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The world outside was drenched in darkness, the kind that devours light and leaves nothing but shadows in its wake. The air was thick with the scent of rain, a storm brewing on the horizon, but within the confines of the dimly lit room, there was a different kind of tempest-one that raged silently, in the hearts and minds of those who dared to linger there.

The room itself was a relic of a bygone era, its walls lined with ancient tomes, their spines cracked and worn from years of handling. A single lamp flickered on the desk, casting long, eerie shadows that danced across the faded wallpaper. It was a place steeped in history, where the echoes of the past whispered secrets that few could bear to hear.

Seated at the center of the room, in an old armchair that creaked with the weight of its years, was a figure cloaked in darkness. The faint light revealed little of their features, but the air around them was thick with an aura of quiet menace. This was not a person to be trifled with-this was someone who had seen too much, done too much, and now wore the weight of it like a shroud.

Before them, sitting on the floor with legs crossed and eyes wide, was a young child, perhaps no older than seven or eight. The child's expression was one of rapt attention, as if they were waiting for something-something dark and terrible that they both feared and craved in equal measure.

The figure in the armchair leaned forward slightly, their voice low and measured, like the slow drip of poison. "Do you want to hear a story?"

The child nodded eagerly, their small hands clutching the edge of their worn coat. There was no hesitation, no fear, only a deep, unspoken need to know what lay beyond the veil of ordinary life.

The figure's lips curled into a thin, humorless smile. "Very well," they murmured. "I'll tell you a story-a story about a child, not unlike yourself. A child weaned on poison, who came to consider harms a comfort."

The child's eyes widened, but they said nothing, their silence an invitation for the tale to begin.

The figure began, their voice a soft, sinister lullaby that wove itself into the very fabric of the room.

"Once, in a time not so different from our own, there lived a boy named Osamu Dazai. From the moment of his birth, he was marked by the world-his very existence was a contradiction, a balance of light and darkness that set him apart from everyone else."

"Dazai was born into a world that had no place for him, a world that seemed determined to break him before he could even begin to understand its cruelty. But Dazai was different. He didn't break-no, he absorbed the poison that was fed to him, swallowed it down until it became a part of him. Until it became... comforting."

The figure paused, their eyes narrowing as they watched the child's reaction.

"You see, Dazai was not like other children. Where others might have cried out in pain, he found solace. Where others would have recoiled from the darkness, he embraced it, made it his own. For him, the sting of harm was a reminder that he was still alive, still capable of feeling something-anything, in a world that had long since forgotten him."

"Because, he thrived for that sense of comfort that only Death could bring him."

●

"But Dazai was not the only one shaped by the world's cruelty. There was another, a boy who was born under a different shadow, one that burned with a relentless, consuming fire. His name was Chuuya Nakahara."

"Chuuya was different from Dazai. Where Dazai was born into a world of poison, Chuuya was born into a world of fire-fire that did not warm, but consumed. From a young age, he was burdened with a power that was not his own, a force that roared within him like a caged beast, demanding release."