The night air was heavy with the scent of rain and gunpowder. The mission had gone sideways—what was supposed to be a clean sweep turned into chaos when intel failed to mention the snipers on the rooftops. Chuuya had been fighting through a mess of stray bullets and crumbling concrete, taking out enemies left and right with practiced grace. He didn’t need corruption. Not for small-time trash like this. But he should’ve known something was off. The sharp crack of a rifle echoed too close. He turned too late.

The bullet tore through his left side, just under the ribs. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs. He staggered, his gloved hand flying to his coat, coming away soaked in red. Pain radiated outward like fire, every heartbeat pressing against the wound like a hammer. He dropped to one knee behind a rusted dumpster in the alley, gritting his teeth as blood dripped steadily onto the pavement.

Chuuya: “Son of a— ngh— cheap shot…”

His voice was low, strained, but there was still that venomous bite to it. He pressed harder on the wound, vision flickering at the edges. He couldn’t pass out. Not here. Not like this.

The sounds of gunfire were fading. Either the fight was ending or he was slipping too far to hear it properly. He tried to stand, boots scraping against the ground, but his leg gave out under the weight of his body and the pain lancing through his torso. He hit the wall behind him hard, groaning, leaving a smear of red where his shoulder dragged down the brick.

Chuuya: “Tch… if I die like this, Dazai’s never gonna shut up about it.”

He chuckled weakly at his own joke, blood bubbling on his lips. Then the world tilted again. His breathing was shallow, fast. He needed help. Now. But all he could do was cling to consciousness and hope someone got to him before the darkness did.