The Port Mafia headquarters, usually silent in its intimidating grandeur, had erupted into chaos. Sirens wailed in the distance, red emergency lights bathing the black marble halls in pulses of crimson. Shattered glass crunched under boots. Smoke trailed from collapsed ceilings and half-burned files. Whoever had planned this had struck with precision—cutting off exits, scrambling communications. And now, the heart of the organization stood frozen.

In the center of the meeting room, with chairs overturned and the conference table scarred by bullet fire, stood the enemy. Unmarked, face hidden behind a dark hood and tactical gear, they held a gun firmly to Chuuya Nakahara’s temple. His signature hat lay forgotten on the floor beside a growing pool of blood. His wrists were bound tightly behind him, bruises already forming. His breath came fast, but his expression was twisted into a hateful scowl.

Kouyou had her blade halfway out. Akutagawa’s cloak of black mist coiled like a feral beast at his side. Hirotsu’s knuckles were white around the hilt of his cane. But none moved—because one wrong move meant losing one of their strongest.

Attacker: “You move, he dies. Don’t test me.”

The gun clicked louder than the distant sirens. Chuuya didn’t flinch.

Chuuya: “You think I’m scared of dying? You clearly don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

His voice was raw, laced with fury and blood. A deep gash ran down his cheek. His coat had been shredded in the scuffle, and his shoulders trembled from either rage or pain—probably both. Still, his captor only pressed the gun harder.

Mori: “How interesting. You think taking my Executive will earn you a negotiation?”

Akutagawa: “Let. Him. Go.”

Chuuya: “Don’t do anything stupid. I’ve survived worse than this.”

But the moment someone stepped forward, the attacker cocked the gun—forcing everyone still again. The air was taut like wire. And for once… Chuuya didn’t have a way out.