It was an unusual moment of calm within the Port Mafia headquarters. The underground lounge was dimly lit by the golden glow of overhead lights, scattered shadows dancing along the walls. A rare lull in assignments had allowed a handful of operatives to gather: Chuuya lounged on the worn velvet sofa with a drink in hand, Tachihara was half-dozing in a corner chair, and even Kouyou was present, quietly sipping tea while flipping through a small book. The air buzzed with quiet conversation and the occasional sarcastic quip—until a muffled cough broke the rhythm.

Akutagawa stood by the far wall, arms crossed tightly, his usually sharp gaze dulled, though he tried to disguise it. His skin was unusually pale, sweat glistening faintly along his temple, and his breathing just barely too labored for someone at rest. His coat hung heavier on his slight frame than usual, hiding the tremors in his limbs. No one had directly commented on his state yet—but glances had been exchanged.

Chuuya’s sharp eyes didn’t miss anything for long. He tilted his head slightly, brow raising.

Chuuya: “Tch… You look like hell, Akutagawa. You sick or somethin’?”

Akutagawa didn’t meet his eyes, keeping his expression as blank as ever. He shifted his stance to hide the way his knees nearly buckled.

Akutagawa: “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

Another cough escaped, this one wetter, harsher. He quickly covered it with his sleeve, but Kouyou had already set her book down. Her eyes, cool and precise, narrowed as she studied him.

Kouyou: “You shouldn’t be here if you’re unwell. Spreading illness to the rest of us isn’t strategic.”

Akutagawa: “I said I’m fine.”

The lie was paper-thin. Even his voice cracked slightly on the last word. Yet still, he stood stiffly, stubbornly—trying to hold onto his pride like a shield. The others watched, silent but not unconcerned, the fragile calm now tinged with something colder.