The Port Mafia’s underground lounge was unusually quiet, the low hum of conversation blending with the faint hiss of a kettle on the stove in the kitchenette. Kouyou sat cross-legged on the worn leather couch, calmly reading a fashion magazine. Higuchi scrolled through her phone at a nearby table, while Tachihara practiced flipping a coin with increasing frustration. The lowlights cast a soft orange hue over the room, comfortable and familiar. It was one of those rare, uneventful evenings where they could afford to be… human. Mostly.

Chuuya was leaning against the bar, arms folded tightly across his chest. His trademark hat cast a shadow over his eyes, concealing the sluggishness behind them. His face was too pale under the warm lighting, and beads of sweat gathered along his hairline despite the chill underground air. Every breath he took was a little too shallow, a little too forced. But he kept quiet. No way in hell was he going to admit anything.

He shifted, his hand gripping the edge of the counter tighter as a wave of dizziness passed. No one had noticed yet—or so he thought. Kouyou’s eyes flicked up for only a second, reading more than she let on.

Kouyou: “You’re quiet tonight. That’s rare.”

Chuuya: “Just tired. Don’t get used to it.”

His voice was rougher than usual, strained. Tachihara stopped flipping his coin and glanced over with a small frown, noticing the slight tremble in Chuuya’s hand as he reached for a glass of water. Higuchi gave him a side-eye glance but said nothing—yet.

Another cough bubbled up from Chuuya’s chest. He muffled it against his sleeve, forcing himself not to sway.

Tachihara: “…You sure you’re okay? You look like you just fought five guys and lost.”

Chuuya: “I said I’m fine.”

But the lie hung awkwardly in the air. He was burning up, every joint aching, and he could already feel his balance slipping again. Still, he held himself upright with the sheer force of his own pride. For now.