It's almost dusk. The Sun rests on the horizon, ready to take its leave. An eighteen year old girl with taupe mauve hair and dark green eyes overlooks the city of Yokohama from the tallest skyscraper in the most dangerous part of town. The scarcely populated streets below are cast in shadows. How did I get here? Her eyes go to the Armed Detective Agency building in the distance. What would they think if they knew? What would they do if they were in my shoes? Her head tilts slightly as the door to her right opens and soft footsteps make their way across the dark hardwood floor.

She closes her eyes as bandaged arms reach around her waist and a soft weight rests on her head. She hates this: how the very thing that's making her uneasy is the only thing that can make her feel at ease. A solemn smile appears on her face as a calm silence spreads over everything. "Morals are so useless," a smooth voice behind her muses. Her head shifts upwards, but she doesn't turn to look at him, instead her gaze rests on his reflection. "You have such strong morals, and yet here you are in the same place as me." She looks at his expression in the glass.

The same place: lost, confused, unsure.

Her eyes follow the back of his head as he walks away from her. She turns around and looks him over, "you're dressed." He stands by the end of the kitchen counter tugging at the ends of his jacket, not paying mind to anything. She takes in his poised appearance. He's donned in his usual black suit, perfectly pressed without a single wrinkle. His soft milky brown hair flawlessly reflects the fleeting light coming in through the window. His face is highlighted by his mysterious reddish brown eyes and classic unreadable expression. Even though she rarely admits it, he really is beautiful. All along his figure there are no marks, no scratches, no traces of her. Isn't that how it's supposed to be?

He looks back at her, "I have something I need to attend to." He turns around and walks toward the door again, stopping slightly short of his destination.

She goes back to the window to look at her own reflection. Her long hair is in complete disarray; what were straight locks are now intertwined with each other in a complex series of tangles. Her make-up is either smudged or completely gone, and it makes her laugh a little. Her body is covered by an oversized black robe. The silky texture always feels as though it is invading her skin, no matter how many times she wears it. Her fingers graze over the golden P.M. embroidered on the cuff. "I'm a mess."

"Isn't everyone?" She shifts her head back up. He's now facing her; his gaze feels binding even though he's on the other side of the room. He's refined and she's a mess; it's like a painting: ironically poetic. "At least when you're a mess it's beautiful." She smiles softly. He always speaks in riddles and cryptograms, and maybe it's the way their shadows are cast, or the stillness in the air between them, but in that moment those words felt real, and she could almost believe that it is real.

His eyes travel up and down her form, and he becomes acutely aware of the sight before him: the thin fabric covering her body, the setting Sun perfectly illuminating her features, the signs of their afternoon clearly visible in the window reflection. There's a beat, and he hates how much will power it takes for him to turn around. He makes his way to leave, one hand on the handle.

"Osamu." His hand lets go and the door swings open. She is now turned towards him, an unsure expression rests on her face. He would just scoff if she said something like "stay safe." He pauses and looks at her. They stand on opposite sides of the room, neither willing to break. The only thing heard is the soft ticking of the old clock hanging on the wall. Tick. Tick. There is nothing to say. A third tick and he's gone. The sound of the door closing reverberates throughout the room after he leaves.

Now alone in his apartment, she walks about, a wistful feeling taking place within her. Who would've thought this place could somehow get more depressing. She could do any number of things, but they both know she won't. The door to his bedroom sways open. There's nothing there, for him it's a place to live, and only a place to live. His bed is perfectly made and her clothes are sat neatly folded on the corner. It's an interesting kind of irony. Even though there is no decoration or personalization, it's exactly like him: empty.

She leaves his room looking as if she had never entered it in the first place. Seeing herself now, she's almost incomparable to the person she saw in the reflection earlier. Though the same could be said about him. The few people out below quickly make their way off of the streets as the light slowly drains from the sky. She knows he won't be there, but she looks anyway. Where is he now? What is he doing? It's probably better that she doesn't know. That white shirt and black coat will probably be doused in red by the end of the night. There are many rumors about the things he has supposedly done, those that are said and unsaid, but just by being around him anyone can tell that they're all true. He has probably killed more people than everyone else in the city combined.

Osamu Dazai. She hates him, everything about him, and what he stands for. That's what she tells herself every time she sees his stupidly smug face. It's laughable really: they are fighting on opposite sides of the war, and yet here they are. It's been over a year. She should've stopped this a long time ago, before it even started. She should stop this now, but they both know she won't. A faint serenity lulls over her as she sits by his kitchen counter. Unfortunately, it won't last. She gets up and pulls over her hood as she leaves his apartment and the stars make their way onto the night.