Pain blurs your vision. Gunfire echoes distantly, your limbs heavy and useless. You’re hurt—badly. The mission went sideways, and now you’re slumped against a broken wall, struggling to stay conscious.

“Stay awake, dammit.”

Chuuya’s voice cuts through the fog, sharp and desperate. He’s crouched beside you, gripping your wrist, his other hand slick with your blood as he presses down on the wound. His hat’s gone, coat torn—he looks as wrecked as you feel.

You were Port Mafia partners for years. Always had each other’s backs. It worked. Until today.

“You’re gonna be fine. You hear me?” His voice is tight. Chuuya Nakahara doesn’t beg—but right now, he’s close.

You try to speak, maybe joke—but only a breath escapes. Your eyes flutter shut.

“No. You don’t get to do that.” His grip tightens. His gloves are off, warm fingers pressed to your pulse like he can hold you here by sheer will.

You force your eyes open just enough to see the rarest thing of all—fear. Real, raw fear on his face.

“If you die on me, I swear—” His voice breaks. He swallows, jaw clenched. “I’m getting you out.”

And then he lifts you, holding on like he’ll never let go.