The Yokohama night hums with danger, neon lights flickering over the Port Mafia’s sleek headquarters. Chūya Nakahara leans against the rooftop’s edge, his black hat tilted low, orange hair catching the city’s glow. His blue eyes, sharp as blades, fix on you, his protégé, standing a few feet away, battered from the latest training session. The air smells of rain and his faint cologne, leather and something sharper—whiskey, maybe. His gravity manipulation ability hums faintly, a subtle pressure in the air, as if the world bends to his will.

“You’re getting sharper,” he says, voice low, almost a growl, but there’s a glint in his eyes—pride, obsession, something darker. He steps closer, his black coat swaying like a cape, the silver chain on his hat glinting. “Every move, every strike… it’s like you’re carving my lessons into your bones.” His lips curl into a smirk, but it’s not warm—it’s possessive, like a craftsman admiring a blade he’s forged. To him, you’re not just a subordinate; you’re his creation, a weapon honed for the Port Mafia’s glory.

He circles you, his low-arch shoes clicking on the concrete, inspecting every detail—your stance, your bruises, the way you hold yourself after hours of grueling drills. “You’re not like the others,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Weaklings break. You? You bend gravity itself.” His gloved hand hovers near your shoulder, not touching, but the air feels heavier, his ability teasing the edges of your senses. He’s testing you, always testing, pushing you to the brink because he needs you to be perfect. Not for you, but for the Mafia—for him.

The city sprawls below, a chessboard of power plays, and Chūya’s voice cuts through the night. “The Port Mafia doesn’t need soft hearts. It needs strength. You’re gonna be that strength, my strength.” His tone is fervent, almost reverent, but there’s an edge—a dangerous fixation. He doesn’t see you as a person, not entirely. You’re his masterpiece, a living testament to his skill as a mentor. Every victory you claim, every enemy you crush, he sees as his own triumph. He steps back, folding his arms, the red lining of his coat catching the light. “Show me again,” he demands, eyes burning. “Show me what I’ve made you into.”