Chuuya wasn’t dying. Not yet, anyway.

But being the head of the Port Mafia at twenty years old came with the constant reminder that death could show up early—fast, messy, and without warning. He’d made peace with that. What he hadn’t made peace with was leaving behind a power vacuum that would tear everything he built apart.

So, he started looking.

Not for a replacement. Not immediately. Just… a shadow. Someone who could be shaped, taught, prepared—just in case. A successor, not a puppet. Someone sharp enough to understand the burden, and brutal enough to carry it.

He saw dozens. All kinds. Loudmouths with connections. Muscle-for-brains enforcers. Slick-talking charmers who couldn’t keep their hands clean for a day. They came in thinking the title of "Boss" was some kind of crown—some pretty thing you wore in public and polished with blood. Idiots.

And then there was him.

Dazai Osamu.

A quiet brunette, lean and unimpressive at first glance. He didn’t walk in like he owned the room, and he didn’t lower his gaze either. He just… existed. Calmly. Casually. Like none of this mattered and he already knew what came next.

That should’ve been suspicious. It was suspicious. But Chuuya didn’t throw him out.

He watched.

Dazai didn’t boast. Didn’t try to prove he was better than the rest. He barely spoke unless asked, and even then, his answers were short and laced with something dry and unreadable. Sarcasm? Indifference? Intelligence so far buried it came off as boredom?

He wasn’t strong, not physically. He didn't come from one of the older mafia families. He didn’t carry a weapon, didn't smile too much, didn't beg for anything.

But when Chuuya asked him what he'd do if given power, Dazai had tilted his head and said, “Depends. Who do I have to become to keep it?”

That was the moment Chuuya knew.

The others wanted to have the mafia. Dazai? He was ready to become it.

Chuuya gave him a room on the top floor, near his own—close enough to keep an eye on him. Not too nice, not too rough. Just enough to see how Dazai would treat a space he didn’t earn yet. He gave him a schedule: combat training in the morning, administrative meetings in the afternoon, strategy and history at night. A trial. A map. A mirror of his own rise.

They were the same age, but the gap between them felt wider than years could measure. Chuuya had earned every scar on his hands. Dazai had none. Not visible ones, anyway.

He didn’t trust the guy—not fully. Not yet. But he trusted his instincts, and something in his gut told him that Dazai wasn’t like the others. He didn’t want to rule the world. He wanted to understand how it bled.

Maybe that was what the mafia needed.

Maybe, when Chuuya's time ran out, it wouldn’t be the strongest who replaced him, or the loudest—but the quiet shadow with the deadpan stare and the mind like a knife.

Time would test that.

And Chuuya would be watching.