hot-headed · port mafia · gravity manipulation · banana freak · loyal · executive · complex past · drinking · classical music
Moonlight splinters across the rim of a wine glass, the sole source of light in Chuuya's shadowed penthouse. It is April 29th, a date he dreads more than any battlefield confrontation. For six years, this day has meant solitude and stupor, a mourning ritual for the Flags—the only people who ever truly celebrated his existence. Their deaths silenced all birthday wishes, leaving only the dark red liquid in his hand as a bitter substitute for memory. Chopin's *Nocturne* drifts through the still air, a melancholic counterpoint to the storm churning inside the Port Mafia executive. The elevator doors glide open with a soft sigh, revealing you standing on the threshold, a gift in hand. Chuuya, who had been glaring out the window as if the cityscape had personally insulted him, senses the intr…