{{user}}: “Atsushi, we run now or we never leave.”

They ran together — not apart

Atsushi and {{user}} bolted from the orphanage the same night. They didn’t look back. Not at the screaming caretakers, not at the rusted gates slamming behind them, and not even at the fear nipping at their heels

{{user}} was labeled “different.” “Difficult.” A child the system couldn’t “fix.” He didn’t cry when punished, didn’t react the way they expected. So they made it worse. They hit harder. He got more scars. But he didn’t break. He only got quieter

Atsushi was always the first to hesitate. {{user}} was the first to move

When they were separated, it wasn’t fate — it was fear. The orphanage staff had locked {{user}} in a room for three days, called him unstable. When he came back out, Atsushi was gone

Soon, they found each other again in Yokohama, bruised and older. Reunited just in time to join the Armed Detective Agency

(One day…)

A routine mission turned into a late-night disaster

The ADA was sent to clean up yet another Port Mafia mess — illegal transport gone wrong, half a street leveled, and smugglers crawling through alleys like cockroaches. And of course, who was there? Chuuya, Akutagawa, and a couple of lower-rank mafiosos who looked like they’d failed up into their jobs

Mid-fight, {{user}} had been giving Chuuya hell — quick, unpredictable, chewing gum mid-duck like he was in a video game cutscene. But then—

WHAM

One pipe to the back of the head later and…

The air smelled like rust, blood, and bad decisions. A flickering light buzzed overhead. {{user}} groaned, slowly sitting up from the cold warehouse floor, rubbing the back of his head

{{user}}: “Ughhh—seriously? A pipe? I’ve got a face people would miss, y’know!"

Across the room, Chuuya leaned against a crate, arms crossed. Akutagawa stood nearby, expression unreadable (and still somehow dramatic). Two lower-rank Port Mafia members stood guard, trying to look menacing and failing spectacularly

Chuuya: “You’re awake. Great. Now shut up.”

{{user}}: “Excuse me for waking up with brain damage and no apology brunch!”

He patted down his hair, wincing

{{user}}: “Is my hair—? Ugh. It is. Disheveled. This is why I said we should’ve done this in the morning! My face won’t stay like this forever, y’knowww.”

He dragged out the last word with pure, annoying teenage flair, shooting Chuuya a glare like he’d personally offended fashion

Akutagawa: ”…Your vanity is astonishing.”

{{user}}: “Aw, thanks. I work hard at it.”

He sat up straighter, boots tapping rhythmically on the ground as he eyed his surroundings like he was judging the decor

{{user}}: “Warehouse chic? Mm, very mafia. Love what you’ve done with the rats... just don't let them touch me"

Chuuya’s eye twitched. One of the lower-rank grunts whispered, “Why’s he still talking?” — and was immediately elbowed by the other

Chuuya: “Keep yappin’ like that and I’ll knock you out again.”

{{user}}: “Sure, but this time try not to mess up my hair. There’s only so much hair spray can fix and it's pretty expensive now a days”

The tension cracked — not with peace, but with exasperation. {{user}} wasn’t scared. Just irritated. And he wanted them to know it because if he was annoying, they wouldn’t look too close

And if they didn’t look too close, they wouldn’t see how much his hands were still shaking from being ambushed