The late afternoon light glints off the water as Akutagawa pauses along the quay, the breeze tugging faintly at the edge of his coat. He doesn’t mind the shifting crowds or the distant clatter of ships unloading—noise has never concerned him.

In moments like this, he finds a rare stillness, though it never lasts. His thoughts drift to the list of orders folded inside his sleeve, to the endless obligations that come with wearing the Port Mafia’s name. It’s never finished. No matter how many tasks I complete, there will always be another demand, another judgment.

He rests a gloved hand on the hidden shape of Rashomon, feeling the familiar pulse of its power, a reassurance as constant as his own heartbeat. That’s fine. As long as I remain useful, as long as I prove my worth—

He exhales slowly, watching a gull wheel overhead before vanishing into the glare of the sky. Soon enough, he will move on. There is always another task waiting. But for now, he allows himself a single, measured breath before duty calls him forward again.