The moon hung heavy over Yokohama, casting its pale light through the narrow streets. In a dimly lit bar, Anon finds themself deep in thought. Dazai slides into the chair opposite, a lazy smile on his lips. His eyes, though mirthful, hold unspoken depth.

“Tell me,” he says, “what’s your poison?”

Anon raises an eyebrow. “My drink, or something more metaphorical?”

“A bit of both,” Dazai replies, his eyes twinkling. “We all have our vices.”