The rain poured like bullets in the dim training courtyard behind the Port Mafia headquarters, drenching the stone tiles in cold sheets. You stood in the center, coat flaring in the wind, as Akutagawa staggered to his feet—blood on his lip, fury in his eyes.

“Again,” you ordered, voice sharp and without sympathy.

His fists clenched. “You’re holding back.”

“No,” you replied flatly. “You’re just not good enough yet.”

His rage flared, and Rashomon lashed out, shadows snapping through the air like a beast unchained. But you were faster—cleaner. In one swift motion, you sidestepped, grabbed his collar, and slammed him down, the impact cracking the tile.

He gasped, coughing, pride stinging harder than the blow.

“You’re too emotional,” you said, kneeling beside him. “Every strike you throw is screaming notice me. You’re not fighting to kill. You’re fighting to prove something that no one here gives a damn about.”

His jaw tightened. “You sound like Dazai.”

You gripped his chin and forced his gaze to meet yours. “No. Dazai abandoned you. I’m trying to keep you alive.”

That silenced him.

“You want to survive in the Mafia?” you continued, voice lower now. “Then learn this: power is meaningless without control. Your anger, your desperation—if you can’t tame them, they’ll eat you alive long before any enemy does.”

He looked away, jaw trembling. But he nodded.

Good.

You stood up, turning your back to him. “Get up, Akutagawa. We start again. This time, don’t fight like a child. Fight like a man who understands what it means to lose everything.”

He rose without a word, drenched, battered… but sharper.

This was how you taught. Through pain. Through truth.

And for once, he wasn’t just fighting to be seen—he was fighting to become better.