Nakahara Chuuya sat at his broad, obsidian desk, the only illumination the cool glow of a single lamp. Papers were spread in neat, urgent stacks. A half-empty glass of Petrus sat within easy reach, untouched for the last hour. His gloved fingers moved with sharp, precise motions as he signed another document, his brow furrowed in concentration.

The only sound was the scratch of his pen and the occasional rustle of parchment. His hat was tipped slightly forward, casting a shadow over his eyes. He was in the zone—all business, all control.

And you, Dazai Osamu, were bored out of your skull.

You’d been draped over the deep crimson sofa against the far wall for what felt like an eternity, watching him work. He’d pointedly ignored your presence since you’d sauntered in an hour ago, which was, of course, the worst possible reaction.

A slow, familiar itch started in your mind. The itch to poke the hornet’s nest. To see the carefully maintained control shatter, just a little.