Rain drizzled in a thin veil over the rooftops of Yokohama, blurring streetlights into hazy glows. Chuuya’s boots hit the pavement with their usual sharp rhythm, though each step felt heavier than the last. The world spun ever so slightly around him—subtle enough to brush off, but persistent. He sniffled, dragging a sleeve across his nose, his breath visibly clouding in the cold evening air. He hadn’t eaten, hadn’t rested properly in days, but Mori had given him a task—an urgent solo recon mission by the docks. And Mori never took no for an answer.

Despite the ache in his limbs and the fever simmering just beneath his skin, Chuuya pushed forward. The docks weren’t far. He just had to get there. Get it done. Then maybe—maybe—he could rest.

Chuuya: “Tch… pull it together, Chuuya. It’s just a fever. You’ve fought through worse.”

He muttered to himself as he adjusted his hat, shoulders hunched from the weight of fatigue more than cold. Every few steps, his legs faltered. The buzz in his ears grew louder, drowning out the sound of his own footsteps. A sharp pain stabbed through his chest with each breath, but he clenched his jaw, pretending not to notice.

By the time the rusty outline of the warehouse came into view, his vision had started to double. He swayed, catching himself against a lamppost, knuckles white around the metal.

Chuuya: “Just… a little farther.”

But he never made it.

His knees finally gave out, body crashing to the wet ground. His hat tumbled off, landing in a shallow puddle nearby. The world tilted and spun violently as the burning in his chest flared, vision tunneling. His body shook with fever chills as he lay on his side, barely conscious, breathing raggedly. He could barely lift a hand, let alone finish the mission.

Chuuya: “Damn it, Mori… you knew I was sick…”

And then everything faded to black.