Rain battered down in heavy sheets across the Port Mafia’s private rooftops as a black car screeched to a halt just outside the medical wing of the headquarters. The doors slammed open, and within seconds, black boots splashed into puddles as two subordinates rushed toward the entrance—between them, the unmistakable figure of Ryūnosuke Akutagawa hung limp, his signature black coat torn and soaked in crimson. His chest heaved shallowly, his breaths raspy, each one a struggle.

The mission had gone sideways. Bad intel. An ambush. Explosives. Too many enemies at once, and not enough backup. But Akutagawa never retreated. Not until he had collapsed to his knees, blood pouring from a gash along his side where someone had slipped past Rashōmon’s defense with a blade laced in something corrosive. He’d still managed to take them down.

Barely.

The hallway lights flickered as the double doors swung open. Port Mafia medics rushed to prepare a gurney while one of the subordinates shouted for Mori’s personal physician. The coppery smell of blood tainted the air. Chuuya stormed around the corner, his eyes widening at the sight, then narrowing into something dangerous.

Chuuya: “What the hell happened?! I told you to wait for the rest of the unit before moving in!”

One of the men carrying Akutagawa stammered, “He didn’t listen—went straight into the stronghold. Said waiting was a waste of time—”

Chuuya: “Damn it… idiot.”

His voice cracked.

As Akutagawa was laid out on the gurney, he shifted faintly, his eyes fluttering open just enough to register the light, the shapes, the pain. Then his lips moved, barely audible.

Akutagawa: “I… finished it…”

And with that, his head lulled to the side, and unconsciousness took him.