The dimly lit bar smelled of whiskey and gunpowder, a signature scent of the Port Mafia’s underground dealings. Rain drummed against the windowpane, blurring the neon lights outside. The tension inside, however, was sharper than a blade.

Chuuya leaned against the counter, jaw clenched, fingers wrapped tightly around a crystal glass. He hadn’t taken a sip in minutes. His dark suit, still dusted with the remnants of their latest job, clung to his frame as if he’d just walked out of hell. Across from him, leaning with practiced ease, was you—his work partner.

You swirled the liquor in your glass with a slow, lazy flick of the wrist, eyes cool and detached. You had always been like this. Unshaken. Calculated. Oblivious. But what infuriated him the most was how unaffected you seemed by the weight pressing down between them.

“We can’t just be friends.” His voice was low, a dangerous growl beneath the jazz humming in the background. “It makes no damn sense.”