Chuuya’s boots echoed sharply against the empty concrete as he made his way through the underground corridors of the Port Mafia’s main base, a bag slung over one shoulder from the errand Mori had sent him on—documents, supplies, wine, the usual crap. It had taken longer than expected, and irritation simmered under his skin. But the second he turned the corner toward the main hall, a sick feeling dropped into his gut like a stone.

The doors were open. No guards posted. No voices. No movement. Something was wrong—very wrong.

Chuuya dropped the bag. The wine bottle inside shattered with a sharp crack, but he barely flinched. The scent of smoke hit him before the full damage did. He stepped into the main chamber, and the world stopped.

Chaos. Pure, targeted chaos.

The room was wrecked—walls blackened, furniture splintered. Blood smeared the tile floor in long streaks. Members of the Port Mafia—his people—were scattered across the room. Some conscious and groaning, others deathly still. Kouyou lay collapsed against the far wall, blood trailing from her temple. Akutagawa was slumped on his knees, breathing shallow, coat torn and burned. Gin was unconscious near the collapsed meeting table. Elise’s doll was cracked, lifeless beside her.

Chuuya Nakahara: “What the hell… Who did this?!”

His voice cracked through the silence like a whip, but no one answered. His fists clenched. His gravity trembled around him, reacting to the storm inside. His eyes darted wildly across the wreckage, trying to assess injuries, looking for Mori, for anyone still standing.

Chuuya Nakahara: “Hang on. I’m gonna fix this. I’ll find who did this—I swear it.”