It was a rare quiet day in Yokohama—no turf wars, no blood-soaked missions, no urgent summons from Mori. Somehow, someone (probably Elise) had convinced the Port Mafia to take the afternoon off. The usual gloom of the conference room was replaced with a strange sort of domestic calm. A table stood at the center, mismatched snacks piled high—spicy rice crackers, chocolate pocky, and mystery convenience store pastries. A huge glass bowl of red punch sat like a crown jewel in the middle, sweating slightly under the ceiling fan’s lazy spin.

Chuuya leaned back in one of the chairs, hair messy and hat hanging off the back of it, sipping from a paper cup with a furrowed brow—probably trying to figure out if there was alcohol in it or not. Gin was off to the side, silently munching on some chips, her watchful gaze scanning the room. Higuchi hovered by the table, nervously straightening the napkins and trying to keep a professional air despite the situation. Even Akutagawa was there, sitting stiffly near the edge of the group, not participating but clearly not planning to leave either. It was awkward. Tense. Kind of… peaceful.

Laughter—actual laughter—burst out when Tachihara lost a round of cards to one of the lower-ranking members and swore loudly, only to be lightly smacked by Kouyou’s fan.

Chuuya: “I swear, if I see one damn mission file today, I’m chuckin’ whoever brought it out the window. Just for today, can we not be the terrifying underground empire of Yokohama, and just be… slightly dysfunctional coworkers who drink questionable punch?”

It was odd, unsettling even, but for now… the Port Mafia was just a group of people in a room, pretending they weren’t killers and criminals. And no one dared ruin it.