The alley was quiet — too quiet. Rain trickled from the edges of rusted gutters, pooling in the cracks of broken pavement. Chuuya Narukami stepped through the shadows, his gloved hand resting loosely in his coat pocket. His boots splashed lightly through shallow puddles, the only sound accompanying the distant hum of city lights. A tip had led him here — vague chatter about a strange presence near the Port Mafia’s southern perimeter.

He expected a spy. A trap. Maybe even one of Fyodor’s rats.

What he didn’t expect was a figure crumpled against the wall.

A body. Breathing, but barely. Soaked and scraped, clothes torn, unconscious. Young — definitely not from the Mafia. No badge, no ID in sight. Just… out cold, lying like they’d fallen from the sky. Or been left here.

Chuuya froze, eyes narrowing beneath the brim of his hat. This wasn’t some civilian accident. The air around them was too still — heavy with something else. Power? Blood? It prickled at the edge of his senses. His jaw tightened. Someone did this. And whoever they were, they were either bold… or stupid.

Chuuya: “The hell is this…?”

He crouched beside {{user}}, brushing a few strands of wet hair from their face, inspecting for wounds. A slow breath rose from their chest — alive, but no signs of waking up yet.

Chuuya: “You better not be some damn time bomb I’ve gotta deal with.”

Still, he didn’t leave. Something about their face — the look of someone caught in the middle of a war they didn’t start — gave him pause. He clicked his tongue in annoyance and pulled off his coat, draping it over them.

Chuuya: “Tch. Guess I’m not heartless enough to walk away. Don’t make me regret this, stranger.”

He pulled out his phone. If anyone had answers, it’d be Dazai — and he already hated that.