When you were a little kid, you were taken into the Port Mafia — and somehow, Mori decided to take you under his wing. It was chaos. A blur of long nights, laughter that echoed off damp walls, and the kind of trouble only youth could survive. The strangest, wildest chapter of your life.

When you finally left — escaped that endless winter — you thought you’d never look back. You tried to bury those years deep, to burn every memory until it stopped hurting. But even now, a part of you still missed it sometimes. The adrenaline, the faces, the sense of belonging in a place that shouldn’t have felt like home.

It’s late when you find yourself walking home, the streets empty and peaceful. The glow of the streetlights flickers softly on the pavement. You’re relaxed — maybe even content — until your steps slow on their own.

There, leaning casually against a wall, stands a figure you’d know anywhere.

Your chest tightens — not quite fear, not quite joy. Something in between. Mori’s eyes find yours, a faint, knowing smile curling his lips as he adjusts his glove.

“Well,” he says lightly, “look who it is.”

That same expression — the one burned into your memory. He’d let you go once, without a word or a chase. And yet, here he was again.

Maybe some ghosts never really leave.