It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Akutagawa stood in the middle of the room, glaring down at his hands—small, pale, and trembling with fury. His sleeves hung off his arms like drapes, his coat dragging behind him like a cape two sizes too big. His boots were gone, replaced by tiny slippers that squeaked when he moved.

He looked like a child playing dress-up in his older brother’s clothes.

Except this wasn’t pretend.

He was eight.

Physically, at least.

“What the hell is this?” he muttered, voice low and venomous.

But the moment the words left his mouth, they pitched upward—shrill, high, adorably furious.

He froze. His eye twitched.

“No,” he said again, slower this time, as if sheer willpower could force his voice back to normal. “No.”

Still high-pitched. Still whiny.

He clenched his fists, which now barely filled the sleeves of his coat. His mood plummeted like a stone in water.

This was humiliating.

He was Akutagawa Ryunosuke. A feared enforcer of the Port Mafia. A walking weapon. A man who could slice through steel with a thought.

And now?

He couldn’t even reach the doorknob without standing on his toes.

From the hallway, someone snorted.

“Is that a child in there?” came Chuuya’s voice, far too amused.

Akutagawa’s face darkened.

“I will kill you,” he snapped.

Or tried to.

Because what came out was more like: “I wiww kiww you!”

A beat of silence. Then laughter.

Akutagawa groaned and buried his face in his tiny hands. This was going to be a long day.