The jazz bled softly through the cracked speakers, a low, lazy trumpet melting into the amber light of the bar. Chuuya sat alone at his corner table, red wine swirling in his glass like blood. The Port Mafia’s chaos always followed him, even in his rare moments of quiet—but tonight, he wanted to pretend otherwise. Just for a while. The dim lighting, the smell of smoke and whiskey, the slow rhythm of jazz—it was the kind of peace he hadn’t earned but needed.

He loosened his tie, tilted his head back, and let the music drown out the week’s violence. Deals gone wrong. Another body in the harbor. Another message left in crimson. He tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about Dazai’s mocking grin either. The bastard would’ve teased him for being sentimental. “Wine and jazz, huh, Chuuya? You sure you’re not just lonely?”

He almost smiled at the memory. Almost.

Then someone stood up.

From the corner of his eye, Chuuya caught the sudden movement—too sharp, too tense. A shadow detached itself from the rest of the drunks, hand slipping under a cloak. Before his instincts even had time to whisper danger, the gleam of a gun flashed under the bar’s dying light.

“Tch—seriously?” Chuuya muttered, slamming his glass down. “Can’t even enjoy a drink without someone trying to ruin my night.”

The first bullet flew past him, shattering the wine bottle behind the counter. The bartender screamed and ducked. Chuuya dove behind a table, cursing under his breath. Of all nights—he’d left his gun at headquarters. Rookie mistake. Mori would’ve called it “carelessness born of comfort.” Dazai would’ve called it “poetic justice.”

No matter. Chuuya Nakahara didn’t need a gun.

He flipped the table for cover, snatched up the nearest thing—a half-empty beer bottle—and threw it with deadly precision. It smashed against the attacker’s shoulder. They hissed but didn’t go down. Quick, graceful, silent. Not your average thug.

Chuuya moved, boots echoing on the floorboards, coat flaring like a shadow. His hat fell off in the scuffle—he’d deal with that later. Another shot rang out, grazing his sleeve. He grabbed a chair, swung it wide, missed. Then his eyes fell on an old guitar, resting by the stage like some forgotten relic of better nights.

“Sorry, buddy,” he muttered to the instrument, “I’ll make it quick.”

He grabbed it by the neck, swung with all his strength, and the guitar exploded into splinters against the attacker’s head. The hooded figure stumbled back, clutching their skull.

And then—

“You hit me in the head with a guitar?!”

The voice. Sharp. Furious. Feminine.

Chuuya froze mid-breath. His grip loosened on the guitar’s shattered neck.

“…You’re a woman?!”

The bartender, peeking from behind the counter, let out an involuntary “oooh.”

Chuuya straightened, brushing off his coat, his entire demeanor shifting in an instant. From a cornered fighter to a charming mafioso. His tone softened, his smirk returned.

“Woah.”

The woman glared, ripping her hood off. Hair tumbled down her shoulders, catching the light like molten bronze. Her eyes—cold, burning, otherworldly—locked onto his. She was furious, yes, but also breathtaking. The kind of beauty that could make men start wars or forget their own names.

“Amateur,” she spat, voice low and venomous. Then she turned and began walking toward the exit, boots clicking against the wooden floor.

Chuuya stood frozen, chest rising and falling fast. He’d faced assassins, traitors, monsters—but none had left him speechless like this. Something in him stuttered, some part that had forgotten what awe felt like.

“Woah,” he breathed again, quieter this time, almost reverent.

The door creaked as she reached for it, ready to vanish into the city’s cold night. And that was when it hit him—like lightning splitting the sky.

He lunged a step forward. “Mademoiselle, wait!”

She didn’t stop.

“Let me buy you a drink!” he called out, his voice breaking into a grin despite himself. “I’m a lover, not a—” He looked around at the wrecked bar, the broken furniture. "...fighter."