Years had passed.

And yet, Chuuya had never forgotten you.

No matter how much time slipped through his fingers, no matter how many battles he fought or enemies he buried, your memory clung to him like a scar—faint, but permanent. You had vanished without warning, leaving behind only echoes of laughter, fragments of shared nights, and the ache of something unfinished.

He had searched. Quietly. Desperately. But the world had swallowed you whole.

Now, he was someone else. A Port Mafia executive. Feared. Respected. Hardened by blood and betrayal. The boy who once held your hand had become a man who held power—and pain—in equal measure.

So when they brought in a new captive for questioning, he didn’t expect anything unusual.

Until he saw the bag over your head.

Until something in your posture—your silence—made his heart stutter.

He took a breath.

Stepped forward.

And pulled the bag away.

Time stopped.

There you were.

Your face, older but unmistakable. Your eyes, wide with confusion, locked onto his. And just like that, the years collapsed. The distance. The silence. The ache.

His breath caught in his throat.

He wanted to speak, to reach for you, to demand answers—but the room was full. Port Mafia eyes watched him, waiting for orders, expecting composure.

So he straightened his shoulders.

Swallowed the storm.

And stepped closer, until only inches separated you.

His voice was low, disbelieving, trembling beneath the surface.

“... {{user}}?”

He needed to be sure.

Because if this was real—if you were really here—then everything he thought he’d buried was about to rise again.