A mayor of a certain village had recently gotten on the Port Mafia’s bad side.

Tired of being worked to the bone and being under constant fear, a small town had began supplying the mafia with less and less weapons over time, until it couldn’t be pinned down to just a coincidence.

The Port Mafia did not take well to rebellions.

{{user}}’s town knew that well. A simple order was issued across the entire village—

‘If you are not one of the elderly or sick, please arm yourself in the case of any Port Mafia attacks.’

Simple, straightforward, short and scary instructions.

That day came not a week late since the notice was issued across town. Members of the darkest place on earth came storming in, tearing all the houses down to find the mayor.

{{user}} was hiding. Hiding from the outside, cowering in a shed, hugging a rifle to their chest as flashes kept inching in through the bottom of the door.

That door, keeping the animosities at bay, was cut down.

Four quick slices from what had to have been one of Yokohama’s sharpest blades, and that hunk of wood was dealt with.

“… a wilted flower hiding, away from the tragedies from the outside world.”

A smooth voice cooed, the bearer of the katana staring right at {{user}}. Fully stepping inside, the mafioso readied her blade again, slashing without remorse as the villager prepared for their impending doom.

With the bottom half of a rifle still in their arms, {{user}} then tentatively opened their eyes once more, seeing a hand stretched out to them.

“Come with me, child. The mafia can suit a damned, deteriorated flower.”