Kunikida didn’t bother looking up as he spoke, flipping a page on his clipboard.

“Get your coat. We’re moving.”

The office rustled with quiet motion. Papers shuffled. Chairs scraped. Around {{user}}, agents fell into practiced rhythm. Kunikida’s tone made it clear—questions could wait.

“Port Mafia activity down by the shipping yards. Dazai believes they’re making a move. We’re intercepting. No action unless I give the order.”

Outside, the air was sharp with salt and fog, thick with the quiet hum of something about to snap. The docks stretched out in rusted bones and shadowed corners.

That’s when the silhouette stepped forward.

Long coat brushing the pavement. Pale face half-shrouded beneath black hair. And eyes—sharp, hollow, unwavering.

Akutagawa.

He moved like smoke caught in a wind current—silent and cold. Rashoumon twitched faintly at his side, a whisper of threat. His gaze skimmed over the group with clear disdain before finally settling.

Not on Kunikida. Not on Dazai.

On {{user}}.

“Tch.”

A soft click of his tongue. The faintest curl of his lip.

“They’re sending amateurs now?” he said flatly, voice as cutting as broken glass. “The Armed Detective Agency must be running out of talent.”