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The water was cold that evening. Not freezing—just cold enough that the skin stung when touched, and the air around the river carried that sharp metallic smell that reminded him of old blood. Dazai sat on the edge of the stone embankment, shoes damp, bandaged fingers draped over his knees. The current moved lazily, as if even the river couldn’t be bothered to rush anymore.
He had tried again. It hadn’t worked. It never did.
There was no trace of disappointment on his face, no frustration, just that usual expression—calm, maybe even amused, the one that made people think he was constantly entertained by something only he could see. But there was nothing to be entertained by. He stared at the water, expressionless, eyes dull in the fading light.
He wondered when exactly it had stopped feeling like anything.
There had been a time when he thought dying would bring clarity, or peace, or even meaning. The thought itself had a kind of purity to it—a clean, absolute end. But repetition stripped even that of significance. You could only romanticize death so many times before it became another daily task. He was tired, yes, but tiredness wasn’t pain. It was emptiness that moved.
He let his hand fall into the river, palm open, feeling the slow drag of the current around his wrist. It was strangely steady—indifferent. It reminded him of Oda.
Oda had been like that: steady, indifferent in a way that wasn’t cruel. He had said once, “Dying is easy, but living takes courage.” The kind of line people said in cheap novels. Dazai would have laughed at anyone else who said it. But Oda had meant it. He’d meant everything he said.
The memory came uninvited—smoke in a small bar, Oda’s quiet voice, the sound of the city breathing outside. Dazai remembered every detail. He also remembered the gunshots. The stillness that followed. The silence that came after silence.
He hadn’t cried. He didn’t know how to. Grief was supposed to tear you open, but for Dazai it had been just another empty hole in a body full of them. After Oda died, he left the Port Mafia because there was no point staying. Not out of morality. Not out of guilt. Just because Oda’s words had been the last thing that sounded real to him.
He pulled his hand back, droplets sliding off the bandages, darkening them. He looked at them for a long time. The layers were old, slightly frayed. Sometimes people joked about why he wore them. He always made something up. A medical condition. A curse. A fashion statement. The truth was simpler.
It was a habit that never went away.
The reminder of a time when bleeding meant he could still feel something.
A breeze passed over the river, catching the ends of his coat. The city lights began to switch on one by one across the bridge. Somewhere behind him, the world continued—people walking home, cars passing, voices rising and falling. The sound didn’t reach him.
He thought about the Agency. About the people there who smiled at him, trusted him, or at least tried to. Kunikida with his ideals, Atsushi with his quiet panic, even Ranpo with that sharp mind and that sharper arrogance. They all had something that tethered them to life. Dazai didn’t. He had observation. That was all.
He could analyze them, understand them, predict them. It was what made him useful. But none of it touched him. Not really.
He tilted his head back, looking up at the sky. No stars. Just the faint orange haze of the city reflecting against the clouds. He had always preferred the night. It didn’t ask questions.
“Why do you keep doing this, Dazai?”
Kunikida had asked him that once, voice caught somewhere between anger and fear.
“Habit,” he had replied, smiling.
That had been the truth.
Because if you stopped moving toward death, you were forced to move toward something else. And Dazai had no idea what that “something else” could be.
He stood slowly, brushing dust off his coat. The movement felt mechanical. There was a piece of wire in his pocket—thin, sharp, almost mocking. He turned it over between his fingers before tossing it into the river. It sank without a sound.
“Even the river’s better at disappearing than I am,” he murmured.
His tone wasn’t bitter. Just factual.
He walked along the riverbank, hands in pockets, the soles of his shoes making small sounds against the stone. The streetlights above him buzzed faintly. There was comfort in that monotony. It meant the world still existed.
He thought, fleetingly, about tomorrow. The Agency would probably notice if he didn’t show up. Kunikida would yell. Atsushi would look concerned. Yosano would sigh. And then it would go back to normal. It always did.
The truth was, he didn’t want to die because of something. He wanted to die because there was nothing left to wait for. That was the difference no one understood. He didn’t hate life. He was just done with it.
He stopped walking when he reached the middle of the bridge. The city spread before him, the lights reflected in the water below. From here, it looked almost beautiful.
He rested his arms on the railing and stared down. The reflection stared back. For a moment, he thought of what Oda would say if he saw him like this. Maybe he’d frown. Maybe he’d laugh. Maybe he’d say, “Still here, huh?”
“Still here,” Dazai whispered.
It wasn’t pride. It wasn’t relief. Just acknowledgment.
He watched the water a little longer before turning away.
When he walked back toward the city, his shadow trailed behind him, stretching and breaking in the light. The night wrapped around him easily, the same way it always did.
Tomorrow, he’d probably make another joke about double suicides, tease Kunikida, fall asleep during work. The usual routine. No one would know about the river.
Maybe that was fine.
He didn’t need anyone to understand him. He didn’t even want that. Understanding came with expectation, and expectation meant disappointment. It was easier to remain unsolved.
He looked up once more before leaving the bridge, eyes catching the faint glow of a star that had managed to appear through the clouds.
He smiled—not the bright kind, just a quiet, tired curve of his mouth.
It wasn’t hope. It was habit.
And habits, after all, were the only things that ever lasted for him.