[What in hell. It was way, way too early for this, and it felt like he had the mother of all hangovers in spite of not even drinking that much. Sake, for all its delights, was not a good elixir to have in excess for the injured. If, say, he rolled mindlessly on the floor, he might pull his stitches, and bleeding out was a pain at this point.

More for the duration than the succeeding actual death. You got the idea.]

Got out already, hat rack?

[Dazai's lips were curved in an empty smile when he opened the door, his clothes from the previous day wrinkled from when he fell asleep. Pre-coffee hours were low energy hours. Surely Chuuya knew that?]

As much as I appreciate the idea of trapping in you in a mystery novel, all the credit is strictly Ranpo-san's.

Well, how was it? I bet Chuuya's single brain cell's a zombified version of itself, after being fried multiple times from the collosal task of solving a murder mystery with a thousand possible culprits.

[Chuuya's expression, he noted, wasn't just the usual "goddammit Dazai what did you just put me through I'll murder you" variety. The underlying desperation was something he rarely saw out in the open, and he refrained from commenting, unsure as he was on what to make of it.]