The slums of Yokohama stank of mold, rust, and old blood. It was the kind of place most didn’t dare walk after sundown, but Akutagawa didn’t flinch. His long coat dragged slightly behind him, the air heavy with the cold bite of night. The sky above was clouded, no moonlight slipping through the cracks. His boots echoed off cracked concrete as he stepped over broken glass and the hollow husks of forgotten lives. His orders had been clear—check in on a potential lead hiding in the abandoned sectors, someone with loose lips about the Port Mafia. He’d finish this quickly. Efficiently.

But he should’ve known better. The silence didn’t feel natural. It was suffocating, the kind of stillness that meant someone was watching. His breath misted faintly in front of him as he slowed, eyes narrowing. Rashōmon twitched at his side, reacting before his brain caught up—

The attack came from the left. Blunt force, fast. Something hit him hard in the ribs, knocking him into a stack of rusted pipes that crashed to the ground with a scream of metal. Then more shadows—two, maybe three—closing in. He coughed, tasting blood, vision tilting as boots slammed into his side again and again.

They weren’t just random thugs. Too organized. Too focused. They knew who he was. And they weren’t afraid.

He tried to call up Rashōmon again, but a sharp crack against the back of his skull made his knees buckle. Someone grabbed his coat, dragged him up, and slammed him against a wall. Pain split his vision in half, but he kept his glare steady, defiant even now.

Akutagawa: “You’re making a mistake.”

His voice was low, hoarse, but laced with venom. Even now—half-conscious, bleeding, outnumbered—he refused to beg. They wanted fear? They’d get none.

Another blow landed. His legs gave out, crumpling to the ground as darkness pressed in at the corners of his eyes. The last thing he saw was a knife glinting in the streetlight, and the echo of laughter fading as everything went black.