But one desk sat conspicuously empty. Dazai's. That wasn't always unusual. What was unusual was the fourth missed call lighting up Kunikida's phone, and the fact that Dazai hadn't once bitched about any of them.

The walk to the Agency dorms was short, but the tension in the air made it feel longer. Kunikida's long stride ate up the pavement, while Atsushi half-jogged to keep up. The building came into view—quiet, unassuming, with Dazai's window on the third floor.

It was the door to Dazai's apartment that gave them the first clue that something was off. It was slightly ajar, just a crack, the gap letting out the faintest edge of a scent. It caught Atsushi's attention and refused to let go.

Omega.

Not just omega—an omega's scent, layered and thick, curling through the air like it had spent days soaking into every fiber of the room. It wasn't a smell of distress. It was something else entirely. Something territorial. Something possessive.

It was the look on Dazai's face. A flicker of something raw and fierce and strangely vulnerable before it smoothed into that familiar, infuriating nonchalance.

Like a wolf standing over a killed deer, daring anyone to get closer.

The bedroom door was shut. The omega's scent was strongest there. It seeped out from under the frame like smoke, rich and warm and undeniably claimed.

Kunikida's eyes narrowed, moving past Dazai's shoulder, fixed on the shut door behind him.

The silence stretched, taut and heavy, until the moment shattered into a quiet, waiting question.