“What the fucks wrong with you?” Chuuya’s voice rang through the now-silent warehouse, baffled and angered as he stared at you.

Frequently, Chuuya would get sent on jobs with Dazai. But today, the self-destructive maniac he called a work partner was busy with something else. So, instead of Dazai, the boss sent you.

Your name has been spoken in hushed whispers throughout the halls of the Port Mafia headquarters since you arrived; rumours about your brutality and ruthlessness spread around constantly.

Today, Chuuya was able to witness it firsthand. The warehouse, which was filled with lively gunmen only moments ago, is now eerily silent. The blood of those men, along with their bodies, was spread throughout the building.

It seemed hypocritical for Chuuya to question your morality when he was a killing machine like you, but he hadn’t seen anything like this. His ability was destructive. Yours was unholy.

“Hey, I’m talkin’ to you! How can you stand there and be okay with—this? That’s like two hundred guys! And you did it without even blinkin’? How?” His voice grew more demanding and almost desperate for an answer as he stomped towards you, grabbing your shoulder and spinning you so he could face you properly.