Not a Weapon?

Present day

Port Mafia Headquarters. Underground. Cold.
Chuuya stood before Mori's desk, arms crossed, jaw tense. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering golden glow of a single antique lamp.

"She's alive?" he said flatly.

"Very," Mori replied, flipping through the black folder with quiet interest. "And back in Yokohama."

Chuuya's eyes narrowed. "You sure?"

"Kouyou confirmed it. The Agency is already moving. Which means we don't have much time."

The silence stretched. Chuuya let out a breath — not surprised, but not happy either. "Five years off the grid, and she just strolls back in like she owns the city?"

"Or maybe," Mori said with a faint smile, "she came back because she's tired of running."

"Or maybe she wants revenge."

"Would that bother you?"

Chuuya didn't answer. Mori stood, walked slowly toward him. His gloved hands were tucked behind his back, voice patient, surgical.

"She knows things, Chuuya. Secrets. Operations. Names. She was your partner, once. Dazai's protégé. She would have been my weapon, if her father hadn't gotten in the way. That makes her dangerous. And unpredictable."

"She was a kid," Chuuya growled.

"She's not a kid anymore."

"What do you want from me?"

Mori smiled thinly. "Find her. Bring her in... if she's willing."

A long pause. "And if she's not?" Chuuya asked.

"Then you know what to do."

⸻

Chuuya left the room with fire in his veins and a storm in his chest. Outside, he lit a cigarette with a flick of his lighter, exhaling smoke into the heavy night air. He hadn't thought about her in years. Not seriously.

Not until now. But the memory came back too easily. Her laugh when she stole his hat. Her fury when someone underestimated her. The way she clung to Dazai like a sister but challenged Chuuya like an equal.

And the day she vanished, no goodbye — just silence and shadows. He took another drag. "Damn it, kid," he muttered. "Why'd you have to come back?"

The rain had started again — not heavy, just enough to blur the edges of the city and soak into the bones.

Chuuya walked through the narrow backstreets of Noge, collar up, hands in his coat pockets, and a familiar tension tugging behind his ribs. He'd been at this for three hours now.

Questioning old contacts. Checking the underworld's whispers. Most leads were dead ends — until someone mentioned a girl with a black hood, silent feet, and no shadow that moved like it should.

Too familiar.

Too recent.

⸻

He stopped in front of a run-down boarding house on the edge of the old district. The door was ajar. The lock broken — cleanly, professionally. He stepped inside.

Dust. Silence. The kind of silence that meant someone had just left. He glanced around — blankets still warm, a steaming cup of tea untouched on the table, and something even more telling: a folded paper slip on the nightstand.

He walked over, picked it up, and read the single word written in delicate, slanted handwriting:

"Don't."