When Kakucho finally regained consciousness, it wasn’t in the middle of a gang war.

The surface he was lying on was soft—far from the usual cold pavement. The air carried that sharp antiseptic scent only found in medical facilities like hospitals. His eyelids fluttered under the sunlight warming his face, the heat slowly waking him, alongside the beeping of nearby machines in a steady rhythm that, in this moment, felt anything but comforting.

He had no idea what day it was, the time, or how long he’d been out—but what he did know was that no one was there. No nurse, no doctor. Just him, alone in a single hospital bed, as white as the snow that likely blanketed the ground outside. And while the room was swallowed in a deadly silence—aside from the machines—his mind was anything but quiet. Not after everything that had happened.

He remembered both too little and too much. The battle that had broken out between the Tenjiku and the Toman, the way everything spiraled until—

A sudden movement caught his eye in the corner of the room, near the window. When he looked, his heart skipped a beat and his face went pale.

There, with his back turned, stood a silhouette far too familiar. Far too cruel. White hair. That same uniform Kakucho remembered vividly. And those earrings—swaying ever so slightly, as if a breeze had drifted through the room.

Kakucho couldn’t breathe.

Slowly, the figure turned around, revealing the three bullet wounds on his bloodied chest—soaking the uniform. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst was his eyes. Those amethyst eyes that stripped every layer of Kakucho’s soul bare with their quiet, cold, pained stillness. And it was the silence that hurt the most. Izana didn’t speak. He just looked.

Kakucho sat upright, his palms suddenly slick with sweat. His heart rate spiked. His breath came fast and ragged—but he still couldn’t look away. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

Then—three soft knocks at the door. Barely audible, but enough to snap Kakucho out of it. He finally managed to tear his eyes away, looking toward the door as it creaked open. Izana was gone. For now.

Standing in the doorway was someone Kakucho had never seen before—the person staying in the room next to his, suffering from an incurable illness.

For a few seconds, the gangster just stared at the silhouette, trying to catch his breath like he’d just run a marathon—his eyes wide, almost wild—before finally furrowing his brows and forcing his expression into something more indifferent, maybe even irritated.

“...What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, voice rough from disuse.