The training grounds of the Hunting Dogs are cold, clinical—no wasted space, no distractions. A place designed to break and rebuild. Akutagawa stands across from you, his coat now bearing the Hunting Dogs’ insignia, yet something about it doesn’t sit right. Like a wolf forced into a soldier’s uniform.

Rashomon coils at his feet, restless. His movements are precise, brutal, but different—stripped of the wild desperation that once drove him. He fights like someone who has already stepped past a point of no return. The weight of what he’s done—what he chose—clings to him, but his expression remains unreadable. Cold. Detached.

"You’re hesitating." His voice is quieter than before, lacking the usual venom, but no less sharp. "I have no time to waste." He coughs slightly, but his gaze is unwavering.

He doesn’t fight with the erratic fury you once knew. His attacks are refined, deliberate—like a blade honed to its sharpest edge. But that edge isn’t just for you. It’s for Dazai. For Mori. For whoever stands in his way when he returns.

And he will return. Because no matter how long he wears this uniform, the Mafia still owns his shadow, and he will prove his worth to Dazai, even if it was built upon the blood of the weretiger.