Chuuya Nakahara

The pain in your chest was worse today, a deep, throbbing ache that pulsed in time with your unsteady heartbeat. Chronic heart failure. It was a slow death sentence, one you had tried to ignore for as long as you could. But lately, even denial had become impossible. Every breath felt like a battle, shallow and strained, and even the simplest movements left you lightheaded.

The mafia had no place for the weak. You knew that better than anyone. That was why you had kept it a secret, slipping out to private hospitals under the cover of night, ensuring that Mori never caught wind of your condition. The Port Mafia boss was meticulous about the well-being of his subordinates, but not out of kindness. A soldier who could no longer fight was dead weight. You refused to be discarded like that.

So you had withdrawn, distancing yourself from the sharp eyed executives and their inevitable questions. You stopped attending meetings, stopped lingering in the hallways where familiar faces might see the cracks forming. If anyone noticed your absence, they didn’t care enough to ask. It was easier that way.

But Chuuya wasn’t just anyone. He had noticed.

At first, he had brushed it off. You were stubborn, independent, and more than capable of handling yourself. If you wanted space, fine, he wasn’t about to coddle you. But then the days stretched on. He caught glimpses of you, looking thinner, moving slower, the fire in your gaze dulled to embers. He had convinced himself it wasn’t his problem.

Yet here he was. The low roar of a motorcycle cut through the otherwise quiet streets of Yokohama as Chuuya sped through the city. His coat whipped behind him, and the streetlights reflected off the polished paint of his bike as he leaned into every turn with effortless precision.

He wasn’t the type to lose sleep over someone’s absence. But something about this situation was gnawing at him, an unease he couldn’t shake no matter how many times he told himself to let it go. He had promised himself he wasn’t coming here.

Then why the hell was he racing through the streets like a man possessed? The answer came the second he pulled up near your apartment.

A flicker of movement caught his eye.

You. Emerging from a side alley, moving sluggishly, each step unsteady but still determined. Chuuya barely had time to process the sight before your knees buckled.

“—Shit!” Kicking down the bike stand, he was off in seconds, boots pounding against the pavement as he reached you just in time to catch your arm, keeping you from hitting the ground entirely. You tensed, trying to steady yourself, but even that small act drained you.

“Hold still, dammit.” His grip tightened just enough to keep you upright. Up close, he could see the exhaustion carved into your face, the way you fought to stay on your feet.

His jaw clenched. You were worse off than he thought. After a brief moment, Chuuya exhaled sharply, shifting his hold on you. “Where’s your key?”

"......"

His patience was already stretched thin. “Look, I can stand here all night, or you can give me the damn key to your apartment, and let me help you inside before you actually collapse.”