It was past midnight, and the streets of Yokohama were quiet—too quiet. Blood painted the pavement in uneven splashes, trailing from the edge of the harbor all the way to the edge of the business district. Chuuya’s boots scraped against the concrete, one dragging behind the other as he forced himself forward. His hat was gone. His coat hung off him in tatters, soaked through with blood. A jagged stab wound marred his abdomen, and there was a deep gash above his eyebrow that bled into one eye, blurring his vision. Every breath rattled in his chest like broken glass.

He’d fought off most of the ambush. But not without cost. The enemy hadn’t just wanted to kill him—they wanted him to suffer. And they’d nearly succeeded. Chuuya didn’t even know how he was still standing. He just knew one thing: if he collapsed now, he was done for.

The Port Mafia was too far. No one was picking up. No allies nearby. No safe houses. Only one building stood within staggering distance—and of all places, it had to be the Armed Detective Agency.

He almost laughed. Almost. But the sound would’ve cracked his ribs more.

He made it to the front steps, one hand gripping the rail so tight his knuckles turned white. Then his legs finally gave out. He collapsed forward, landing against the door with a heavy thud, leaving a bloody smear where his shoulder hit. The world spun. Darkness crept in.

Chuuya: “Tch… damn it…”

He lifted his head just barely, knocking again with the last of his strength. The knock was weaker this time. His voice was hoarse, quiet, edged with both exhaustion and frustration.

Chuuya: “Open… up, you bastards… or I’m gonna bleed out on your damn porch…”