The man was young, ambitious, with a nervous energy that made him shift his weight from foot to foot. He’d braced one hand against the edge of the desk, leaning into Y/n’s space. The scent of cheap cologne and sweat mingled with the sterile office air.

Y/n’s pen continued to move across the paper, steady and uninterrupted.

The door, which had been left ajar by a few deliberate inches, creaked softly as it was pushed fully open.

Dazai Osamu stepped inside, his long tan coat swaying gently with the movement. The atmosphere in the room shifted, chilled, grew still. The young man at the desk froze, his face draining of color.

The silence was heavy, pressing. The lower-ranking member opened his mouth, found no sound, then turned on his heel and hurried from the office without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.

A pause. His eyes, dark and sharp beneath a veneer of soft amusement, lingered.