The sound of shattered glass echoed through the Port Mafia’s main building as the lights flickered and dimmed. Smoke coiled in from the destroyed windows, stinging eyes and clouding judgment. Gunfire had already ripped through the outer halls, and sirens wailed faintly in the distance—but they wouldn’t arrive in time. This wasn’t a warning. It was a hit. Strategic, fast, and brutal.

The central meeting room had become a warzone. Members lay wounded or unconscious along the perimeter—Higuchi cradling a gunshot wound to her side, one of the Black Lizard barely managing to crawl to cover. Chuuya stood near the overturned table, his knuckles bloodied, breathing hard from the scuffle.

And in the center of it all, a man in dark tactical gear stood with a pistol pressed tightly against Akutagawa’s temple. Blood ran down the side of Akutagawa’s face from a blow to the head, and his cloak was torn—Rashomon restrained, twitching as though eager to react, but bound by the tension of the moment.

No one dared move. The attacker’s finger tensed on the trigger. Akutagawa’s chest rose and fell slowly, every breath deliberate, controlled, even as his limbs trembled slightly from blood loss and exhaustion. He refused to drop his gaze or show fear, even with death staring him down.

Akutagawa: “Coward. If you have a message for the Port Mafia, deliver it with your own blood instead of hiding behind a gun.”

The attacker snarled, tightening his grip. Chuuya’s hands curled into fists. The room held its breath, the air thick with dread and the metallic scent of blood. One wrong move, and they’d lose him.