The bar was quiet.

Not the kind of quiet Chuuya liked—just the soft murmur of too-late conversations, jazz crackling from a dusty speaker in the corner, the clink of his wine glass against his teeth. It was a neutral zone, one of the few places in Yokohama where Port Mafia and Armed Detective Agency members weren’t supposed to kill each other on sight. Though, everything was a neutral zone now. The peace treaty had seen to that. Fragile, awkward, irritating—but it held.

Chuuya didn’t come here for politics.

He came here to drink.

The wine was passable. The bartender knew not to ask questions. And most nights, no one bothered him. Not even the ghosts.

Until tonight.

The barstool beside him creaked.

Chuuya didn’t look right away. He didn’t have to. The energy in the air was familiar, even if he hadn't felt it for four years. He felt it now—like the drop in pressure before a storm. That too-familiar weight. The scent of something sharp beneath the cologne. The hum at the edge of his senses that said: trouble.