The Prisoner of Valhalla

The warehouse was a cavern of dust, ambition, and the low hum of a portable space heater. Takemichi's new "home." He sat on a thin futon they'd thrown in a corner, the rough concrete biting through the fabric. Am I trapped in Kisaki's lair, or is this Valhalla's base already? he wondered, the timeline in this world a confusing blur. The presence of both Kisaki and Hanma here suggested a partnership forming earlier than he remembered, a different chessboard being set.

His eyes, wide and bewildered, kept drifting to Kisaki Tetta. The man sat at his makeshift command desk, a island of chilling order in the industrial chaos, studying a map of Shibuya with terrifying focus. The core question gnawed at Takemichi: I didn't exist in this world. Hinata never fell in love with me. So why... why is he still here, still wanting to corrupt Toman? Was the rot in Mikey's heart, the darkness Kisaki sought to exploit, something innate to this reality, independent of Takemichi's interference? The thought was a despair heavier than any chain.

He must have been staring too long, too openly with his confusion and pity.

"..." Kisaki didn't look up from his map, but his posture stiffened. Finally, he turned his head just enough to side-eye Takemichi, the blue eyes behind his glasses glacial. "Stop looking at me that way."

Before Takemichi could process the command, Kisaki was up and crossing the space between them. He crouched down, his movements efficient and unnervingly quiet, and grabbed both of Takemichi's cheeks with his hands, squeezing firmly. The grip wasn't bone-breaking, but it was painfully possessive, forcing Takemichi to meet his gaze.

"I don't like how you're looking at me," Kisaki stated, his voice low and flat.

How am I looking at him? Takemichi's mind scrambled. In Kisaki's perception, the boy's expression was unbearable. It wasn't fear, not quite. It was a profound, sorrowful bewilderment, mixed with a dawning, terrible understanding. It looked like a lost puppy who had been kicked, yet still gazed at its abuser with a heartbreaking question: Why? It was a look of raw, unguarded empathy directed at someone who viewed empathy as a weakness. It made Kisaki's skin crawl, unsettling a core part of his calculating nature. He rubbed his own eyes briefly behind his glasses, a rare, unscripted gesture, as if trying to wipe the image away. But it was no illusion. The discomfort was real.

"Uhm?..." Takemichi managed, his voice muffled by the hands squishing his face. The pressure hurt, and the sheer helplessness of the situation, the absurdity of being cheek-pinched by his greatest enemy, made his eyes swim with involuntary tears.

Seeing the tears well up in those crystalline blue eyes, Kisaki released him as if burned. He stood up abruptly, adjusting his glasses, a flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps irritation at his own reaction—crossing his face before it smoothed back into impassivity.

The memory of how he'd gotten into this humiliating state replayed in Takemichi's mind. After the interrogation, Hanma, leaning against a support beam with a fox-like grin, had sung out his brilliant idea: "We should get him a collar and some chains so that he won't run away!" His eyes had sparkled with malicious delight as Takemichi shivered.

Takemichi had been shocked. "I promise I won't run away!" he'd pleaded, his voice thin. "Just... not chains!"

Kisaki had considered it, his gaze sweeping over Takemichi's slight frame. The logistical benefits were clear: containment with minimal active guarding. "Good idea, Hanma. Go and buy it. I'll watch him."

The agreement had silenced Takemichi with a wave of crushing defeat. He'd looked at Kisaki then with utter disbelief. Brother, where is your dignity? he'd screamed internally, envisioning the noble, if twisted, genius of his enemy. This felt crude, animalistic. Kisaki, for his part, had evaded Takemichi's eyes, focusing intently on his papers.

A sharp flick to his forehead brought him back to an earlier moment. "Ouch!" Takemichi had grumbled, rubbing the spot.

"Hey. What's your name?" Kisaki had asked, as if just realizing he'd kidnapped a nameless entity.

"My name?.." Takemichi was confused, then realized with a surreal jolt that in this world, to these two, he truly was a nobody. "It's... Hanagaki Takemichi."

"Hanagaki Takemichi..." Kisaki had repeated slowly, as if tasting the syllables. Then, in another bizarre, almost reflexive gesture, he'd reached out and rubbed Takemichi's hair, ruffling the soft blond strands. How soft, the thought had intruded into Kisaki's strategic mind before he'd snatched his hand back.

Then Hanma had returned with the shopping bag, jingling with sinister promise, and Takemichi's internal scream had echoed in the warehouse: "Why am I being locked up like a wanted criminal?! I've done nothing wrong!! Huhuhu..."

Back in the present, the physical reality of his imprisonment was a constant humiliation. The collar around his neck was padded leather, black, not overly tight but inescapably present. The chains on his wrists and ankles were lightweight but strong, connected to a long central lead anchored to a heavy bolt Kisaki had drilled into the concrete floor. The total length was about 100 meters, granting him the pathetic "freedom" to pace a large semi-circle around his futon and reach a small, attached bathroom. He could "run," but he couldn't reach the warehouse door, the windows, or Kisaki's desk.

He hated it. Even though Kisaki, with bizarre, methodical care, would place meals just within his reach—proper bento boxes, not scraps—and ensured he had water and blankets, the degradation of it all made Takemichi want to shrivel up. He spent hours pouting in the corner, literally drawing shapes in the dust, the very picture of dejection, growing invisible mushrooms of despair.

The warehouse door crashed open.

"LITTLE RABBIT! I'M BAAACK~!" Hanma's voice sang out, full of manic energy. He'd been out on "errands" (likely stirring trouble elsewhere). He zeroed in on Takemichi, who instinctively tried to shuffle back, his chains clinking.

Hanma lunged, not with violence, but with an overwhelming, possessive affection. He scooped Takemichi up into a tight hug, ruffling his hair violently and then planting loud, exaggerated kisses on his cheek and forehead. "Missed me? Huh? Did you, little rabbit?"

Takemichi went stiff as a board, his mind short-circuiting. "Where did the cold and ruthless Hanma, the 'Grim Reaper,' go?! What is this?! Who is this overly affectionate nightmare?!" he screamed internally, utterly dejected.

Kisaki, without looking up from his plans, supplied dully, "His name is Takemichi. Hanagaki Takemichi."

"Takemichi-chaaan!" Hanma cooed, nuzzling his cheek against Takemichi's, who was too stunned to even struggle. Hanma had taken an inexplicable, deep liking to this strange, weepy, blue-eyed captive. He was a fascinating, living toy.

As Hanma continued his smothering assault, Kisaki's pen continued to move across the map, plotting the next move in his campaign to infiltrate and take over Toman from within. The juxtaposition was surreal: calculated genocide of a gang's soul on one side, and on the other, a giggling psychopath treating his prisoner like a beloved pet hamster.

Meanwhile....

The panic had crystallized into a sharp, sustained terror. Akane had not slept. Every unanswered call, every hour of silence, carved another line of worry into her face. After searching every place she could think of, she finally did the thing she'd promised Takemichi she wouldn't need to: she called for her brother.

"Inupi..." Her voice was raw over the phone, using the childhood nickname that signaled utter distress. "He's gone. Takemichi is gone. I can't find him."

On the other end, Inui Seishu's heart stalled. The image of the blond boy in the apron, the clean apartment, the shy smile—it flashed before his eyes, followed by a visceral dread. Without a word to his companions, he dropped the ledger he was holding for Koko, his face pale, and bolted from the Black Dragons' base, leaving his jacket and his signature heels behind in his haste.

This abrupt, dramatic exit bewildered both Kokonoi and Taiju, who were in the middle of a discussion about protection fees.

"What in the world is wrong with Inupi?" Koko muttered, adjusting his glasses. Taiju just grunted, cracking his massive knuckles.

Seishu's behavior had been... notable lately. Daydreaming during meetings, an uncharacteristic soft smile playing on his lips, occasional unexplained laughter. It was the demeanor, as Taiju had bluntly grumbled days prior, "of a girl in love." When the giant had asked Koko if Seishu was alright, Koko had simply replied, "Yes. He's just... in love, probably." The statement had rendered Taiju silent, a rare occurrence.

Now, watching Seishu's desperate retreat, Taiju's interest was fully piqued. He turned his formidable gaze to Koko. "I really want to see the person that made Inupi like that."

Koko sighed, the memory of his own failed "transaction" in the market flashing back, bringing a faint, unwelcome heat to his ears. The embarrassment of being ethically outmaneuvered by a teenager was still fresh. "He is... interesting," Koko conceded, the word heavy with layers of frustration and unwilling fascination. "Not motivated by money. Seems genuinely... kind. It's illogical."

Taiju's eyes gleamed. A person who could fluster his unflappable treasurer and turn his stoic second-in-command into a lovestruck sprinting mess was a rare specimen. "If he's found," Taiju stated, his voice a low rumble, "and if he's useful... the Black Dragons could always use interesting people." The unspoken command was clear: Find him. Not just for Akane or Seishu, but for the potential asset he represented.

And so, the search began, emanating from two very different centers of power: a frantic sister's love, and a gang leader's cold calculation, both converging on the missing, collared boy currently being used as a teddy bear by a laughing Grim Reaper in a dusty warehouse.