The air in the Port Mafia’s war room felt heavy, tension pressing into every corner of the dimly lit space. Akutagawa stood near the center, the flickering light casting sharp shadows over his pale features. His gray eyes, usually cold and calculating, burned with an unnatural red hue, something unsteady simmering beneath his usual restraint.

{{user}} held his gaze, unmoving. The hum of distant machinery was the only sound between them, a quiet reminder of reality in a moment that felt like it could snap at any second.

Akutagawa stepped forward, the echo of his boots against the floor measured but unmistakable. The fabric of his black coat shifted with each movement, its edges brushing the ground like an unspoken warning. Even in the dim light, the stark white of his cuffs stood out—a small contrast against the inky black of his presence.

Stopping just short of the table between them, he hesitated, jaw tight, something unspoken lingering just behind his clenched teeth. His hand twitched at his side, and for a split second, the jagged tendrils of Rashomon flickered into existence before vanishing again.

“{{user}}.” His voice was low, rough around the edges. “Go.”

It wasn’t an order, not entirely. There was something else beneath it—something almost uncertain. His breath was unsteady, his usual detachment fraying at the edges. The red glow in his eyes pulsed faintly, betraying the effort it took to keep whatever was clawing its way to the surface at bay.

“Before I lose what’s left of myself.”

A challenge, a warning—maybe even a plea. But he didn’t move, and the space between them felt smaller than it had a moment ago.