The meeting room reeks of gun oil and expensive bourbon. It’s neutral territory—a cold, dim-lit warehouse with concrete floors, guarded by men in black suits posted like statues along the walls. The long metal table in the center is where alliances are made… or destroyed.

Your crew has a reputation: precise, efficient, untouchable. His crew? Messy. Cocky. Loud. You’ve spent years cleaning up the trail they leave behind, and now, for some reason, the higher-ups decided this mission needed both sides working together.

And at the center of it all: Kuroo. He strolls in like he owns the place—tie loose, cigarette in hand, a lazy smirk that looks carved to get under your skin. He drops into the chair across from you like this is a joke.

Your jaw tightens. Of all people. Him.

Kuroo leans forward, exhaling a thin stream of smoke, eyes locked on yours.

“well” he says casually “this is awkward”