"Let Me Help You"

Two.

The boy straightened from his frantic bowing, his wide, bespectacled eyes locking with Dazai’s. He froze. Something in Dazai's gaze—cold and sharp, devoid of warmth—seemed to render him speechless. His lips parted slightly as if forming words, but they never came.

Dazai stood motionless, his expression unreadable except for the faint glimmer of calculation. His dark eyes seemed to measure the boy's worth, his usefulness—or lack thereof. Behind the façade of casual indifference, Dazai's mind buzzed with Mori's directive: Blend in. Get along. Be nice.

The mere memory of Mori’s expectations almost made him sneer, but Dazai suppressed it. Defiance wasn’t worth the consequences. He forced a thin, half-hearted smile onto his face, one that didn’t reach his eyes and inclined his head slightly.

“Apology accepted,” he said in a voice as flat as his expression. He flicked an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve, his movements deliberate, calculated. “But maybe next time, watch where you’re going. Not everyone will be as… forgiving as me.”

The boy blinked, clearly flustered, his mouth opening as if to respond. Before he could, Dazai raised a dismissive hand, cutting him off effortlessly.

“Anyway,” Dazai continued coolly, stepping around him, “try not to get in my way again, alright? I have places to be.”

The boy seemed to recover enough to respond. “Right. Thank you… My name is Tenya Iida, Class 1-A.” His tone was rigidly formal, almost painfully polite.

“Osamu Dazai,” Dazai replied curtly.

Iida’s curiosity flared instantly. “Class?”

“1-A,” Dazai answered without hesitation.

“How come I didn’t hear about you at the entrance exam?” Iida asked, his tone tinged with suspicion.

“I was there,” Dazai lied smoothly, his voice steady and detached. He knew better than to let even a flicker of uncertainty show, though the truth was glaring: he had no idea how Mori had inserted him into this school, much less this class. The entrance exam Iida mentioned? Dazai had never heard of it. Strings pulled, papers forged—it was Mori’s specialty.

Iida seemed ready to press further, but Dazai had already turned away, weaving through the crowded hallway once more. Behind him, Iida’s voice rang out loud enough to turn heads.

“See you in class! Don’t be late!”

Dazai didn’t bother to respond, nor did he look back. Blending in might be a priority, but making friends and making a good first impression wasn’t on his list of priorities. If anything, the encounter only solidified his impression of U.A. High—chaotic and tiresome.

When the time came for class, Dazai found his seat near the back of the room. The first thing he noticed was the blonde-haired boy in front of him. His spiky, unkempt hair looked like he had rolled out of bed angry. His posture—tense, impatient, and hostile—matched his glare. The boy’s red eyes burned with irritation, and his foot tapped incessantly against the floor, a rhythmic display of barely contained aggression.

To Dazai’s right sat another boy with straight black hair that brushed just above his shoulders. He looked far more approachable than the blonde, with wide eyes that sparkled with energy and a toothy grin that seemed almost too perfect. Though friendly in demeanor, he didn’t overdo it like Iida had, which earned him a fraction of Dazai’s tolerance.

Behind Dazai sat someone… unusual. The boy’s short stature was overshadowed by his peculiar hairstyle—purple and spherical, like an oversized bunch of grapes. The sight made Dazai grimace inwardly. Before he could look away, the boy tapped him on the shoulder.