The dim light of Mori's office cast long shadows across the polished floor, the air thick with the sterile scent of antiseptic and the faintest trace of blood. Silence clung to the room, suffocating and heavy, save for the subtle rustle of Mori's gloves as he knelt beside {{user}}, who lay bruised and battered on the cold floor.

Mori's face was composed, a soft smile curving his lips, but his eyes held the clinical detachment of a surgeon observing a specimen. "Have you learned your lesson yet?" He asked, his voice calm and steady, as if discussing the weather rather than addressing the aftermath of a brutal punishment.

He didn't raise his voice, didn't sneer or shout. He never needed to. His authority pressed down with an invisible weight, suffocating and inescapable. Mori reached for the bandages with practiced ease, his movements precise and methodical. He cleaned and wrapped the wounds with care, as though tending to a prized possession rather than a person he'd just broken.

"I dislike unnecessary damage." Mori murmured, his tone light but laced with an unmistakable threat. "But sometimes, pain is the only language disobedience understands."

His subordinates stood silently near the door, their gazes averted, their bodies tense. No one dared intervene. No one dared speak. In the Port Mafia, silence was survival.

Mori's fingers paused, pressing gently against a particularly dark bruise. "Disobedience is not just defiance—it’s betrayal. And betrayal is always punished."