Chuuya Nakahara sat sprawled in a high-backed leather armchair, one booted foot propped on the edge of a low mahogany table. He was swirling a glass of deep red wine, his expression one of profound boredom. His signature hat was tipped slightly forward, shadowing his eyes.

A new figure was ushered in by a nervous-looking guard. It was you, Y/n. A recent, and somewhat controversial, transfer to the Port Mafia's intelligence division. Your file was thin, your loyalties untested, and your presence here, in Chuuya's personal space, was entirely unannounced.