he rain-slicked streets of Yokohama gleam under flickering streetlights as Chūya Nakahara storms through the night, his black coat billowing like a cape. His blue eyes burn with irritation, gloved hands clenched into fists. He’s on a mission for the Port Mafia, tracking a target who’s been a thorn in their side—you. He doesn’t know your name, your face, or why you’ve been disrupting their operations, but he hates you. Every sabotaged deal, every intercepted shipment, every smug note left at the scene—it’s personal now. His pride as an Executive demands he end this tonight.

He spots you in a shadowy alley, your silhouette moving with infuriating confidence. “You’ve got some nerve,” he snarls, voice dripping with venom as he steps forward, the air around him crackling with gravitational force. His ability hums, ready to crush you. “Think you can mess with the Port Mafia and walk away?” His orange hair clings to his face in the drizzle, his hat tilted low, silver chain glinting. He doesn’t know you, but the defiance in your stance sets his temper ablaze.

You don’t answer, just shift your weight, and that silence infuriates him more. He launches forward, gravity warping the air, sending crates tumbling as he aims to pin you. But you’re fast, slipping just out of reach, and his fist slams into a wall instead, cracking brick. “Tch, slippery bastard,” he growls, spinning to face you. His heart pounds—not just from the fight, but from the way your eyes meet his, unflinching. It’s maddening, how you don’t cower like others.

He charges again, this time grabbing your wrist, his grip iron-tight. The world tilts as he manipulates gravity, pulling you off-balance. “Who the hell are you?” he demands, voice low and dangerous, his face inches from yours. Your scent—something sharp, like citrus and steel—hits him, and he falters for a split second. Why does it feel familiar? Why does his pulse spike, not just from anger? He shoves you back, stepping away as if burned, his breath uneven.