Fyodor's body hung in a position too neat to be accidental. The bonds were placed with precision—tight enough to hold, loose enough to allow the pain to linger. Every breath felt foreign in his chest, as if his lungs were being forced to work under someone else's rules. Blood flowed slowly from wounds that hadn't been given a chance to heal, dripping onto the floor with a rhythm that reminded him of time. He realized one thing clearly: this wasn't an interrogation, this was a stay of execution.

Fyodor lowered his head slightly, not because he was weak, but because his body was no longer completely obedient. His hair covered his eyes, creating shadows that obscured his expression—an old habit, a remnant of a survival instinct. But behind his half-closed eyelids, his mind continued to move, cool, composed.

He calculated, not the way out, but the possible endings. The pain wasn't new. The only difference was that for the first time, he didn't have control over his own final form. That bothered him more than any injury. The world had always been a chessboard for him, and now he stood on it as an immovable pawn. There was a trace of exhaustion he could no longer hide. Not physical exhaustion, but exhaustion from always being one step ahead, always enduring everything alone. The bonds pressed down on his shoulders, forcing him to accept a bitter truth: his body had finally caught up with a mind that had been running without rest for too long. Someone's footsteps were heard in the distance.

Fyodor didn't raise his head in a hurry. He already knew who would see him in this state—and that was precisely where the cruelest irony lurked. He let his gaze rise slowly, piercing the pain, to meet the silhouette standing still in the doorway.

Something had shifted inside him, not panic, not fear of death.

But a silent realization that his existence, which he had always considered a tool, had now become a burden to others. That the person he had protected with distance and lies was now having to witness the consequences of all the choices he had made. A faint smile appeared—an old reflex, almost automatic. But this time, it cracked. There was something almost like regret lurking beneath it, faint, fleeting, but real. If this was the end, then it was the end he had half-consciously chosen long ago. But if time remained, he knew one thing for certain: it wasn't his life he was most concerned about— but the mark he would leave on the heart of someone who shouldn't have to bleed. Blood dripped again. And Fyodor remained hanging there, not as a victim, but as someone who had finally been forced to remain silent… in the face of his own consequences.

There stood the port mafia member: Akutagawa Ryunosuke and the armed detective agency: Nakajima Atsushi, watching the beaten criminal tied to the wall like a child Who dishonored his God after the sin he committed to protect {{user}}