Chapter Text
First POV
Yokohama.
The iconic city.
The place so many Bungo Stray Dogs fans dreamed of visiting one day, hoping to see the real-life streets, buildings, and scenery that inspired their favorite manga and anime.
Well, for all my fellow fans out there, allow me to say this with complete sincerity.
It’s fucking hell.
That was the only thought screaming through my mind as I ran for my life, boots slamming against wet pavement while gunshots cracked behind me like thunder.
A bullet struck the brick wall beside my head.
I ducked on pure instinct, nearly tripping over my own feet as bits of stone and dust exploded near my face.
“Shit—shit, shit, shit!”
My lungs burned. My legs ached. My heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out of my chest.
Behind me, several men shouted, their voices echoing through the narrow backstreets as they gave chase.
“Don’t let her escape!”
“She saw everything!”
“Kill her!”
Oh, wonderful.
Amazing.
Fantastic.
Apparently, I had woken up in a new world only to be immediately thrown into a murder attempt.
How did this happen, you ask?
Well, you know.
Just the usual.
One moment, I was dying after getting shot while saving a group of kids from a robber, and the next, I woke up in the body of some random pretty woman lying in a pool of blood.
At first, I thought I was hallucinating.
Then I heard gunfire.
Then I saw corpses.
Then I realized the body I had woken up in belonged to a low-level thug in the mafia.
And not just any mafia.
No.
Because apparently, the universe had decided that tossing me into the criminal underworld wasn’t enough.
It had to throw me into the Port Mafia.
The fucking Port Mafia.
From Bungo Stray Dogs.
Except this wasn’t the main canon timeline I remembered.
No.
That would have been too merciful.
From what I had managed to gather through half-broken memories and the absolute nightmare currently unfolding around me, I was at least ten years before canon. Maybe more.
Most of my favorite characters were either still children, caught up in some war, or not even anywhere near the people they would eventually become.
Which meant I had no Atsushi.
No agency safety net.
No convenient canon knowledge that could save me immediately.
Just me, several armed assholes chasing me through the backstreets, and the dawning realization that I was now living in one of the most dangerous cities in anime.
Another gunshot rang out.
I twisted sharply into a side alley, shoulder slamming into the wall as I skidded across the slick ground. Pain jolted through my body, sharp and unfamiliar, but I forced myself to keep moving.
This body knew how to run.
That was the only reason I was still alive.
The original owner—Kumiko Fujiwara—had good reflexes. Better than mine, at least. Her feet knew how to move over uneven pavement. Her body knew how to duck before my mind even caught up. Her hand kept drifting toward the gun strapped beneath her jacket like she had done it a thousand times before.
Unfortunately, I had not done it a thousand times before.
I had been a policewoman.
A middle-aged policewoman, at that.
Not some teenage mafia street rat.
I knew how to handle a gun, sure. I knew how to deal with criminals, dangerous situations, and high-stress environments.
But there was a very big difference between law enforcement training and being dumped into the body of an eighteen-year-old criminal while other criminals tried to execute me in an alley.
A very big fucking difference.
I turned another corner, shoved through a half-broken metal gate, and stumbled into a cramped passage between two buildings. Garbage bags were piled against the walls. The air stank of rainwater, rust, and old blood.
Perfect.
Very aesthetic.
Very Yokohama underworld.
Very “you’re about to die in a background scene before the opening credits.”
I pressed my back against the wall and clamped a hand over my mouth, forcing myself to breathe as quietly as possible.
Footsteps thundered past the alley entrance.
I froze.
My entire body locked up.
For several long seconds, I didn’t move. I didn’t even blink.
The men shouted to one another, their voices growing fainter as they continued down the main street.
Only when the sound finally faded did my knees give out.
I slid down the wall and landed hard on the filthy ground.
For a moment, I just sat there.
Breathing.
Shaking.
Alive.
Somehow.
“Okay,” I whispered, voice hoarse. “Okay. Think. Think, damn it.”
The problem was, thinking hurt.
Not physically.
No, physically, I was already a disaster. My ribs ached, my shoulder throbbed, and there was dried blood on my sleeve that might have been mine, Kumiko’s, or someone else’s.
But the memories were worse.
They were not mine, but they were there.
Broken pieces.
Flashes.
Names.
Places.
Fear.
Hunger.
Alleys.
Hands grabbing.
A knife under a pillow.
A gun pressed into shaking fingers.
The Port Mafia’s black buildings looming like a promise and a threat.
Kumiko Fujiwara.
Age eighteen.
Orphan.
No living relatives.
No lover.
No friends worth trusting.
She had grown up in Yokohama’s underbelly, surviving through theft, favors, violence, and the kind of street smarts that only came from living in a place where looking weak meant getting eaten alive.
Recently, she had gained the attention of a higher-ranking Port Mafia member because of her marksmanship and ability to read danger before it arrived.
Not an Ability.
Just instinct.
Skill.
Experience.
That had been enough to earn her a place.
A low place, sure, but still a place.
Today had been her first official mission.
A simple patrol.
That was what the memories told me.
A small squad. Basic territory check. Nothing impressive. Nothing dangerous enough to warrant executive attention or stronger guards.
And then everything had gone to hell.
An enemy group had ambushed them.
The others died quickly.
Kumiko had almost died, too.
Maybe she had died.
Maybe that was the only reason I was here.
I swallowed hard, pressing trembling fingers against my chest.
The heartbeat under my palm was fast.
Too fast.
But it was there.
I was alive.
In someone else’s body.
In the Port Mafia.
With no money, no allies, no way out, and no idea what kind of butterfly effect my existence had already caused.
I let out a quiet, humorless laugh.
“Great. Just great.”
I had spent years trying to stop criminals from hurting innocent people.
And how did the universe reward me?
By turning me into one.
A Port Mafia grunt.
A fucking criminal.
Somewhere out there, fate was laughing at me.
I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes, trying to steady myself.
The Port Mafia was not a place for weak-hearted people.
That much I knew from canon, and Kumiko’s memories only confirmed it. Even low-ranking members lived under constant pressure. Loyalty was not optional. Failure was dangerous. Betrayal was fatal.
And desertion?
I didn’t even want to think about what would happen if I tried to run.
The mafia owned its people.
Especially the ones with nowhere else to go.
Kumiko had no family.
No home outside the organization.
No legal identity that would protect her.
No savings.
No safehouse.
No one who would come looking if she disappeared.
Which meant I was trapped.
At least for now.
“Okay,” I whispered again, forcing myself to focus. “Bad news: I’m in the Port Mafia. Worse news: I’m probably going to die if I don’t report back. Even worse news: I don’t know who the hell set this ambush up.”
I inhaled slowly.
Then exhaled.
“But…”
There was one good thing.
One very important thing.
Unlike the original Kumiko, I had an Ability.
The knowledge of it sat in my mind like it had always been there, even though I knew it hadn’t. It was not part of Kumiko’s memories. It was something new. Something that belonged to me.
A name.
A feeling.
A pull beneath my skin.
Song of the Mourning.
The moment I thought the name, something cold and beautiful stirred inside me.
It was like the echo of a violin note in an empty theater.
Soft.
Haunting.
Wrong.
My fingers twitched.
A thin shimmer of power brushed against my senses, and for a second, I could almost hear music where there was none.
My Ability allowed me to use instruments to trap people in illusions.
Not weak illusions either.
Real ones.
Complete ones.
The kind so detailed, so convincing, so deeply woven into the senses, that the victim would never even realize they were trapped.
Sight.
Sound.
Touch.
Smell.
Pain.
Fear.
Comfort.
All of it.
A perfect lie.
A world made from mourning and melody.
It was basically fucking Kyoka Suigetsu from Bleach.
And considering how much I had enjoyed Aizen as a character back in my old life, the irony was not lost on me.
I started laughing.
Quietly at first.
Then a little harder.
Not because anything was funny.
Nothing was funny.
I was covered in blood, hiding in an alley, trapped in a fictional crime syndicate, and probably marked for death by whoever had just slaughtered Kumiko’s squad.
But if I didn’t laugh, I was pretty sure I was going to start screaming.
So I laughed.
Then I clamped a hand over my mouth and forced myself to stop.
Because this was Yokohama.
Because this was the Port Mafia.
Because if I wanted to survive here, I couldn’t afford to break down.
Not yet.
Maybe later.
Preferably somewhere with a locked door, clean clothes, and no bullets flying at my head.
For now, I had to move.
I pushed myself to my feet, legs still shaking slightly beneath me.
Kumiko’s body was exhausted, but not useless. There was a gun under my jacket, two spare magazines, a knife tucked into my boot, and enough street knowledge in her memories to get me back to Port Mafia territory without stumbling straight into another ambush.
Probably.
Hopefully.
I looked down at my hands.
They were younger than mine had been.
Slimmer.
Scarred across the knuckles.
Hands that had stolen to survive.
Hands that had killed before.
A criminal’s hands.
My hands now.
A bitter feeling twisted in my chest.
“I saved kids,” I muttered. “I died saving kids.”
My reflection stared faintly back at me from a broken puddle beneath my feet.
A pretty young woman with sharp eyes, messy dark hair, and blood splattered across her cheek looked back.
She looked scared.
She looked furious.
She looked alive.
“And somehow,” I continued, voice low, “I woke up as mafia cannon fodder.”
The city around me remained silent.
No answer.
No explanation.
No helpful system window popping up to tell me what the hell I was supposed to do next.
Just distant sirens.
Dripping rainwater.
And the weight of a new life pressing down on my shoulders.
I wiped the blood from my cheek with the back of my hand.
Fine.
If the universe wanted to throw me into hell, then I would have to adapt.
I had been a cop once.
I knew how criminals thought.
I knew how investigations worked.
I knew procedure, interrogation, surveillance, firearms, and how to read a room full of liars.
And now I had an Ability that could make lies feel like reality.
Maybe I was a criminal now.
Maybe I was trapped in the Port Mafia.
Maybe I had no choice but to play along until I found a way to survive.
But I refused to die on my first damn day.
Not in an alley.
Not as some forgotten grunt.
Not before I figured out why I was here.
A distant shout echoed from the street behind me.
My body stiffened.
The men were coming back.
I slowly reached beneath my jacket and wrapped my fingers around the gun.
Then, after a moment, I reached deeper.
Not for a weapon.
For the small harmonica tucked inside Kumiko’s inner pocket.
I blinked.
A memory surfaced.
Kumiko had kept it because it was one of the only things she owned from childhood.
She didn’t know how to play it well.
But I did.
Not professionally.
Not beautifully.
But enough.
My fingers closed around the cold metal.
The strange power inside me stirred again, eager and mournful.
The footsteps grew closer.
I took a slow breath.
Then I smiled.
It felt shaky.
Unstable.
A little insane.
But still a smile.
“Alright,” I whispered. “Let’s see how useful you are, Song of the Mourning.”
The first enemy stepped into the alley.
I lifted the harmonica to my lips.
And played.
The first man stepped into the alley with his gun raised.
Then the second.
Then the third.
Their boots splashed through the dirty puddles as they rushed in, faces twisted with murderous urgency, fingers already tightening around their triggers.
I should have panicked.
Honestly, I was still panicking.
But the harmonica was already pressed to my lips, and the first note slipped out before any of them could fire.
It was low.
Soft.
Almost pitiful.
A broken little sound that echoed strangely between the alley walls.
For one brief second, nothing happened.
Then the world changed.
The alley around us stretched.
The brick walls warped outward like something breathing beneath them. The shadows thickened, crawling up the walls in long, twitching streaks. The wet pavement beneath our feet darkened from rainwater to something thicker, heavier, redder.
Blood.
The men froze.
“What the hell—?”
One of them stumbled back.
His heel struck something soft.
He looked down.
And screamed.
The alley was no longer empty.
Body parts were scattered across the ground like butchered meat. Severed hands twitched in shallow puddles of blood. Rib cages lay split open against the walls. Faces stared upward with glassy, terrified eyes, mouths frozen mid-scream.
The air filled with the stench of copper and rot.
Even I nearly gagged.
Because holy fuck.
Apparently, my Ability did not hold back.
Then something moved at the far end of the alley.
Heavy breathing.
Dragging metal.
A scrape.
Slow.
Deliberate.
The men turned toward the sound, and every bit of color drained from their faces.
A massive figure stood there.
Tall.
Broad.
Bare-chested, with skin pale and smeared in gore. One hand gripped an enormous cleaver, its blade so large it looked less like a weapon and more like a slab of sharpened metal.
But his head—
His head was the worst part.
It was gone.
Replaced by a huge rusted metal pyramid that sat heavily on his shoulders, hiding any trace of a face.
The thing tilted its head.
Then dragged the cleaver across the ground.
Screeeeeech.
The sound tore through the alley like nails against bone.
One of the men dropped his gun.
“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no—what the fuck is that?!”
Another tried to fire.
The bullets struck the creature’s body and vanished into shadow.
The thing did not even flinch.
I kept playing.
My fingers trembled around the harmonica, but I forced the melody to continue. Each note poured from me like a funeral song, low and mournful, curling through the alley and tightening around the men like invisible strings.
They could not see me anymore.
Not really.
Their eyes were wide and unfocused, trapped completely inside the illusion.
To them, I was gone.
The alley was gone.
Yokohama was gone.
There was only blood, bodies, and the massive executioner dragging his cleaver toward them.
The first man broke.
He turned and ran toward the alley entrance.
Only the entrance was no longer there.
Instead, a wall of flesh and twitching arms blocked his path, fingers clawing blindly at the air. He screamed as they grabbed him, dragging him backward into the gore.
In reality, his body jerked once.
Then collapsed to the ground.
Limp.
I almost stopped playing.
But the others were still standing.
Still armed.
Still dangerous.
So I kept going.
The second man fired wildly, sobbing as he emptied his magazine into the monster.
“Stay back! Stay back!”
The pyramid-headed figure lifted the cleaver.
The man screamed.
The blade came down.
Inside the illusion, he split apart in a violent spray of blood.
Outside it, his eyes rolled back, and he dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
The third man fell to his knees.
“Please,” he begged, though he wasn’t looking at me. “Please, I don’t wanna die. I don’t wanna—”
The creature stopped in front of him.
Slowly, almost gently, it reached down and placed one massive hand on his head.
Then squeezed.
His scream cut off.
His body hit the pavement a second later.
The last note faded from the harmonica.
Silence rushed in so violently it made my ears ring.
For several seconds, I just stood there with the instrument still pressed against my lips, chest heaving, eyes locked on the bodies scattered across the alley floor.
No.
Not bodies.
People.
Men.
Enemies, sure.
Men who had been trying to kill me.
Men who had already murdered Kumiko’s squad.
But still people.
And now they were lying on the ground, motionless.
I lowered the harmonica slowly.
The illusion dissolved.
The gore vanished.
The body parts disappeared.
The impossible monster faded from existence, leaving only the narrow, rain-slick alley behind.
Three men lay crumpled across the pavement.
Their guns had slipped from their hands.
One was twitching slightly.
Another was breathing shallowly.
The third—
I stared at him.
“Please be breathing,” I whispered.
I stepped closer, my stomach twisting as I crouched beside him and pressed two fingers against his neck.
A pulse.
Weak, but there.
I exhaled so hard it nearly became a sob.
“Oh, thank fuck.”
They were alive.
Unconscious, but alive.
At least, for now.
The shock had knocked them out.
Or maybe the illusion had overwhelmed their minds so badly that their bodies had just shut down to protect themselves.
Honestly, I wasn’t sure.
And that scared me.
Because these men had not been strong-willed. Not really. They were armed, yes, and clearly used to violence, but mentally? Emotionally?
They had folded fast.
Too fast.
If the illusion had gone any harder, if I had pushed even a little more, would their brains have just given out completely?
Could I kill someone with fear alone?
The thought made my hand tighten around the harmonica until the metal bit into my palm.
“Okay,” I breathed, trying not to shake. “Okay. That’s terrifying. That’s very terrifying.”
Useful.
But terrifying.
I had wanted to survive.
I had wanted to stop them.
I had not wanted to accidentally discover that my Ability could potentially scare people to death.
I glanced down at the unconscious men again.
Then at their weapons.
Right.
Moral crisis later.
Survival now.
I quickly kicked their guns away, then grabbed one and checked the magazine with awkward but familiar hands. Kumiko’s muscle memory helped. My old training helped more.
The movements came easier than I wanted them to.
That bothered me, too.
I searched them as quickly as I could, taking spare ammunition, a knife, and anything that looked useful. One had a phone. Another had a folded piece of paper with an address scribbled on it. I shoved both into my pocket.
Evidence.
Information.
Leverage.
The cop part of me clung to those words because they made this feel less like theft.
The mafia part of this body did not care.
That was going to be a problem.
I straightened, breathing through my nose as I looked at the alley one last time.
Three unconscious enemies.
One dead squad.
A botched patrol.
And me, a newly awakened Ability user in the body of a Port Mafia grunt who was very much not supposed to have an Ability.
“Yeah,” I muttered, wiping rain and sweat from my face. “This is going to be a fucking nightmare.”
Then, before the men could wake up—or someone worse could arrive—I turned and ran back toward Port Mafia territory.
{Timeskip}
By the time I made it back to Port Mafia headquarters, I looked like absolute shit.
That was not me being dramatic.
I had blood dried across my cheek, bruises forming beneath my sleeves, dirt smeared over my clothes, and at least one cut on my forehead that kept stinging every time sweat or rainwater dripped into it.
My legs felt like jelly.
My ribs hurt every time I breathed.
And I was fairly sure one of my shoulders was going to hate me for the next several days.
Still, I walked.
Not ran.
Not stumbled.
Walked.
Because Kumiko’s memories made one thing painfully clear.
In the Port Mafia, weakness was blood in the water.
If I came crawling back sobbing, shaking, and begging for help, I would not be treated like a victim. I would be treated like damaged goods.
A liability.
And liabilities did not last long in an organization like this.
So I forced my spine straight.
I kept my face blank.
I ignored the way several mafia members turned to look at me as I entered the building.
The headquarters loomed above me like a black monument, all sharp lines, cold glass, and oppressive silence. Even the air inside felt different from the city outside. Cleaner, colder, heavier.
Like stepping into the belly of a beast.
My boots clicked against the polished floor as I was escorted deeper inside. Every hallway felt too long. Every guard’s stare felt too sharp.
By the time I reached the office, my palms were sweating.
I hid it by keeping my hands at my sides.
The man waiting inside was the higher-up who had recruited Kumiko.
Or rather, recruited me.
His name surfaced from Kumiko’s memories after a second.
Mizuhara.
A mid-ranking Port Mafia officer with enough authority to command smaller patrol units, but not enough power to be untouchable. He was the kind of man who survived by knowing which superiors to flatter, which subordinates to use, and which bodies to bury before anyone asked questions.
Lovely.
Just fucking lovely.
He sat behind his desk with a cigarette balanced between his fingers, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. His gaze moved over me slowly, taking in the blood, the bruises, the torn jacket, the missing squad.
Then he smirked.
That expression told me more than any confession could have.
He was not surprised.
Not really.
Maybe he had not known every detail, but he had expected something.
A failed patrol.
A test.
A setup.
Or maybe he had simply thrown Kumiko’s squad into a dangerous area and waited to see who crawled back.
Either way, the smirk made my stomach go cold.
“Well,” Mizuhara drawled, leaning back in his chair. “You look like hell, Fujiwara.”
I said nothing.
His smirk widened.
“Report.”
One word.
Casual.
Commanding.
The kind of tone used by someone who already considered my survival an inconvenience and an opportunity at the same time.
For half a second, panic rose in my throat.
Then the old part of me—the part that had sat across from suspects, grieving families, corrupt officials, and men who thought raising their voices would make me flinch—settled into place.
My face went still.
My breathing evened out.
When I spoke, my voice was flat.
Controlled.
Monotonous.
A report voice.
“We were ambushed while patrolling the east end of the port,” I said. “A group of four men armed with guns took the squad by surprise. The others were killed almost immediately.”
Mizuhara’s eyes narrowed slightly.
I kept going.
“I was struck during the initial attack and lost consciousness. The attackers mistook me for dead. When one of them noticed I was still breathing, I ran.”
Not too much emotion.
Not too little.
A survivor giving facts.
A subordinate who knew better than to waste her superior’s time with crying.
“I led the remaining men into an alley and disposed of them.”
His cigarette paused halfway to his mouth.
“Disposed of them?” he repeated.
I met his gaze.
“They are currently unconscious and secured at the scene. Their weapons were removed. They should be ready for interrogation.”
For the first time since I entered the room, Mizuhara’s smirk faded.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
Good.
Let him wonder.
Let him ask himself how an eighteen-year-old new recruit survived an ambush and took down the men sent to clean up the evidence.
Let him decide whether I was lucky, skilled, or more useful than he first assumed.
Because I needed him curious.
Curious people kept things alive longer.
Suspicious people did too, sometimes, but curious was safer.
Usually.
“I also recovered evidence from one of the attackers,” I continued, reaching slowly into my jacket.
One of the guards by the door tensed.
I stopped immediately and lifted my hand just enough for them to see the folded paper between my fingers.
No sudden movements.
No stupidity.
I was not getting shot in the Port Mafia headquarters after surviving that alley.
Mizuhara flicked his fingers.
One of the guards stepped forward, took the paper from me, and brought it to his desk.
Mizuhara unfolded it.
His eyes scanned the address.
The room went quiet.
Too quiet.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
I watched him carefully.
The address meant something.
Maybe not enough to shock him, but enough to make him think.
“That was found on one of the men?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And you believe it is a meeting location?”
“That is my assumption,” I replied. “Given the timing of the ambush and the fact that they knew our patrol route, I believe the location may be connected to whoever provided them with the information.”
Mizuhara looked up at me then.
Really looked.
The smirk returned, but it was sharper this time.
More dangerous.
“A bold assumption for a new recruit.”
My heartbeat thudded once.
Hard.
I did not look away.
“It would be careless to ignore the possibility of an internal leak.”
The words left my mouth before I could stop them.
For a second, I thought I had just signed my own death warrant.
The guard near the door went very still.
Mizuhara stared at me.
Then he laughed.
Not loudly.
Not warmly.
Just a low, amused sound that made my skin crawl.
“You wake up from an ambush, run half-dead through the port, defeat four armed men, and return here accusing someone of leaking mafia routes.” He tapped ash into the tray beside him. “You have nerve, Fujiwara.”
I lowered my gaze slightly.
Not submissive.
Respectful.
There was a difference.
“I am reporting the facts as I understand them, sir.”
Inside, I was screaming.
Outside, I was still.
Bless every interrogation room I had ever stood in.
Bless every suspect who had tried to intimidate me.
Bless every superior officer who had taught me how to keep my face blank when my nerves were on fire.
Because right now, that old life might be the only thing keeping this new one intact.
Mizuhara leaned forward, elbows resting on his desk.
“And the men?” he asked. “You are certain they are alive?”
I hesitated for only a fraction of a second.
Unfortunately, he noticed.
His eyes gleamed.
“They had pulses when I left them,” I said carefully. “Their condition may have changed depending on how quickly retrieval arrives.”
Not a lie.
Not exactly.
One of his brows lifted.
“What did you do to them?”
There it was.
The question I did not want to answer.
I could say I fought them.
But Kumiko was good with a gun, not good enough to take down multiple armed men after being ambushed and injured. At least not cleanly.
I could lie.
But if they recovered the men and interrogated them, they would hear about the impossible alley, the bodies, the monster, the music.
Lying now would only make things worse later.
So I gave him a partial truth.
“I used an Ability.”
The silence that followed was immediate.
Heavy.
Sharp.
Mizuhara’s expression stilled.
The guards looked at me with sudden, naked attention.
Ah.
There it was.
Abilities mattered in this world.
They changed value.
They changed rank.
They changed how dangerous someone was allowed to be.
Kumiko Fujiwara had entered the Port Mafia as a useful street rat with a good shooting hand.
I had just returned as something much more complicated.
Mizuhara slowly placed his cigarette down.
“You did not report having an Ability.”
“I did not have one before today.”
That was the safest answer.
Also, the truth, technically.
His eyes narrowed.
“Explain.”
I kept my voice level.
“During the ambush, after I regained consciousness, I experienced what I believe was an Ability awakening. It appears to activate through music. Specifically, instruments.”
His gaze dropped to my jacket.
“To do what?”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the harmonica.
This time, no one stopped me.
I held it up between two fingers.
“Illusions.”
Mizuhara stared at the harmonica.
Then at me.
“What kind of illusions?”
I thought of blood flooding the alley.
Of body parts twitching in puddles.
Of a massive executioner dragging a cleaver across stone.
Of men screaming until their minds gave out.
My hand tightened slightly around the harmonica.
“The convincing kind,” I said.
Mizuhara’s smile returned.
Slowly.
Wider than before.
And somehow, that was worse than anger.
Because now he did not look at me like a half-dead subordinate who had dragged herself back from a failed patrol.
He looked at me like an asset.
A weapon.
Something newly discovered and potentially profitable.
I hated it.
I hated how easily I recognized that expression.
I had seen criminals look at guns that way.
At stolen money.
At frightened witnesses.
At people they could use.
“Well, Fujiwara,” he said softly, “it seems today was not a complete failure after all.”
My stomach twisted.
The squad was dead.
Kumiko was dead.
Four men were unconscious in an alley, possibly mentally shattered by an illusion I barely understood.
And this man was smiling because he had found something useful in the wreckage.
Welcome to the Port Mafia, I thought bitterly.
Out loud, I only said, “Awaiting further orders, sir.”
Mizuhara hummed, amused.
“Have medical look you over. Then you will give a full written report. After that, you and I will discuss this Ability of yours in more detail.”
Of course we would.
Because apparently my day from hell was not over yet.
“Yes, sir.”
I turned to leave.
“Fujiwara.”
I stopped.
Mizuhara’s voice was lighter now.
Almost pleasant.
“You did well surviving.”
I glanced back.
His smile did not reach his eyes.
“Try not to make a habit of being the only one who returns. It makes people curious.”
A warning.
A threat.
Maybe both.
I dipped my head once.
“Understood.”
Then I walked out of the office with my back straight, my face blank, and my fingers curled tightly around the harmonica in my pocket.
Only when the door closed behind me did I allow myself one silent thought.
I am so fucking screwed.
Unamed Mafia Grunt POV
I left Mizuhara’s office as quietly as I could.
Not too fast.
Not too slow.
Nothing suspicious.
Just another nameless grunt slipping away after escorting an injured recruit to report the failure of a patrol.
At least, that was what I needed everyone to think.
The moment I turned the corner and stepped out of sight, my pace quickened.
My expression stayed blank, but my pulse was beating hard beneath my collar.
Mizuhara was hiding something.
I had suspected it for weeks.
The Boss had suspected it for longer.
That was why I had been placed near him in the first place—not close enough to be trusted, but close enough to watch. Close enough to listen. Close enough to collect small details that most people dismissed.
A name spoken too carefully.
A meeting held too late.
A patrol route changed without proper reason.
A subordinate sent somewhere they should not have been sent.
In the Port Mafia, treachery rarely announced itself with a confession. It appeared in patterns. Tiny errors. Convenient accidents. Dead men who could no longer explain what went wrong.
And today, Mizuhara’s pattern had finally begun to show teeth.
I moved through the headquarters with practiced purpose, keeping my head slightly lowered as higher-ranking members passed. No one stopped me. No one cared.
That was the useful thing about being forgettable.
People saw your uniform before they saw your face. They heard your footsteps before they remembered your name. In a place like the Port Mafia, where monsters and Ability users drew all the attention, a plain man with no special talent could become invisible if he knew how to breathe quietly enough.
And I had spent years learning exactly that.
By the time I reached the upper levels, the air had changed.
It always did.
The deeper one went into the heart of the organization, the heavier the silence became. Men who laughed and smoked freely on the lower floors lowered their voices here. Even footsteps softened, as if the walls themselves were listening.
The Boss did not need to be present to be feared.
His shadow was enough.
I stopped outside the office door and knocked twice.
A long pause followed.
Then an old, rasping voice answered from within.
“Enter.”
I opened the door and stepped inside.
The room was dim, curtains drawn against the city beyond the windows. The smell of medicine hung faintly beneath the sharper scent of smoke and old wood.
The old Boss sat behind his desk like a corpse that had not yet accepted death. His body looked frail at first glance—thin hands, sunken cheeks, tired eyes—but no one in the Port Mafia mistook age for weakness.
Not his age.
Not his.
Those who did rarely lived long enough to correct themselves.
I lowered myself to one knee.
“Boss.”
His gaze settled on me.
Cold.
Heavy.
“What did you learn?”
No wasted words.
No invitation to stand.
I kept my head bowed and began my report.
“The east port patrol was ambushed. Four armed men attacked the squad. All members were killed except the new recruit, Kumiko Fujiwara.”
The Boss’s fingers tapped once against the armrest of his chair.
“Fujiwara,” he repeated, as if testing the name. “The girl Mizuhara brought in.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“And she survived?”
“Yes. She returned injured but mobile. She reported that the attackers knew the patrol route. She also recovered what appears to be a meeting address from one of the men.”
The room went still.
Not silent.
It had already been silent.
This was something sharper.
The kind of stillness that made a man aware of every breath he took.
The Boss’s eyes narrowed.
“A leaked patrol route.”
“Yes, Boss.”
I swallowed once, then continued.
“Fujiwara herself suggested the possibility of an internal leak.”
The old man’s mouth twitched.
Not a smile.
Something colder.
“Bold.”
“That was Mizuhara’s reaction as well,” I said carefully. “He questioned her for making such an assumption as a new recruit.”
“And?”
“Mizuhara appeared displeased when she revealed the attackers were alive and available for interrogation.”
The Boss leaned back slightly.
“Displeased?”
“Yes. He hid it quickly, but there was a visible change in his expression when she stated that the men were unconscious rather than dead. His reaction suggested surprise. Possibly concern.”
The Boss said nothing.
So I continued.
“She also claimed to have awakened an Ability during the ambush.”
That finally drew a visible reaction.
Only a small one.
His eyes sharpened.
“What kind?”
“Illusions, Boss. Activated through music. She used a harmonica to incapacitate the attackers. According to her report, the illusions were convincing enough to render four armed men unconscious.”
The Boss stared at me for a long moment.
I kept my gaze lowered.
I did not embellish.
I did not speculate beyond what I had seen.
That was the first rule when reporting directly to the Boss: give him facts, not noise. He could draw his own conclusions far better than anyone beneath him.
“A newly awakened Ability user,” he murmured. “Found by Mizuhara.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“And Mizuhara did not know of this Ability beforehand?”
“According to Fujiwara, she did not have it before today. Mizuhara appeared surprised when she confessed to using it.”
“Appeared,” the Boss echoed.
I chose my next words carefully.
“I cannot confirm whether his surprise was genuine.”
The old man’s gaze remained fixed on me.
For a moment, the only sound was the faint ticking of the clock near the wall.
Then he asked, “How did he treat her?”
“As an asset,” I said immediately. “Once she revealed the Ability, his attitude changed. He ordered her to receive medical treatment, then submit a full written report. He also stated that they would discuss her Ability in more detail.”
The Boss’s expression did not change, but the air in the room seemed to grow colder.
Mizuhara had made a mistake.
I felt it then.
Not because I understood the whole situation, but because the Boss’s silence had weight.
Mizuhara had shown too much interest too quickly.
A leaked route.
A dead squad.
A survivor with evidence.
A sudden Ability.
And Mizuhara, instead of focusing first on the possible traitor, had focused on the girl.
No, worse.
He had focused on how useful she might be.
The Boss noticed things like that.
He noticed everything.
“Where is Fujiwara now?” he asked.
“On her way to medical, Boss.”
“Have her watched.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“Not by Mizuhara’s people.”
“Understood.”
His thin fingers tapped once more.
“And the attackers?”
“I can send a retrieval team immediately.”
“You will not send one of Mizuhara’s teams.”
“No, Boss.”
His eyes gleamed faintly in the dim room.
“Bring them in alive, if possible. If they die, bring their bodies. If their bodies disappear, bring me the names of every man who had the opportunity to move them.”
A chill ran down my spine.
“Yes, Boss.”
“And the address?”
“Mizuhara currently has the paper.”
The Boss’s gaze turned truly unpleasant.
I lowered my head further.
“I can obtain a copy from the written report once Fujiwara submits it, or recover the original if ordered.”
“No,” he said. “Let Mizuhara keep it for now.”
I stilled.
The old man smiled.
It was a terrible expression.
A thin, sickly curve that made him look less human than any Ability user I had ever seen.
“Men who believe they possess valuable information often reveal who they value most.”
I understood then.
The Boss was not going to stop Mizuhara immediately.
He was going to let him move.
Let him panic.
Let him contact whoever he needed to contact.
Let the rot expose itself.
“Yes, Boss.”
The old man waved one hand.
A dismissal.
“Continue watching him. Report any movement. Any message. Any attempt to isolate Fujiwara. If Mizuhara tries to claim her directly, I want to know before the girl reaches his office.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“And the girl?”
I paused.
The Boss’s eyes remained on me.
“Your assessment.”
My mouth went dry.
Kumiko Fujiwara.
The girl had stood in Mizuhara’s office covered in blood, bruised badly enough that most new recruits would have been shaking apart, and delivered her report in a voice so flat it sounded almost practiced.
Not numb.
Not broken.
Practiced.
She had watched Mizuhara while pretending not to. She had chosen her words carefully. She had admitted to the Ability only when lying would have been more dangerous than telling the truth.
And when Mizuhara warned her not to make people curious, she had understood exactly what he meant.
“She is dangerous,” I said at last. “But not reckless.”
The Boss listened.
“She is frightened, though she hides it well. Her survival instincts are strong. Her Ability may be powerful, but untrained. If Mizuhara intended for her to die in that ambush, then her return has disrupted something.”
The old man’s smile faded.
“Useful?”
“Yes, Boss.”
“Loyal?”
I hesitated.
Then answered honestly.
“Not yet.”
A breath of amusement left him.
“Good.”
That single word told me more than enough.
Loyalty given too quickly was worthless.
Loyalty born from fear could break.
But loyalty cultivated from usefulness, survival, and carefully measured reward?
That was the kind the Port Mafia preferred.
“Keep an eye on her as well,” the Boss ordered. “If she is clever, she may survive long enough to become valuable.”
“And if she is not?”
His eyes turned back toward the darkened window.
“Then Yokohama will swallow her like it swallows everything else.”
I bowed lower.
“Yes, Boss.”
I stood only after he allowed it, then turned and left the office.
The moment the door closed behind me, I released a slow breath.
The game had changed.
Mizuhara had thought he was moving pieces quietly in the dark.
But the Boss had already been watching the board.
And now Kumiko Fujiwara—the newly recruited girl who should have died on her first patrol—had returned covered in blood, carrying evidence of a leak and an Ability powerful enough to make armed men collapse without a single visible wound.
Whether she knew it or not, she had just stepped out of the mud and onto the board herself.
And in the Port Mafia, pieces that drew the Boss’s attention rarely remained untouched for long.