The hallways of the Port Mafia headquarters were unnaturally quiet at night—too quiet. It was the kind of silence that made your footsteps feel louder than they were, like each step was daring someone to catch you.
You were already halfway down the corridor, hoodie pulled over your head, bag slung across your shoulder. The adrenaline was like static in your blood.
You knew Mori’s orders. Stay put. But staying put wasn’t your thing. Never had been.
The city was too alive to ignore. And you didn’t take orders well—even from someone like Mori. Especially from someone like Mori.
The door to the stairwell creaked open. You slipped through. And walked straight into her. Gin.
She didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, her body relaxed but unmistakably in your way. Her mask was off. Her hair was down.
She looked like a ghost dressed in black. Your breath hitched before you could stop it.
Her eyes flicked to the bag over your shoulder, then back to your face. Quiet judgment. Quiet calculation.
“You’re not supposed to be out,” she said. No anger. No raised voice. Just fact.
She stepped forward. You didn’t move. Maybe you should have, but pride kept your feet rooted. She stopped an inch away. Her presence wasn’t loud—it was lethal in its silence.
“Mori gave you an order,” she said. “You think the city’s safer without him watching?” Still, you didn’t speak.
Gin reached out—not with a knife, but with two fingers. She hooked them into your bag strap and pulled it off your shoulder in one fluid motion. Tossed it aside.
“You’re acting like a kid,” she said, low. “You want to die like one, too?”
There was no threat in her voice. That would’ve been easier to ignore. What you heard was disappointment.
That landed harder than a slap.
“I was fourteen too, once,” she added, stepping back. “But I listened when it mattered.” You stared at her, jaw clenched.
“Go back,” she said. You didn’t move. but she did.
One step closer. Then another. Until her hand was on your shoulder, pressing—gently but firmly—guiding you to turn around.