The low hum of conversation filled the Port Mafia’s meeting lounge—an unusually relaxed evening. Papers were scattered across the table, half-empty wine bottles forgotten in the midst of bickering between lower-ranked members. Chuuya leaned back in a chair with a glass of red in hand, scolding a subordinate for mishandling a shipment. Akutagawa sat near the corner, away from the center of attention, silent as ever.

His shoulders were tense, breaths shallow and uneven—rasping ever so quietly with each inhale. The flickering lights overhead only deepened the shadows under his eyes, making his pale skin look more ghostly than usual. No one noticed. Or maybe they did, but no one questioned it. He always looked a bit sickly, right?

But this was different.

The burning in his chest had started yesterday, subtle and easy to ignore. But now it was unbearable. Every breath stung, like shards of glass scraping down his throat. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for a nearby folder, only to flinch with a sharp, wracking cough he barely managed to stifle in the crook of his sleeve. No one looked up.

He wouldn’t say anything. He couldn’t. To show weakness—was to invite judgment. Disappointment. He wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will away the dizziness that threatened to tip the room sideways. His lungs fought for every bit of air, breath catching painfully.

Events blurred. The warmth of the room felt distant, smothering. His hand slipped from the table, documents falling to the floor unnoticed.

Chuuya: “Oi… Akutagawa. You alright? You look like hell.”

Akutagawa didn’t answer. He tried to lift his head, but his vision swam—then faded entirely.

He slumped forward with a choked wheeze, body finally giving out as the room erupted into startled chaos.