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The marble halls of the Port Mafia headquarters were quieter than usual when you returned.

Not in the sense of silence—there were always voices, footsteps, echoes of something not quite visible—but in the way the air felt before a storm. Weighted. Stilled.

You appeared without fanfare. No flourish, no footsteps. Just there, materializing with the soft ripple of your ability warping light and distance around you like a folding screen.

Blood had dried on your collar.

You hadn't bothered to clean it. It felt appropriate—an aftertaste of the garden.

You moved with unhurried ease down the corridor, hands tucked in your coat pockets, when—

“...L/N-san.”

Chuuya’s voice.

It stopped you mid step.

You turned.

He stood at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, posture casual—but the way he greeted you made your head tilt slightly.

Polite. Distant.

Not quite stiff, but… not right either.

Like you'd been slotted back into some earlier chapter of your relationship.

The beginning. Back when he didn’t know what to make of you and you thought his temper would make him useful or entertaining—possibly both.

Your eyes scanned him briefly.

He didn’t meet your gaze for long. That was rare.

Still, you offered a brief nod in return, voice mild.

“It's been a while, Chuuya.”

He stared. Then, with a short nod, he stepped past you.

Neither of you said anything else.

You didn’t look back.

Mori’s office smelled of antiseptic and paper.

Clinical. Controlled.

You stood before his desk like a patient rather than a subordinate, fingers still laced behind your back.

“It’s done,” you said.

Mori looked up from the folder he had been reading, one hand absently toying with a silver pen.

He didn’t look surprised. Of course he didn’t.

“How efficient,” he murmured. “You made it back quicker than I expected.”

You shrugged one shoulder.

“They weren’t expecting me. I didn’t want to keep them waiting.”

“Mm,” Mori hummed. “How many casualties?”

You tilted your head.

“Define ‘casualty,’ Mori-san.”

He gave you a dry look. “The body count, then.”

You offered a small, amused smile.

“I didn’t count. Seemed rude.”

He sighed, amused. “Well, the message must be loud and clear by now.”

You inclined your head. “I made sure of it.”

A beat.

Then—

Knock knock knock.

Three sharp raps against the office door.

“It's Sato, boss.”

Not urgent. Not hesitant. Just... official.

Mori raised a brow. “Enter.”

A middle aged mafioso stepped inside, bowed low.

“Apologies for the interruption, boss. But… there’s been an unexpected visitor.”

Mori glanced at him with mild disapproval. “Visitor? No appointments?”

The man swallowed, clearly uncomfortable.

“The head of the Suzuki clan. He arrived without warning. He wishes to speak to you directly.”

Silence.

You blinked.

Mori did too.

Then Mori looked at you.

“…Did you leave anyone alive?”

You offered a thoughtful pause. “No, I didn't. Perhaps a spy had been sent far enough for me to not detect them.”

Mori’s lips twitched.

He sighed, long and theatrical.

“Well, let’s not keep royalty waiting.”

The Port Mafia’s main conference room was rarely used for actual diplomacy.

It was too cold, too sharp—more weapon than location.

A long polished table split the room in two, surrounded by sleek chairs. The walls were lined with books, weapons, and carefully curated displays—elegant, but undeniably threatening.

Mori sat at the head.

You stood behind him to the right. Kouyou stood to the left, arms folded, the tension in her shoulders barely restrained. You could feel her unease from here—like static.

Across the table sat Suzuki Masahiro, head of the clan.

A tall man, older, face drawn with lines etched by pride and bitterness.

His hair was going silver at the temples, slicked back immaculately. His robes were traditional, but the kind of traditional meant to intimidate—deep indigo with gold embroidery, the clan crest shimmering like a seal of divine authority.

He had two guards behind him. Ornamental, you noted. Decorative wolves in lacquered armor.

They were calm—at least, appeared to be. Their eyes, however, roamed around the room warily.

How rude.

The tension was so thick it could be bottled and sold as poison.

Mori leaned forward, chin resting in one hand, smile tight.

“Quite the surprise, Suzuki-dono. You’ll have to forgive our lack of hospitality—had I known you were coming, I would’ve prepared tea. Or perhaps some red wine. We have a surplus.”

Masahiro did not return the smile. He sat ramrod straight, gaze sharp as glass.

“I did not come for pleasantries. I came for my daughter.”

Kouyou’s brows furrowed slightly.

Mori’s voice remained airy.

“Ah. That. I’m afraid that’s… rather difficult.”

He gestured vaguely with one hand.

“You see, my dear executive seems rather attached to her.”

At that, Masahiro’s eyes flicked to you. Not Kouyou, immediately at you.

Sharp. Measuring. Cold.

There might be a misunderstanding here.

“I suppose,” he said, slowly, “it’s the boy who fell for Akari, then?”

You tilted your head slightly, offering a faint, unreadable smile.

Masahiro continued, tone flatly serious. “It cannot be helped. She did inherit her mother’s looks, after all. Quite the beauty, even as a child. People always said so.”

Kouyou blinked. Her eyes darted to you.

Mori stared at Masahiro as if he was slapped by a fish.

You almost laughed.

Kouyou leaned toward you, voice low, curious. “That rumor about you falling for a girl you locked up underground… is it actually true?”

You didn’t even look at her. Just whispered back, dry amusement curling your lips.

“No. But let him think so.”

She exhaled slowly, like she wasn’t sure whether to scold or pity you.

Masahiro finally stopped talking, like he’d delivered some profound truth.

Mori broke the silence with a light chuckle.

“Well. Beauty aside, I can’t exactly hand her back, now can I? That might upset my executive.”

He glanced toward you with mock gravity.

“Wouldn’t want to wound young love.”

You offered a small bow of your head, eyes sparkling with something dangerous.

“She’s grown on me,” you said softly. “Like a pet I taught to bite.”

Masahiro’s jaw clenched. “She is not a toy.”

“No,” you agreed. “She’s a hostage.”

Mori waved a hand as if to dispel the tension like smoke.

“Now, now. Let’s not squabble. We're all professionals here.”

Talk shifted then—terms, boundaries, face saving strategies.

You tuned it out.

Until—

Masahiro’s gaze landed on you again. Lingered.

He studied you the way one might study an unfamiliar animal—cautious, searching for weakness.

Then, without much ceremony, he said—

“You’re qualified.”

A statement.

Not a compliment.

A declaration.

You smiled. That same detached, polite smile you always wore when something inside you was laughing too hard to speak.

If he only knew.

Inside, you were chuckling.

Qualified, he said.

Like you were a good enough dog to marry the porcelain doll he kept locked in a glass box.

You didn’t speak.

But your silence was louder than laughter.

Mori glanced at you, noting the shift in your posture, the subtle gleam in your eye.

Kouyou narrowed her eyes.

Masahiro didn’t look away.

No one moved.

For one long moment, it felt like the world itself was holding its breath.

Then Mori exhaled, pushing back slightly in his chair.

“Well, since we’re all so agreeable today,” he said cheerfully, “why don’t we talk about the future?”

And the negotiations continued—on paper.

But beneath the surface, the real game had only just begun.