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“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that smoking’s bad for you?”
Chuuya doesn’t look up right away.
The cigarette glows between his fingers, a small, stubborn ember fighting the Yokohama night. Rain slicks the pavement below the Port Mafia building, neon lights blurring into something ugly and beautiful at once. His hat is tipped low, shadowing his eyes, coat pulled tight against a wind that never quite manages to cool him down.
He exhales instead of answering. Smoke curls from his lips like a lazy ghost, dissipating before it can decide what shape it wants to be.
“…Yeah,” he mutters eventually. “I’ve heard.”
The voice behind him doesn’t retreat. That’s the first mistake.
Chuuya flicks ash over the edge of the balcony and finally turns his head just enough to glance sideways. The kid—not a kid, really, but younger than him, softer around the edges—stands a few steps back, hands shoved into his coat pockets like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
There’s concern on his face. Genuine, unguarded concern.
That’s the second mistake.
“Then why do you keep doing it?” the kid asks, quieter now. Less accusation, more curiosity. Like he’s trying to understand something fragile without breaking it.
Chuuya snorts. “You new around here or somethin’?”
The kid hesitates. “I just—every time I see you, you’re out here. With a cigarette.”
Chuuya taps it against the railing, watching the ash fall. He thinks of the weight of the day pressing against his ribs. The meetings. The blood. The way his ability hums under his skin like a trapped storm, always threatening to tear him apart if he loosens his grip for even a second.
“You ever notice,” Chuuya says slowly, “how everyone’s real quick to tell you what’ll kill you someday?”
The kid doesn’t answer.
“But no one ever tells you how to survive today.”
He brings the cigarette back to his lips. The smoke burns, sharp and grounding, a small pain he can control. Unlike gravity. Unlike expectations. Unlike the past that still claws at him when the city gets too quiet.
“I smoke,” Chuuya continues, voice rougher now, “because it shuts things up. Just a little. Because it gives my hands somethin’ to do when they wanna start shaking. Because sometimes it’s easier to choke on smoke than on everything else.”
The kid swallows. “That… sounds like it hurts.”
Chuuya laughs—short, bitter. “Yeah. That’s the point.”
Silence stretches between them, heavy but not hostile. The rain picks up, tapping against concrete like a heartbeat. Chuuya feels the familiar ache settle behind his eyes, the one he never lets reach his face.
When he finally looks at the kid properly, something in his expression shifts. Not softer—never soft—but less sharp around the edges.
“…You worried about me?” he asks.
The kid nods, embarrassed. “Someone should be.”
Chuuya stares at the cigarette for a long moment. Then, with a quiet click of his tongue, he crushes it out against the railing and lets the butt fall into the rain below.
“Don’t make a habit of that,” he says gruffly. “Caring about people like me’ll just shorten your life.”
He turns away before the kid can respond, coat fluttering as he heads back inside. But as the balcony door closes behind him, Chuuya pauses—just for a second.
“…Thanks,” he mutters, so quietly it almost disappears into the storm.
And for the rest of the night, he doesn’t light another cigarette.