same, stretching out into the darkness like a promise of more fear, more uncertainty.

With a sharp gasp, your foot catches on uneven ground, and your body crashes down onto the cold concrete. The impact knocks the wind out of you, your palms scraping hard against the road, your knees stinging from the fall. You try to get up— you have to get up —but your lungs are too tight, your chest heaving like it might split open. Every breath is fire, every heartbeat a war drum in your ears.

You lie there, trembling, the sky above you a black void with no stars to anchor you, the forest around you a silent audience to your unraveling. Your thoughts blur together in a haze of panic and exhaustion. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know what to do.

And then—light.

Blinding and sudden.

A harsh pair of headlights cuts through the darkness, and you’re frozen in their path, caught like a deer, eyes wide and glassy. The low rumble of an engine reaches your ears a second later, and a car rounds the corner, its tires screeching as it jolts to a sudden, violent stop just a few feet away from you.

The horn blares for a moment—short, sharp, annoyed.

Then the door opens.

A man climbs out, voice raised and cutting through the still air. “Hey! What the hell are you doing in the middle of the—?!”

He doesn’t finish.

He sees you.

Really sees you.

The blood. The torn clothes. The sheer, feral terror in your eyes. You don’t move, don’t speak—just stare up at him like prey, too numb to plead or explain.

His expression changes in an instant—confusion morphing into alarm. He stops dead in his tracks, hands raising instinctively as if distance alone could protect him.

“Jesus Christ…”

He mutters the words like a curse, stumbling a step backward. His gaze darts up and down your body, trying to make sense of the horror in front of him, then flicks back to the safety of his vehicle.

You manage a noise—barely more than a dry gasp—but he’s already shaking his head, backing away, muttering, “Nope. No. I’m not doing this. Hell no.”

He retreats to the car, eyes wide, slams the door shut, and starts the engine with a jerk.

The car's engine growls to life, the driver muttering panicked curses under his breath, eager to get as far away from you as possible. The tires crunch over gravel, the headlights beginning to shift—then stop.

The back door opens with a soft click .

A man steps out, calm in contrast to the scene he’s walked into. He doesn’t move with alarm, only a quiet kind of calculation, as though he'd already anticipated something strange and merely found it.

He’s tall, with short, tousled blond hair, a flat cap casting a faint shadow over his face. His gold eyes—partially hidden behind pale, half-rimmed glasses—fix on you. He’s dressed in layers: a dark gray vest beneath a jacket of yellow ochre and red, his gloved hands tucked casually in his pockets. There’s nothing overtly threatening in his posture, nothing overtly warm either.

You stare.

He stares.

Neither of you says a word.

The night air thickens between you, your chest still rising and falling in shallow gasps. Your eyes, wide and numb, drink in the sight of him, but it’s like your brain can’t keep up, can’t categorize him.

You don’t know who he is.

You don’t know what he wants.

But unlike the driver, he doesn't look away. He doesn't flinch at the blood, the mess, the wreck of what you've become. He merely observes, steady and still—like he’s seen worse.

Then, with no urgency, no fear, he takes a step forward.

Not asking if you’re alright.

Not demanding an explanation.

Just… watching.

As if trying to determine what, exactly, you are.

And whether you’re something he’s meant to deal with—or something that will deal with him.

#bsd x reader #chuuya nakahara x reader #chuuya x reader #dazai osamu x reader #dazai x reader #chapter 2

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