It was supposed to be a quiet day.

Akutagawa rarely took “days off” — the Port Mafia didn’t breed the kind of people who did — but for once, there were no missions assigned to him, no summons from Mori, no sarcastic Dazai prodding at his temper. Just Yokohama’s streets, gray and cold under a cloudy sky, and the sound of his own footsteps echoing against the alley walls. Rashōmon’s dark fabric draped over his shoulders more like an afterthought than a weapon today, his coat buttoned up tight against the chill.

He’d almost forgotten what it felt like to walk without a purpose, without blood on his hands, without urgency grinding in his bones. The city smelled faintly of rain, and for a moment, Akutagawa simply… breathed.

And then he heard it.

A footstep too close behind him. A shift of gravel that didn’t match his own stride. The air sharpened.

He didn’t turn at first. His fingers twitched slightly, Rashōmon whispering against the ground like a living shadow, ready but not yet unleashed. He caught the reflection of movement in a rain puddle — four, maybe five figures stepping from an alley to his right, circling like wolves.

Amateurs, he thought at first. No Port Mafia insignia, no government uniforms. Civilians, perhaps — or so they wanted to appear. But the way they moved, the way their hands stayed buried in pockets or tucked under coats… they weren’t here by chance.

The first one lunged.

Akutagawa shifted, Rashōmon snapping outward like a striking serpent, catching the attacker by the throat and hurling him backward with bone-cracking force. The others didn’t hesitate — they swarmed.

Steel glinted. A knife sliced across his sleeve, drawing only fabric. Rashōmon tore it from the man’s grip, but a fist connected with his ribs, and another hand shoved something — powder, burning hot — into his face.

For a second, his vision blurred, his breath hitching with a cough he couldn’t quite swallow. Another strike came, and this one hit harder, knocking him against the brick wall of the alley. Rashōmon lashed wildly, cutting the edge of a bat clean in half, but there were too many, pressing in, one pulling his arm behind his back while another slammed a knee into his gut.

Akutagawa gritted his teeth, the sick taste of iron flooding his mouth. The world wavered. He could feel his body lagging behind his will, that cursed frailty gnawing at him even as rage simmered under his skin.

Not here. Not like this.

He hissed through his teeth, voice low and sharp even as another blow knocked him to his knees.

Akutagawa: “You… have made a mistake.”