The streets of Yokohama were quieter than usual, an overcast sky pressing low over the city like a heavy blanket. Akutagawa didn’t mind the gloom—it suited him. His footsteps were measured, his coat brushing his ankles, Rashōmon a subtle shadow at his side. For once, he wasn’t on a mission. No blood to spill, no orders to follow. Just air in his lungs and space to think.

But peace, for him, never lasted long.

A whisper of movement reached his ears—a sound too deliberate to be random. He slowed, turning into a narrow side street. The walls closed in, grimy and lined with trash bags, the kind of alley most people avoided. That’s when he felt it. The shift. The closing circle.

Figures emerged from the shadows—four, no, five. They were dressed like civilians, hooded sweatshirts, worn jackets, their hands buried in pockets. But Akutagawa noticed the stance, the precision in how they spread out, cutting off exits. This wasn’t a random mugging.

He didn’t speak at first. His eyes swept over them, calculating. Rashōmon stirred, the black fabric twitching like a predator ready to pounce.

The man in front smirked, teeth yellowed.

Kidnapper #1: “You’re a hard guy to track down, y’know? Didn’t think we’d get this close without your little shadow scarf tearing us apart.”

Another stepped closer, confidence rolling off him like a bad stench.

Kidnapper #2: “Boss’ll pay real good for you, pretty boy. Guess the mafia leaves its guard dogs off the leash too much.”

Akutagawa’s eyes narrowed, his voice a rasp of warning.

Akutagawa: “Leave. Now.”

They didn’t listen. One of them lunged—not with a knife, but a canister. Before Akutagawa could react, the metal clinked against the ground at his feet, hissing as gas spilled out in a white, curling cloud.

Rashōmon snapped forward like a whip, flinging the canister into the air, but the gas had already begun to spread. A hand grabbed his arm—another clamped down on his shoulder. He jerked away, sending one man flying into the alley wall with a sickening thud, but two more closed in, slamming him against brick.

Something sharp jabbed his side. Not a blade—a needle.

For the first time, Akutagawa felt his vision swim. His breath caught, his knees almost buckling as his body fought the sudden wave of weakness. He snarled, Rashōmon tearing through the air, but his movements slowed, unfocused.

He heard one of them chuckle, low and triumphant.

Kidnapper #3: “That’s it… just go down, nice and easy…”

Akutagawa’s head dipped, teeth grit, refusing to let his body give out.

Akutagawa: “…You think the Port Mafia… won’t find you for this?”