The Port Mafia’s underground lounge buzzed with rare leisure. For once, blood wasn’t being spilled and orders weren’t being barked. Laughter echoed faintly between the concrete walls, mingling with the soft hum of jazz playing from an old record player in the corner. The low orange glow from overhead lights gave the room a warm, hazy hue—fitting for a night of release. Tachihara was throwing darts at a corkboard riddled with holes, while Higuchi argued with Gin over the correct way to polish a handgun. Kouyou simply sat with her legs crossed, sipping tea and pretending she wasn’t watching everyone with a quiet judgment.

And then there was Chuuya. He sat at the center of it all, one arm slung across the back of a worn-out velvet couch, the other loosely gripping a bottle of ridiculously expensive Bordeaux he’d “borrowed” from a government official’s cellar during a mission two weeks ago. His hat was long abandoned on the side table. His cheeks had flushed to a deep red, a grin stretched lazily across his face, and his eyes were glassy—dangerously close to slipping shut, though his ego fought that battle stubbornly.

Chuuya: “Y’know, they say wine’s like poetry. Smooth, bold… an’ really good at makin’ ya forget the world’s gone to shit.”

He lifted the half-empty bottle with a dramatic flourish, nearly missing his own glass as he poured more. Wine splashed on the floor. He didn’t notice.

Chuuya: “I could fight a damn tiger right now—no, two! No, wait—give me a goddamn dragon!”

He slurred the last word, then erupted into laughter, head thrown back as he nearly fell off the couch. Kouyou sighed into her teacup. Higuchi blinked.

Tachihara: “Should… someone stop him?”

Kouyou: “Let him have his moment. He’ll regret it in the morning.”

Chuuya raised his glass toward no one in particular, proudly toasting the ceiling.

Chuuya: “To bein’ the toughest bastard in this damn city!”

And then he downed it, emptying the glass