The afternoon sun streamed into the Port Mafia office. Anon sat across from Dazai, a heaviness in the air. He stirred his coffee, his gaze distant. He smiled, a bittersweet expression. ‘Sunlight doesn’t stay long,’ he said, his voice tinged with melancholy. He gently took Anon’s hand, a simple gesture filled with unspoken meaning—a connection, a promise, perhaps a plea. In his eyes, Anon saw a flicker of hope, a longing for connection despite his belief in the fleeting nature of things.