weet-bix-enthusiast

[weet-bix-enthusiast]

The air tasted like syrup left too long in a broken jaw.

Sweet, yes - but cloying, metallic, and foul. It coated Ranpo’s tongue with something syrupy and spoiled, something that felt like it had teeth of its own. Every breath dragged thickly down his throat, shrinking the space inside his chest, like the city was trying to press itself into him - seep in, take root, bloom black and velvet in the softest parts of his lungs.

Something wet slid down the back of his neck. He didn’t flinch. Couldn’t tell if it was sweat, condensation, or the city drooling on him. The air was thick with heat, not the kind that soothed, but the kind that made your skin feel two sizes too small. A feverish damp clung to the shadows, sour and breathless, like the city was sick.

Mould bloomed like bruises across every surface - buried in the cracks of candy-pink walls, spreading through warped plaster like veins beneath skin, curling between the teeth of buildings that had long since forgotten how to speak. Paint peeled in wet curls, revealing older layers beneath - paler, darker, all worse.

The billboard beneath him let out a low, aching groan, like something ancient and exhausted shifting in its sleep. The sound climbed up his spine in a slow shiver. He pressed his cheek to the floor. It was warm. Not just warm - living. Breathing. Pulsing faintly, like there was something deep beneath the city skin, exhaling slow and steady.

Everything here breathed.

Except the things that were supposed to.

Those were still. Unmoving. As cold and dry and hollow as puppets discarded in the dark - forgotten toys tucked beneath beds, their paint flaking, their eyes open. Waiting.

Above him, the sky stretched in long, jaundiced bruises - yellowed and swollen at the edges, clouded with deep, aching purples and the kind of blue that only shows up in old fruit left too long to rot on a forgotten hospital tray. It looked tender, sore. The Grinlight never fully darkened. Night didn’t fall - it curdled. The light turned soft and spoiled, like milk in the sun, thickened by clouds that never moved. They hung low, swollen and heavy with storms that never came. Just hovering. Like a hand suspended in the air, palm open, ready to strike.

Ranpo adjusted his coat, the fabric sticky against his skin. He peeled it off his arms slowly, like removing wet bandages. The lining smelled of sour sugar and mildew. He wrinkled his nose but didn’t complain. Complaining meant noticing. Noticing meant feeling.

And that wasn’t allowed.

The clown’s jaw framed his body as he leaned forward, letting his legs dangle between chipped and crumbling teeth. Below, the carnival lay still - tilted booths, rusted rails, torn banners that fluttered in wind that wasn’t there. Ranpo swung his feet idly, one heel tapping a slow rhythm against a rotting incisor. He had only one boot, the other he’d lost weeks ago, somewhere near the creek outside the old school. He’d backtracked, circled the place again and again, the shoe never turned up. Still, he kept wearing the one he had. Just in case.

It made sense in his head. He’d rather have one boot with the possibility of a pair than go barefoot and then find the missing one after. That would be worse - worse than limping. Because then what? He’d be back to one again. And what if he took off this one and found the other? Then he’d have to go through it all again. He’d be stuck. Caught. Spinning in circles. Around and around and around.

Like a carousel.

He hated carousels.

Far below, the street pulsed like something massive breathed beneath it, exhaling through cracks. Ranpo whispered into the city, asking if it was still alive. No answer—Grinlight never needed to speak aloud. The silence stretched too long, like taffy pulled thin.

The buildings loomed above him in shapes that didn’t quite obey the rules of geometry. They twisted in odd angles, spines crooked like old men who’d forgotten how to stand upright. Rusted balconies leaned too far forward, peering over the edge like nosy grandmothers. Candy-coloured bricks flaked away in patches, revealing bones beneath. Telephone wires stitched one rooftop to another, sagging like spiderwebs drunk on syrupy rainwater. Nearby, a speaker crackled with a broken jingle, looping nonsense until it faded into static.

Flickering neon signs buzzed and blinked like faulty nerve endings. Their letters glitched, slurred, blurred into nonsense half-eaten by time:

LAUG_!

S_EET DE_LS!

DON’T CR_YY~

Ranpo narrowed his eyes at that last one. A broken smile - sharp, too many teeth - flickered and danced just beneath the words, its edges twitching like something alive and trying not to be.

He let out a long, theatrical sigh and dropped back against the clammy plastic, limbs sprawled. The billboard groaned under him like a belly full of stones. “Don’t cry, don’t cryyy,” he muttered, voice trailing into a soft, taunting singsong. “Someone might be watching.”

And oh, they were. Always.

Even when you closed your eyes.

Especially then.

Something shifted below.

Not a breeze. Not a shiver.

A sound.

Dragging. Slow. The scrape of a limb being pulled behind it - rubber sole on slick stone, like someone too tired to walk properly. Or something pretending to be.

Ranpo froze.

The breath in his throat stopped halfway, clinging like cobwebs. His fingers moved without thought, sliding into the inside pocket of his coat. They brushed against familiar things: the cool sharp edge of a cracked mirror, the soft jingle of tiny bells dulled with rust, and the notched spine of a music box key that still smelled faintly of old copper and lavender soap. Trophies. Weapons. Maybe just comfort.

The air shifted - like someone had closed a door in a burning room.

There.

Far below, beneath the fever-slick gloss of the sidewalk and between the twitching curtains of buildings stitched too tightly together, something moved in the fog.

Ranpo didn’t breathe. His pulse ticked fast and shallow under his skin.

The Caretaker emerged slowly, as though dredged up from the city’s gut. It dragged its foot behind it in a lazy, sloping half-circle. Its body was gaunt, limbs too long and thin, barely contained by the peach-pink remains of what might’ve once been a nurse’s coat. It hung in folds, soaked in rot and time, the colour bleached in places and blooming with mildew in others. The head was encased in a fishbowl, fogged from the inside out like it was breathing something warmer than the air outside. It didn’t look up.

But that wasn’t the important part.

No, the important part was what it carried.

A lantern.

A warm glow. Soft and golden. Not neon, not flickering, not false. Real warmth. The kind that used to exist before. It spilled out in soft waves, wrapping everything it touched in something gentle.

Real.

It looked like morning light. Or hearth light. The kind that sank into your skin, filled your lungs without choking.

Ranpo leaned forward before he even knew he had. His breath fogged against the clown’s cracked teeth. His chest ached.

And then-

A hallway.

Wooden floor. A low hum. Warmth. Something sweet baking, something brown-sugared and soft that didn’t hurt the nose. Nothing like Grinlight’s acrid carnival rot. It smelled real. It smelled before.

He saw hands. His. Small, still scarred. They held onto a jumper not his own. Blue? No, grey-blue, pilled at the edges. It smelled safe. Like someone he used to know. Someone tall. He can’t see the face, only the yarn between his fingers, the sound of a laugh. Or a hum. Maybe a lullaby.

The memory slipped sideways, waterlogged and rotting like everything else here. But it was warm. It was his. Once. Maybe.

He jerked back, breath caught on a hiccup that didn’t quite make it out of his throat.

Below, the Caretaker had stopped.

Its head tilted up - slow, insect-smooth - and angled just enough to see.

The lantern swung gently in its long-fingered hand. Shadows stretched and curled around its feet, writhing too slow for the way the light moved.

Ranpo blinked fast. His face felt hot. Was that-?

He touched his cheek.

No. Dry.

Good.

He forced the corners of his mouth upward. Sharp. White. Empty.

“Hello!” he called down, voice syrup-sweet.

The Caretaker said nothing.

Just breathed. Or pretended to.

Then the lantern pulsed once. Like a heart learning how to beat.

Then it stepped back into the fog.

The mist ate it whole.

Gone. Melted away like sugar in rain.

The lantern’s glow lingered in his vision like an afterimage.

It had been real.

Or it used to be.

Ranpo’s heart pounded as he sat in the clown’s mouth, cold now. He wasn’t sure what twisted worse; remembering warmth, or missing it. He looked up at the jaundiced sky, thick syrupy air coating his tongue.

it would appear I have caught the fic fever. I cant stop writing fics. um yes this an a dystopian world au of some kind. maybe little nightmares inspired...

[weet-bix-enthusiast]

Tw: Dazai-typical shit :> @teenagechildtyphoon

The gravel beneath him was sharp in places, pressing through the thin fabric of his pants. He didn’t bother shifting to get comfortable. The dull ache in his thigh helped anchor him. Reminded him he still had a body. Reminded him the world still touched him, even if only to bruise.

The wind was cold up here, the kind of cold that wormed its way through sleeves and into bones, but he liked it that way. It made the smoke curl prettier when he exhaled - like the wind was stealing something out of him and painting it into the air. The cigarette trembled a little in his fingers, half from the breeze, half from nothing at all. His hands were always like that lately. Shaking. Unsure.

The city sprawled out below him like a mess someone gave up on cleaning. Neon signs blinked like tired eyes, flickering, half-dead. People moved like ants. Dots with no faces. He watched them from above and couldn’t tell if they were real. Meaningless, he thought. All of it. Just movement for movement’s sake.

Above him, the sky hung low and colorless. Not dark, not light - just there, like the absence of a thought, or a word caught in your throat. The stars had hidden themselves again.

Cowards.

Or maybe they’d died out and no one had bothered to tell him.

The cigarette balanced between his fingers was almost elegant in its simplicity. The smoke curled in tight spirals, then unraveled into nothing. It smelled like burning paper and something bitter. Not warm, not comforting. Just smoke. Just proof something was vanishing.

He brought it to his lips and breathed in. The sting hit the back of his throat first, then spread outward, like heat cracking across ice. He exhaled slowly through his nose, watching the smoke curl over his knees, then vanish into the night. Somewhere below, a car alarm went off. It shut itself up after three tired bleats, like even it had given up the will to be heard.

The air was cold and smelled like rust - like wet iron and the ghost of blood. The wind carried it up from the streets below, mixing with exhaust and the faint, sour trace of a storm that never came. Everything smelled like it was about to rain, but never did. The clouds teased without mercy.

From somewhere down the alley, a cat howled. It sounded guttural, angry. Maybe in pain. Maybe just talking to the void. Osamu stayed quiet. He understood the urge. Sometimes you didn’t want an answer. You just wanted to scream into the shape of silence.

The rooftop beneath him radiated leftover warmth from the day, but only barely. His fingers, exposed in the wind, were going numb. He flexed them around the cigarette and listened to the faint crackle of burning paper. It was strangely loud in the quiet, like the sound of something alive being reduced to nothing.

I wanna go home, he thought, like a reflex. It came without permission. Like it always did. Even when he got there - even when he stepped into the shipping container and lay on that too-thin mattress - it didn’t go away. He would still think it. I wanna go home.

A passing plane blinked red overhead. Too far away to hear. Too far away to matter. He imagined the people inside - businessmen, kids with sticky fingers, someone crying into a napkin. All moving. All going somewhere. He envied that. Not the destination, just the momentum.

The silence settled on his shoulders like a second coat. Heavy. Damp. Too familiar. He didn’t shake it off.

He tilted his head, squinting at the rooftop across from his. There was a puddle up there, oddly round. It reflected the sky like it wanted to be a mirror but couldn’t quite remember how. He wondered how deep it was. Probably shallow. Most things were.

The street light flickered below. Once. Twice. Then it burnt out with a satisfying ssshhhk. He remembered a warm light once, maybe a hallway lamp. Or the shape of someone’s hand resting briefly on his hair. It felt like it belonged to someone else’s life now. Someone softer. Someone warmer.

There was a moth clinging to the antenna beside him, its wings trembling like it was cold or scared or maybe just tired. Osamu stared at it for a while. It didn’t move. He liked that. He liked the stillness. The patience.

He ran his fingers over the gravel, feeling the bite of the little stones. They didn’t care who he was. He liked that too. Look at him, knowing what he likes. He should really get an award for this, he thought. He’d put it on his shelf next to all the reasons not to jump. Said list was not very long. He actually hadn't gotten around to writing it, so he was just using an old receipt from when the slug bought him some canned crab from 7/11 as a placeholder. That was probably the only good reason he could think of anyway. A dog would be lost without its owner after all. Not that he cared about that fancy hat wearing pipsqueak in black.

Far down on the street, someone laughed - high-pitched and messy, probably drunk. The sound carried too well. It made the air feel thinner. Made everything too close.

Behind him, a siren wailed and faded. Somewhere, a baby was probably crying. A kettle whistling. A dog barking itself hoarse. The world spun on, indifferent to whether he was watching or not. Indifferent to whether he existed or not.

There was something wrong with him, wasn’t there?

People talked about living like it was obvious. Like breathing came with instructions. Like getting up, eating breakfast, going to school, dreaming about the future - like that meant something. Like it added up.

No one could ever explain why, though.

Live for the sake of living, they said.

He thought about that a lot.

And every time, it made him feel more hollow.

He blinked slowly, gaze unfocused. Somewhere in the distance, the lights of a convenience store buzzed - fluorescent white and flickering, like it was breathing too fast. There was a kid on a bike, circling the parking lot. His wheels clicked with each revolution. The sound was rhythmic, almost soothing.

A smell drifted up - faint but sudden. Frying oil. Maybe someone burning something in an old kitchen. The scent clung to his nose before vanishing, just like everything else. The world always slipped through his fingers.

Osamu stared at his knees, then the skyline, then the cigarette burning down between his fingers. The ember glowed a soft orange. It looked alive. More than he felt. More than he’d felt in a long time.

The moth beside him still hadn’t moved. Its wings quivered like a whisper, antennae twitching slowly, uncertain. A fragile, vibrating thing. Just surviving.

He wondered if it knew it was alive. Or if it just... existed. Like him.

"I don’t think I’m human," he whispered, more to the moth than to the sky now. His voice came out raw, barely shaped. He licked his lips and tasted ash.

A car rolled by below, tires hissing on wet asphalt. The sound lingered. Like something being washed away. Like something disappearing.

The cigarette was burning unevenly again. The wind kept catching it and curling the ash to one side. He didn’t bother fixing it.

There were six wires tangled around the base of the antenna beside him, their plastic sheathing fraying like old nerves. One of them sparked faintly when the wind shifted - a tiny burst of static that made the moth twitch but not fly.

He wondered how long it had been broken. Wondered how long it would keep sparking before the building caught fire. Would anyone notice? Would it matter?

From below, he heard the rattle of a shopping cart being pushed too fast over cracked pavement. The metal clattered like teeth in a jar. Someone was laughing - rough, wheezing. The kind of laugh that came after a bad joke and too much nicotine.

The smell of sea salt and tobacco hung in the air, clinging to the inside of his nose. It stung. He couldn’t bring himself to care.

There was a soda can wedged into the rooftop gutter beside him. Crushed, rusted, the logo worn off. Ants were crawling in and out of the mouth. Industrious little bastards.

Osamu watched them. Tried to count how many made it back down before the wind scattered them.

A bird flapped by overhead - low, fast. A sea bird missing a few feathers. Probably fought something it couldn’t win against.

He sympathized.

Far in the distance, a train groaned as it passed - slow and too loud for how far away it was. He could feel the vibrations in his teeth, faint and jittery.

A plastic bag floated up from the alley and caught briefly on a power line. It clung there, fluttering violently like it was trying to escape. Then the wind gave it a little mercy, and it spiraled upward and out of sight.

Lucky thing.

He glanced to the side and saw a splash of paint on the rooftop wall - orange, peeling, shaped vaguely like a handprint. Too small to belong to an adult. Probably a kid messing around. Or falling.

There was an old paper cup under the vent pipe near the stairwell door. It had a lipstick stain on the rim. Pink. Glossy. He imagined someone bringing it up here and drinking coffee in the morning sun. Probably smiled a lot. Probably died years ago. Maybe he’d even been the one to kill them. Shame.

Osamu rubbed his thumb against the cigarette filter. He wasn’t sure when he’d stopped smoking and just started holding it.

The moth was still there. Its wings flexed gently, like it was testing the idea of movement and deciding against it.

"Do you think I’m human, moth-san?"

He closed his eyes. For a second, he imagined what it would feel like to float - truly float - drift above all of this until the lights and the smells and the gravel and the ache all dissolved. Just... weightless. Nowhere and no one.

When he opened his eyes again, everything was still here. Still unchanged. Still meaningless.

The cigarette was gone. Just a stub between his fingers. He crushed it against the concrete, watching the ash smear like dull paint. "Stupid question."

The moth took off suddenly, catching the wind in jerky, uncertain patterns. Osamu watched it disappear into the night.

“Lucky,” he murmured.

His fingers trembled slightly, just for a second. He flexed them in response, as if trying to prove to himself he still had a body, still had control. Still had mass.

The wind tugged gently at his hair. The smell of the city - metal, exhaust, something wet and rotten - rose up around him. He inhaled deeply, like he wanted to choke on it. Like he wanted it to fill him with something. Anything.

Even when he went “home,” to that echoing tin box by the water, he still felt this way. The ache. The too-big hollowness in his chest. Like something had been carved out long ago, and everyone just pretended it was fine. Like they couldn’t see the missing pieces.

He didn’t feel human. Not in the way other people did. They were real. Solid. They laughed and cried and looked at each other like they belonged. Like they were tethered to something.

Osamu lit another cigarette. He didn’t really like smoking. It just gave his hands something to do. Something to pretend they mattered. He wasn’t supposed to smoke either - he was young, brilliant, supposed to live forever. Or something.

But forever felt too long when you didn’t know why you were here to begin with.

He pulled his coat tighter around him, hunching forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The gravel dug into his legs through his pants, grounding him. Sort of. Not really.

He felt like a balloon someone let go of years ago, still floating, still drifting, too high up for anyone to care about anymore.

Maybe that’s what the wind liked about him.

Osamu sighed, curling around himself on the edge of the rooftop. He let his eyes drift shut. His cigarette lay forgotten between his fingers.

I wanna go home.

He wondered if he’d already left home years ago, and just hadn’t noticed when it happened. Or maybe he never had one to begin with.

Maybe he was just an entity, haunting a world that never wanted him.

The cigarette had burned nearly to the filter, the ember just a whisper of orange against the wind. Osamu exhaled slowly, watching the smoke bleed into the air like it had somewhere better to be.

A faint hum against his ribs, persistent and irritating.

He didn’t look at it. Just slipped a hand into his coat and pulled the phone free.

He answered without checking the screen.

“Ah, Shuuji-kun~” came the too-sweet voice on the other end. “So nice of you to pick up~”

Osamu hung up.

The silence returned. Not peaceful. Tense.

The phone buzzed again. Once. Twice.

With a sigh sharp enough to cut glass, Osamu answered again. “Mori-san.”

“Tsk, tsk, so impatient,” Mori purred. “That’s no way to treat your boss, Dazai-kun. I might start to feel unloved.”

“What do you want?”

“Oh, so cruel,” Mori said, and Osamu could hear the smile behind every syllable. “But fine. I have a little… hm, shall we say, expedition, for you~ Something off the usual map. Something... fun.”

Osamu didn’t answer.

“Come see me, Osamu.” And with that, Mori hung up.

The line went dead.

Osamu didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared out at the mess of a city below him, the phone still in his hand, screen gone dark. His cigarette smoldered low in his fingers.

He hated that man. That damn corpse-picker of a doctor. Always talking like he knew something Osamu didn’t. Always pulling strings like Osamu was just another puppet - just another blade to send out when the others got dull.

His fingers tightened.

But he didn’t throw the phone.

Not yet.

Osamu slowly lowered the phone, staring at nothing in particular. Just the black screen reflecting a muted sliver of the sky.

He let the device rest in his palm a while longer, feeling the vibration still humming faintly in the bones of his wrist. Phantom. Pointless.

With a quiet breath, he flicked it shut and slipped it back into his coat pocket.

The silence returned in full - no longer broken by Mori’s smug purr, but heavier now. Pressing at the edges.

Osamu sat back down on the gravel, letting his knees bend loosely, arms resting on them like scaffolding. The rooftop was still warm from the day, but the heat didn’t reach him. It never did. Not really.

Below, the city kept pulsing. Cars passed like thoughts - scattered and senseless. Neon lights blinked messages to no one. A sign advertising "discount yakitori" flickered so badly it looked like Morse code. People moved in clusters, quick and unthinking. Like they had somewhere to be. Like they believed they mattered.

Osamu exhaled through his nose. Smoke had stopped curling from his lips minutes ago, but the gesture still lingered in his body - like muscle memory. Like mourning.

He stared at the skyline. Watched a plane blink red against the low-hanging clouds.

He imagined the people inside, all packed tight, all dreaming of landing somewhere better. He wondered what it must be like, to feel pulled forward by purpose. To chase something. Anything.

His hands twitched against his thighs.

The moth was back, balanced delicately on the antenna like a paper thing. Its wings shifted minutely, catching the breeze but not using it.

He leaned slightly to the side and squinted at it, trying to figure out if it was the same moth as before. If it was, why had it come back? Maybe it was too scared to be alone now that it had a taste of company.

“Coward,” he muttered, almost fondly.

Not that he had room to talk.

The wind moved again, brushing his hair into his eyes. He didn’t push it away. Just sat. Just breathed. He could hear distant music from someone’s too-loud speaker below. Something fast and tinny. Laughter followed it - the kind that grated. He hated it. Probably. He knew he didn’t like it. Was that hate? What did it really mean to like something? Did he dislike the sound? How was he supposed to know?

A dull ache bloomed in the back of his knee where the gravel bit through. He welcomed it. Let it root him. It was the only thing lately that didn’t float away when he reached for it.

He blinked slowly. His eyes felt dry.

After a few minutes, he fished a muesli bar wrapper from his coat pocket - some half-forgotten thing Chuuya had shoved at him during a mission after he'd offhandedly mentioned he hadn't eaten in two days. Why chibi had done that was beyond him. He had better things to do than waste time eating. Like avoiding his paperwork. And sleeping. As if you actually sleep, idiot. Probably too busy plotting some bullshit scheme.He could almost hear his angry little dog barking in the back of his mind. 

The edges of the wrapper were frayed. The ink was wearing off. He folded it. Unfolded it. Folded it again.

A car alarm went off in the distance, barked three times, then fell silent.

He folded the wrapper once more and tucked it under a loose pebble by his shoe, like some kind of offering. Or maybe just to see if it would still be there tomorrow.

Time passed. Or maybe it didn’t. He wasn’t sure anymore.

A cat yowled in the alley below. Another one answered, lower and meaner. He wondered if it was the same cat from earlier. He wondered if the repetition of sounds was a real pattern, or if he was making things up to occupy his mind.

The wind shifted again, this time carrying the faint smell of fried oil and something sweet and salty. A food stall, probably. Something simple. Temporary.

It smelled like a life he didn’t have.

Somewhere, a window shut hard. Someone shouted. A bottle cracked on concrete. A motorbike peeled away down a side street, too fast.

And still, he sat.

Osamu’s fingers dug idly into the gravel. It ground under his nails, dry and cool and unremarkable. The moth’s wings shivered again, as if it could feel his attention.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered to it, voice rough from disuse. “I won’t make you move.”

The wind answered him. Or maybe it didn’t.

Fifteen minutes passed. Then eighteen. Then twenty-two. He counted. Maybe he’d lost track and repeated some. Or skipped them. It didn’t matter.

Long enough for the city to shift again - traffic thinning, clouds crawling low like they wanted to smother the skyline. The rooftop lights in the building opposite flicked on one by one. Office workers working late. Or maybe living there. It was hard to tell anymore.

He leaned back on his hands, letting his spine curve. The sharp bite of gravel pressed into his palms. He welcomed that, too.

In the back of his mind, Mori’s voice echoed - syrupy, smug. That way he said Osamu, like it was a name on a leash. Like a favorite tool taken off the shelf for polishing.

His lip curled faintly.

He knew Mori’s games. Knew how they started, and where they ended - always somewhere worse than the beginning.

Whatever this new “expedition” was, it wouldn’t be clean.

Nothing Mori touched ever was.

Osamu tilted his head up again. The sky had gone from gray to ash-blue, tinged faintly with the orange smear of the setting sun. Not pretty. Not ugly. Just dying light.

Somewhere in the depths of the city, a dog barked like it had something to say. Another bark answered, farther away.

Then silence.

He let it settle on his skin. Let the wind thread through his hair.

The moth, still unmoving, was closer to him now. Or maybe the breeze had shifted it. Or maybe it had always been that close and he hadn’t noticed.

He stared at it.

“I’m not real either,” he said softly. “So we’re even.”

A gust of wind dragged dust across the rooftop, fine particles stinging his eyes. He blinked slowly, letting the tear line build. Didn’t wipe it.

The sun was dying behind a wall of smoke and clouds. It didn’t even paint the sky anymore - just left a muddy yellow smear in its place.

He heard the click of someone lighting a cigarette down on the street - sharp, familiar. Then a man’s voice, low and cracked, murmuring something to himself. The tone caught Osamu’s ear. Something defeated in it. Something he didn’t want to recognize.

The neon sign on the manga shop across the street buzzed like it had bees in its wiring. The letters blinked out of sync. One of them - the “ga” - stayed off entirely. Now it just said:

MAN

Which, in a way, was more honest.*

A few rooftops over, a weather vane spun too fast in the wind. It made a sound like laughing. The rusty, choking kind.

Osamu leaned his head back and stared up at the colorless sky. No stars. No answers.

He mouthed the words to a song he couldn’t remember. Something he’d heard on the radio in a taxi once. Something about leaving and not looking back. The notes were gone, but the shape of it clung to his tongue.

Below, a man shouted someone’s name. It echoed up. No one answered.

The moth, unmoving, clung to the antenna like it had always been there.

Osamu shifted just slightly, resting his cheek on his folded arms.

The gravel pressed into his ribs.

He let his eyes drift closed.

The city was still moving.

He was still here.

Unfortunately.

Then, footsteps behind him.

Polite ones.

Soft, but firm. Leather soles. Authority dressed in patience. The smell of tobacco filling the air, adding to the smoke from Osamu's own cigarette.

Osamu didn’t turn around.

“Are you here to say something,” he drawled, “or are you just here to stare at the back of my head?”

There was a pause.

Then: “You're a little young to smoke, aren't you, Dazai-san?" Hirotsu took a step closer to Osamu, his voice neutral.

Osamu scoffed in response, taking another drag from his cigarette. "Aren't you a little old to be smoking, Hirotsu-san?" He sighed, then asked "I assume Mori sent you?"

"The Boss has requested your presence, Dazai-san.”

Osamu shifted the cigarette between his fingers. “Tell him I’m dead.”

“He said to bring you anyway.”

A beat of silence. Osamu’s jaw twitched.

He brought the cigarette to his mouth. Inhaled. Then calmly stubbed it out against the skin of his hand - just above the bandages. The faint ssskk of burning flesh barely registered.

He flicked the butt over the edge of the roof. He dropped it and watched the ember flicker, fade, die.

Then stood. Unhurried. Like someone dragging himself to a funeral.

“Let’s go then, Hirotsu-san.”

The wind tugged at the edges of his coat as he turned. The metal door at the top of the stairs creaked open, then slammed shut behind him with a sharp, echoing bang, ringing down the stairwell like a warning shot.

The rooftop was empty again.

Except for the moth.

Still clinging. Still trembling.

prettyyyy please go read more here if you liked it!