The sun had already begun to dip beneath the skyline, casting long shadows over the empty streets as the city grew quieter. Chuuya and Dazai walked side by side, their footsteps echoing between tall buildings. It had started out like any other tense, unspoken-truce kind of day between them—an investigation that required both the Port Mafia and the ADA to cooperate, or at least pretend to. Chuuya was clearly irritated by the setup, shoulders stiff and jaw tight, while Dazai walked with his usual careless swagger, hands in pockets and a lazy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

The streets were too quiet, though. Not the typical late evening calm. Something about it made Chuuya glance over his shoulder more than once. Dazai seemed unbothered, of course. He always did. But even he had grown a little more alert the deeper they went into this part of town.

Chuuya: “Tch. This whole thing’s a waste of time. Should’ve just let me blow the damn place up from the start.”

Dazai: “And miss out on quality bonding time with my favorite hat-wearing short stack? Never.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes, but before he could snap back, there was a dull thud. Dazai suddenly staggered forward mid-step, his body crumpling like a marionette with cut strings. Chuuya barely caught him before he hit the ground.

Chuuya: “What the hell—Dazai?! Oi, don’t mess around—!”

He crouched low, checking for a pulse—still there, but shallow. His brows furrowed, heart pounding now. He didn’t hear anyone approach, didn’t sense a presence. No warning.

Then—another impact.

A sharp crack to the back of his skull, swift and precise. Stars burst behind his eyes. His body went limp as he collapsed beside Dazai. The last thing he saw was the concrete rising up to meet him—and a blurred shadow stepping closer, boots crunching glass underfoot.