People are afraid of the dark and what lurks in it. They are afraid of her as well.
And yet, Dazai Osamu-- a man drowning in the same sea of shadows that had long since become her home-- was the first to tell her that she belonged to the light.
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The dying light of day washed everything in shades of red and orange as the sun slipped below the horizon, bidding the world goodbye as it did everyday. It felt somehow solemn as Dazai stood on the bridge, eyes locked with (Y/n)'s in some kind of showdown wherein they were both in clear attempts to try and read the other's mind.
Her face was void of any expression, but her eyes caught the fading light of the evening sun and reflected it, making him wonder if, perhaps, his Nightshade was feeling inclined to shed a few tears in the moment.
He knew she wouldn't, though. Nightshade would never display vulnerability so blatantly-- even in front of just him. Neither of them had been raised in an environment which encouraged allowing oneself a moment of emotional weakness.
Nightshade. His favorite kind of poison.
Before he had first met (Y/n), he had already known of her reputation and title. It was hard not to pick up on the rumors, after all. She was deadly-- reputedly a little more than most in the Mafia, but Dazai had thought nothing of it when he was well aware that he was no less than dangerous either.
And then he actually met her. She had been standing in front of Mori's desk when Dazai walked in, and he'd have thought she were a statue from the cold, firm cut of her face had it not been for the way her eyes bore right into him, her gaze weighed down by her past but undeniably sharp with something alive nonetheless. He wouldn't call her pretty by the most conventional standards, but he couldn't help but think of her as beautiful much like he would the ruins of an ancient city.
Above all, however, Dazai had felt a sense of familiarity in (Y/n) even when she was only a little more than a stranger. 'Kindred spirits' he believed was the term. And although she was as much a killer as the rest of the Mafia, he knew her as so much more than that. And she knew him as well, he supposed. By far, no easy feat.
Now, though, Dazai felt locked out of her mind in a way he had grown unfamiliar to. He wondered if it was by her doing or his own.
"You're leaving." A statement; not a question. An observation.
