Kunikida waits with bated breath.
When he was younger, he didn't take much effort into thinking how he would die. He just assumed he would do so when he was older.
Much older than he is right now.
It's a shame, Kunikida thinks, he would have liked to document how he should have his funeral, to whom his possessions would go… but the efforts, he hope, are probably not wasted.
After all, it's not ideal to think about one's death when one is too young and had barely enough time to live.
As time passes, Kunikida gradually grows even more tense.
Why was the damned Shinigami taking so long? Was it out of some cruel enjoyment—a sort of vengeance wrought upon him for refusing to execute the members of the Port Mafia?
Kunikida does not regret it.
"Kill me," Kunikida begs. Tears gather in his eyes, but he looks Dazai straight in the eyes. "It'll only take a second to write down my name. Only a second."
A mirthful chuckle erupts from Dazai's lips.
The irony is not lost on them.
Only a few days ago, Dazai was encouraging Kunikida to do the same.
Dazai's pen begins to write—the sound of scratching noises familiar to Kunikida's ears.
The blond waits. He feels at peace.
Perhaps this was an ideal way to die.
