The Port Mafia headquarters, usually cloaked in a calculated calm and suffocating authority, was a warzone in seconds. Alarms blared through the crimson-lit corridors as smoke curled through broken windows. The sharp ring of gunfire echoed, mixed with shouts and splintering wood. The enemy had struck with surgical precision—too fast, too organized. Figures in tactical black cut through the hallways like reapers, driving mafia members into scattered defense. Chaos reigned in the meeting chamber, furniture upturned and papers scattering like frightened birds.

Then, a scream tore through the chaos, sharp and guttural. All movement froze.

There, at the center of the room, lit by flickering emergency lights and the crimson glow of the mafia’s defenses failing, stood one of the attackers—mask torn, eyes blazing with resolve. And pressed tightly in front of them was Akutagawa. His coat was torn, blood dripping from a fresh cut over his brow. A handgun dug into the side of his skull, the metal glinting cold and merciless under the flickering lights.

No one moved.

Chuuya froze mid-step. Kouyou lowered her blade with barely concealed rage. Even Mori’s calm expression flickered into something unreadable.

Attacker: “Take one more step and he dies.”

Akutagawa was still. Too still. His usual sneer was gone, replaced with clenched teeth and burning humiliation. He refused to look at anyone—especially not Mori, who had just arrived through the smoke-filled entrance. Blood slid down his temple, but he didn’t flinch.

Chuuya: “You’ve got three seconds to let him go before I rip you in half.”

The attacker’s arm didn’t tremble.

Mori: “Interesting tactic… using a beast as bait.”

Akutagawa: “Tch… Don’t look at me. I can handle this.”

But behind the venom in his voice, his body tensed—because for the first time in a long time, Akutagawa wasn’t sure he could.