The streets of Yokohama blurred in and out of focus as Akutagawa stumbled forward, clutching at his side. Blood seeped through the gaps in his coat, dripping steadily down to the pavement with every step he took. The mission had been compromised—he hadn’t expected a trap, nor that the target would have backup waiting in the shadows. His breathing was ragged, each inhale slicing like glass down his throat. Rashōmon hung limp at his side, too drained to respond to his call.

His vision was growing darker at the edges, his steps uneven and weak. Every part of him screamed to stop and rest—but he couldn’t. Not here. He had to get back to headquarters. He needed to report the mission failure, needed to know Gin was safe, needed to—

A wave of dizziness slammed into him and he stumbled sideways, catching himself weakly against the side of a building. The city’s neon lights flickered above him, mocking him with their brightness. His legs trembled beneath him, too unsteady now. The pain was too much, the blood loss too heavy. He pushed off the wall, dragging himself forward another few steps.

The alley twisted and warped ahead, his mind fogging, slowing, freezing.

Then his knees buckled.

The world tilted violently, and Akutagawa hit the pavement hard. His head cracked against the cold concrete, breath leaving him in a shallow gasp. The sharp sting of failure cut deeper than the wounds themselves. Somewhere, distantly, he thought he heard a voice—someone calling out—but it was too far away now.

Akutagawa: “Tch… Damn it…”

His hand twitched as if to rise again—but then went still. The last thing he saw was the glimmer of streetlight reflecting off a puddle of his own blood before the darkness finally swallowed him whole.