“That damn gifted.”

The words slipped from Chuuya’s lips like venom, low and ragged, barely louder than the wind curling through the alley.

He slumped against the cold brick wall, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. Blood soaked through the torn fabric of his coat, dripping onto the pavement in slow, deliberate rhythm. His gloves were shredded, his knuckles raw. Every inch of him screamed in pain.

The fight had been brutal.

He’d won—technically. But victory felt hollow when his body was this broken.

His vision blurred, the edges of the world flickering like a dying flame. The alley was quiet now, eerily so. No footsteps. No backup. No one rushing to his side. Just the distant hum of the city and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.

He tilted his head back, eyes half-lidded, staring up at the sliver of sky between the buildings. It was blue. Peaceful. Mocking.

Would this be the end for him?

The thought crept in, uninvited.

He’d survived worse. Hell, he’d been worse. But something about this moment—this stillness, this solitude—felt final. Like the universe was holding its breath, waiting to see if he’d rise or fade.

His fingers twitched.

He wasn’t ready to die.

Not here. Not like this.

Not when there were still people he hadn’t protected. Promises he hadn’t kept. Words he hadn’t said.

He gritted his teeth, forcing his body to stay upright, even as the pain clawed at him.

Because Chuuya Nakahara didn’t go down easy.

And if this was the end, he’d meet it on his feet.