The newfound peace in Akane's apartment had developed a peculiar, recurring glitch: Inui Seishu. While Akane's presence was a comforting anchor, her younger brother's frequent, unannounced visits were becoming a source of deep unease for Takemichi. It wasn't that Seishu was rude—far from it. He was painfully polite, almost formal. But the staring... it was unsettling.

Seishu would accept a cup of tea and then proceed to sit in silence, his dark emerald eyes fixed on Takemichi as he moved about the kitchen, cleaned, or tried to read. The gaze was intense, analytical, and lasted for an hour or more without a single word. It felt less like a social call and more like a zoological observation. Takemichi could feel the weight of it on the back of his neck, a silent, creepy pressure that made his skin prickle.

Finally, after a particularly long session of being silently scrutinized while he folded laundry, Takemichi had enough. He waited until Akane returned from her shift, her expression softening as it always did when she saw him.

"Akane..." he began, his voice hesitant.

"Yes, Take-chan~?" she chimed, already smiling.

He took a deep breath, deciding on blunt honesty. He looked her dead in the eye. "I don't like your brother."

There. He'd said it. He braced himself for the reaction—the defensive posture, the coldness, the inevitable "How dare you?" Who wouldn't be upset when someone disparaged their family?

Akane's smile didn't falter. It simply... shifted. It became something sharper, more possessive. "Oh...." she said, the syllable dripping with understanding. Then, to his utter astonishment, she simply stated, "I'll make sure he won't come over again ^_^" She reached out, holding Takemichi's hand, her grin widening. It was a smile that promised no brotherly intrusion would ever breach their domestic bubble again.

Takemichi was speechless. His mind short-circuited. How could a sister so casually agree to exile her own sibling? The moral calculus of it was baffling. But then again, he was the one who'd asked. A slow, relieved smile spread across his face. "Thank you," he said, the words filled with genuine gratitude.

Akane's other hand came up, ruffling his hair in a gesture that was both affectionate and profoundly proprietary. "Anything for my Take-chan."

---

Freed from the discomfort of Seishu's visits, Takemichi's mind, however, could not find rest. It circled back, always, to the one fixed point in his chaotic existence: Toman.

He needed data. He needed context for this world. Using Akane's computer during the day, he plunged into a deep dive, scouring old forums, local news archives, and delinquent gossip sites. The information he pieced together was a chilling, incomplete mosaic of the history he once lived.

[Info about Toman - Compiled by Hanagaki Takemichi]

He learned of its founding date, the original six members—Mikey, Draken, Baji, Mitsuya, Pah-chin, Kazutora. He saw the structure, the divisions, the names he knew so well: Chifuyu, Hakkai, the Kawata twins, Mucho. He read about their rise, their ideals of a "golden era for delinquents," and he read, with a sinking heart, the vague references to their later corruption, their transformation into a criminal entity. The timeline was similar, yet alien. Kisaki's name appeared, tied to the Third Division. "It seems Kisaki has made his move here as well," Takemichi muttered, the familiar chill of dread coiling in his stomach. The architect of so much tragedy was already weaving his webs.

He couldn't just wait. He had to see for himself. With a desperate, reckless courage, he began to stalk Toman. He remembered their old haunts—back alleys near Shibuya, certain ramen stalls, the routes to the Musashi Shrine. For days, he was a ghost on the periphery, watching from behind telephone poles or shop awning, his heart hammering as he caught glimpses of familiar faces: Mitsuya's distinctive hairstyle in the distance, the tall frame of Draken moving through a crowd.

But Takemichi was, and always had been, painfully bad at stealth.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over him. He was in a narrow alleyway, having thought he'd seen Chifuyu. A tall, lanky figure leaned against the wall he'd just been peeking around.

"Well, well~" a voice drawled, smooth and tinged with amused malice. "What do we have here?"

Takemichi froze. Slowly, he turned. The teenager before him was impossibly tall, with shaved sides, a long top of black hair featuring a bold yellow streak, and a long golden drop earring. But Takemichi's eyes were locked on the knuckles of the hands now cracking lazily. Tattooed there were the kanji: 罪 (Crime) and 罰 (Punishment).

Hanma Shuji.

A smirk played on Hanma's lips as he looked Takemichi up and down, taking in his fearful posture, his wide, ocean-blue eyes. "Isn't this the mentally ill person that attacked Draken a while back? The one they pulled off him, screaming about saving everyone?" He let out a low whistle. "The gossip was juicy, but you look... weak. Pathetically so."

Takemichi tried to stammer a denial, to back away, but his body was locked in terror. This was the unpredictable, dangerous entity who thrived on chaos.

"Boring," Hanma sighed, feigning disappointment. But then his eyes, dark and swirling with a bored curiosity, lingered on Takemichi's face. "But those eyes... they're not boring. They're like a scared little rabbit's. Or maybe a deep, panicked ocean. I kinda like 'em."

Before Takemichi could process the words, Hanma moved with serpentine speed. A large hand clamped over his mouth, muffling his yelp. Another arm snaked around his torso, pinning his arms. He was being kidnapped in broad daylight.

"Let's go for a ride, little rabbit-eye~"

Hanma dragged him to a nondescript, rented warehouse on the industrial fringe of Shibuya—Kisaki's current base of operations. Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and ambition.

At a makeshift desk littered with maps and phones, Tetta Kisaki looked up. His blonde undercut was precise, his glasses glinting under the fluorescent light. His expression of focused calculation immediately twisted into one of profound annoyance.

"Hanma. What is this? I said to scout for Valhalla's movements, not to pick up strays." His voice was cold, level.

"Found him sniffing around our territories. Stalking Toman," Hanma said cheerfully, dropping Takemichi unceremoniously onto a dusty couch. "Thought he might be fun. Or informative."

Kisaki's blue eyes, sharp and merciless, swept over Takemichi's trembling form. The initial irritation gave way to a slow, calculating interest. This wasn't a rival gang member. This was a scared kid in civilian clothes, but one who had been asking about Toman, who had apparently made a scene involving Draken.

"Interrogate him," Kisaki ordered, his tone leaving no room for debate.

What followed was not physical torture, but something Takemichi found almost worse: a psychological vivisection. Kisaki asked cold, direct questions. Why were you following Toman? Who do you know? What do you want with Draken? With Mikey? Hanma loomed nearby, adding teasing, sinister comments that twisted the knife of fear.

Takemichi, terrified but clinging to a shred of sense, concocted a half-truth. He spoke of being a fan, of hearing legends, of wanting to see the famous Toman captains. He poured his genuine, desperate longing to see them into the lie, making it sound like delusional hero-worship. He mentioned the asylum, carefully, to paint himself as harmless and broken.

Kisaki listened, his finger tapping silently on the desk. The boy's fear was real. His knowledge of Toman's structure was oddly specific for an outsider. And those eyes... they held a depth of pain and determination that didn't match the story of a mere fanboy. He was hiding something. Something that could be useful. Or dangerous.

"He stays," Kisaki announced finally, his decision made. "Keep him here. Watch him. If he's a spy, he'll contact someone. If he's just insane... he might be a useful pawn. Someone no one will miss." A cruel, thin smile touched his lips. "Welcome to the team, rabbit. Consider this your new home."

Takemichi's heart plummeted. He was trapped, now, in the lion's den with the two most dangerous predators of his past.

Meanwhile, back at the apartment.

The clock ticked past 8 PM, then 9. Dinner, meticulously prepared by Takemichi, grew cold on the table. Akane's texts went unanswered. Her calls went straight to voicemail.

A cold, gnawing dread began to replace her initial worry. Takemichi was punctual, thoughtful. He would never disappear without a word. Not after everything.

She called Seishu, her voice tight with panic. "He's gone. Takemichi is gone."

She paced the immaculate, empty apartment, the silence now screaming at her. She checked his room—nothing out of place, his few new clothes neatly folded. The cute red bunny hoodie was gone from its hook.

As midnight approached, her fear curdled into a raw, terrifying certainty. Something was very wrong. She grabbed her keys and her phone, her medical composure shattered.

"TAKEMICHI! WHERE ARE YOU?!" Her voice, usually so calm and controlled, cracked as she called out into the indifferent night from her doorway, receiving no answer but the echo of her own rising terror. Her precious, fragile, blue-eyed boy was out there somewhere, in a city that had already tried to erase him once. And she had no idea who had taken him, or why.