It happened fast.

Too fast for anyone at the Agency to react.

One moment, you were filing reports in the corner office—paperwork that you hated but Kunikida insisted was “part of your growth”—and the next, the window shattered inward in a burst of glass and wind.

You barely saw him—just a flash of red, a glint of gold at his collar, and a gloved hand reaching for your arm.

The impact didn’t even hurt.

Gravity vanished. The world tilted. You were in the air before your mind caught up with your body, plucked from the floor like a feather on the breeze.

And then— Darkness. Silence.

When you opened your eyes again, the world had changed.

Gone were the bright windows of the Agency, the faint smell of coffee, the sharp-tongued bickering of Dazai and Atsushi in the background.

Now, you were somewhere else.

A lavish hotel suite? No… too old. The air was rich with incense and the faintest trace of something metallic—blood, maybe.

The room was too quiet. The windows were barred. And he was there. Chuuya Nakahara.

He stood near the doorway, coat slung over one shoulder, hat in his hand. His eyes—clear, sharp, burning with that faint edge of arrogance—watched you as if he had all the time in the world.

“Took you long enough,” he said, voice smooth as whiskey, with a curl of amusement beneath the words. “You pass out easy. I barely tapped you.”

You pushed yourself up slowly.

The couch beneath you was soft. Ridiculously soft. There were velvet cushions and mahogany shelves lining the room’s far wall. A cage, dressed like royalty.

‘where am i’ you didn’t ask—but he saw the question in your eyes anyway.

“You’re in Port Mafia territory now,” Chuuya said, shrugging into his coat. “Comfortable, yeah? Mori didn’t want you stuffed in a cell or anything. He thinks you’re important.”