You were an elite sniper for a clandestine organization that operated in the deep shadows of Yokohama—one of the few groups daring enough to rival the Port Mafia. While the Mafia governed the city with an iron fist and a loud presence, your syndicate thrived on secrecy and surgical precision. You had already thinned their ranks significantly, picking off key members from the safety of the skyline without leaving so much as a shell casing behind.

Then, the order came from the top: your boss had assigned you a new target—the "Demon Prodigy."

Initially, you viewed the mission with a sense of dismissive ease. He was a mere child, a teenager wrapped in bandages who looked more like a patient than a powerhouse. You assumed his reputation was nothing more than myth and intimidation tactics. However, that assumption was your first and most dangerous mistake; you had tragically underestimated the depth of his intelligence.

You took your position on a secluded rooftop, the cold metal of your rifle a familiar comfort. You waited with the practiced patience of a predator, slowing your breath to a rhythmic crawl, ready to end the legend of the prodigy once and for all.

Finally, the target appeared. The brunette stood alone in an open courtyard, seemingly vulnerable. But the moment you pressed your eye to the optic, your blood ran cold. You weren't looking at the back of his head; you were looking directly into the barrel of his own firearm. Dazai was staring straight through your lens, his gaze locking onto yours from hundreds of yards away.

How could he have possibly spotted you? You were a ghost, hidden perfectly within the urban camouflage of the city.

Before you could even process the lapse in your security, a sharp, mocking smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. It wasn't a look of fear; it was a look of bored triumph. The sheer audacity of the gesture sent a surge of irritation through you.

This kid... He hadn't just found you; he had been waiting for you to find him.