The meeting room was neutral ground. Gray walls, cold lighting, the kind of place where tension clung to the air like fog. The Armed Detective Agency on one side. The Port Mafia on the other. A rare ceasefire, or at least the illusion of one.

Tachihara leaned back in his chair, one boot resting over the other knee, eyes half-lidded beneath his mop of tousled red hair. He looked relaxed. He wasn’t.

Fingers toyed lazily with the edge of his holster as he scanned the room. Dazai was here. Of course. So was Kunikida—rigid as ever. Yosano, too, and a few fresh faces.

His gaze stopped.

New.

That one—he hadn’t seen before. Sat quiet near the end of the table, just behind Kunikida. Eyes alert, posture tense. Rookie?

He didn’t let the stare linger. Just a glance, casual and fleeting. But something about them stood out. Not just new. Green.

Interesting.

He tapped the heel of his boot once against the leg of the table, slow and thoughtful.

This might be worth staying awake for after all.