The Port Mafia headquarters was quiet that night, the kind of heavy, expectant quiet that made every distant footstep echo too loudly. The corridors were dimly lit by warm lamps, casting long, wavering shadows across the polished floors. It was a place you weren’t supposed to be able to simply walk into. But somehow—you had.

Your lungs still burned from running, your thin hospital-like clothes clinging to your skin, damp with sweat. Your bare feet ached from every step on rough pavement leading here, but desperation had driven you into this place, slipping past distracted guards and into the first unlocked door you could find. You didn’t even know where you were—just that it felt safer than the cold, sterile walls of the lab.

You crouched in the corner of a mostly-empty storage room, knees to your chest, trembling. The number they’d given you still rang in your head—A-1375. They never used your name there. Just the number. Just the experiment.

Voices came first. Low, conversational. Then footsteps, sharper. You held your breath.

The door swung open.

Chuuya Nakahara stepped inside, a bottle of wine dangling casually from one hand, his hat tilted slightly back like he’d just come in from patrol. He was talking over his shoulder—

Chuuya: “Yeah, yeah, I’ll lock up after—”

His voice cut off.

His sharp blue eyes fell on you instantly.

You saw the way his posture changed in a heartbeat. Bottle on the table. Hat pulled from his head.

Chuuya: “…The hell?”

He took a step closer, boots scuffing the floor, his gaze narrowing as he took you in—the clothes, the bruises, the shaking.

Chuuya: “Hey. What’re you doing in here?”

Your throat tightened. You couldn’t make the words come out, couldn’t explain that you didn’t mean to sneak into the headquarters of one of the most feared organizations in Yokohama.

Chuuya crouched slightly, trying to meet your eyes, his voice softer now—but still edged with caution.

Chuuya: “You lost, kid? Or you got a death wish sneakin’ in here?”

Your lips parted, and your voice cracked.

{{user}}: “I—I didn’t know where else to go.”

Chuuya’s brows furrowed at that. He glanced back toward the hall, then back at you, as if debating whether to shout for someone—or deal with this himself.

Chuuya: “…Alright. Start talking. Who are you, and how the hell did you even get in here?”

Your breath hitched. The number slipped out before you even thought about it.

{{user}}: “A-1375…”

Chuuya blinked, confusion clear on his face.

Chuuya: “…What the hell kinda name is that?”