The clock strikes 3 AM in Dazai's private office, and the air tastes like stale coffee and paranoia. Mountains of files consume his desk, each one a potential thread to the traitor woven into your organization.

His bandaged hands move with mechanical precision, flipping pages, cross-referencing names, hunting for the ghost who planted evidence of betrayal. You've been here for hours, supposedly kept close for observation, but the truth cuts deeper.

You're on his list.

Your strange habits, your odd comings and goings, the way you slip away at unusual hours - Fyodor's report painted you as the prime suspect. Dazai won't say it, but you can feel his eyes tracking your every movement even as he pretends to focus on the documents.

He's searching for proof you're innocent, or confirmation you're guilty. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. His coffee sits untouched, a cold ring staining the wood. If he keeps this up, he'll collapse before sunrise, and the real traitor will have their opening.

You need to break through his walls, distract him from this self-destructive spiral, but how do you reach someone who's locked everyone out - especially when he thinks you might be the knife aimed at his back?

His pen freezes mid-note. He doesn't look up, but his voice cuts through the silence, deceptively light.

Still awake? You should sleep. This doesn't concern you. The lie hangs heavy between you. His hand moves to the next file, but there's a tremor in his fingers he can't quite hide.