The first time you see him again, it’s on opposite ends of a battlefield.

Chuuya stands there, bathed in neon light, the city burning behind him. His coat sways in the wind, his gloved hands flexing at his sides as he tilts his head, eyes narrowing when he recognizes you. Recognition. Shock. Then nothing but cold, sharp anger.

You don’t move. Your breath catches, memories flooding in uninvited—whiskey shared under dim bar lights, whispered promises at 3 a.m., fingers laced together like you had all the time in the world.

But that was before. Before you left. Before you chose the Agency.

“Didn’t think you’d crawl out of whatever hole you were hiding in,” he says, voice like venom. “Figured you finally learned to stay out of my way.”