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Chuuya and Tachihara should not be trusted around bullets when arguing.
It was a well-established fact within the Port Mafia. Not written in any official handbook—though perhaps it should have been—but understood in the same way one understands that gravity exists or that standing too close to Osamu Dazai invites disaster.
The warehouse by the Yokohama docks had already been cleared of civilians. That was the only mercy.
Rain battered the corrugated roof, the rhythm sharp and metallic. The air inside tasted like rust and oil and the faint ghost of gunpowder from earlier skirmishes. A single hanging light swayed slightly overhead, casting restless shadows.
In the center of it all stood Chuuya Nakahara, hat tilted low, gloved hands tucked into his pockets as though he were merely irritated instead of furious. Opposite him, jaw tight and posture ramrod straight, stood Michizou Tachihara.
Between them lay a crate of ammunition.
“Say that again,” Chuuya said pleasantly.
Tachihara did.
It had begun, as most disasters did, with something small. A botched weapons exchange. A shipment miscounted. A name signed where it should not have been. Tachihara insisted the error had come from Chuuya’s division; Chuuya insisted Tachihara was compensating for his own incompetence.
The problem was not the argument.
The problem was the bullets.
Tachihara’s ability stirred instinctively when his temper rose. Metal responded to him like iron filings to a magnet. The crate at his feet trembled faintly. The loose rounds within rattled, clinking against one another in uneasy harmony.
Chuuya noticed.
“Oh, that’s cute,” Chuuya muttered. “You’re going to try to intimidate me with scrap metal?”
Tachihara’s eye twitched. “I’m going to remind you not to treat me like I’m expendable.”
“You’re not expendable,” Chuuya snapped. “You’re replaceable. There’s a difference.”
That did it.
The lid of the crate burst upward with a splintering crack. Dozens of bullets rose into the air in a slow, shimmering halo, brass catching the dim light. They hung suspended around Tachihara like a crown of small, deadly stars.
The warehouse fell silent except for the rain.
Chuuya did not step back.
Instead, gravity bent.
It was subtle at first. The hanging light swayed harder. The dust on the floor spiraled inward. The bullets around Tachihara shuddered as though caught between opposing tides.
“You think you’re the only one who can play with physics?” Chuuya’s voice was low now, dangerous.
Tachihara clenched his fist.
The bullets shot forward.
They did not aim for Chuuya.
They aimed for the ground at his feet.
The concrete exploded upward in a jagged eruption, shards flying like shrapnel. The message was clear: I can put them through you instead.
Chuuya laughed.
It was not a sane sound.
The gravity field snapped tighter. Every bullet in the air faltered, jerked sideways, then reversed course entirely—whipping around to hover inches from Tachihara’s face.
For one split second, Tachihara saw his own reflection in the polished brass.
“I could crush them,” Chuuya said softly. “Turn them into useless little beads.”
The pressure increased. The bullets groaned faintly, metal warping under invisible force.
Tachihara’s ability flared in retaliation. The warped rounds vibrated violently, resisting, reshaping. One broke free and streaked past Chuuya’s ear, grazing the wall behind him with a sharp ping.
The argument ceased being about paperwork.
It became about pride.
“You think you’re untouchable,” Tachihara spat. “Because you’re an executive.”
“You think rank is why I’m standing here?” Chuuya shot back. “I’m standing here because you can’t hit me.”
The bullets erupted.
They scattered in every direction—ricocheting off walls, slamming into crates, tearing into the ceiling. The warehouse became a storm of metal. Sparks burst with every impact. The hanging light shattered, plunging the space into erratic darkness illuminated only by muzzle-flash-like glints as bullets collided midair.
Chuuya moved like gravity itself had chosen him as its axis. The rounds curved around him in distorted arcs, embedding harmlessly into the floor or dropping flattened at his boots.
Tachihara staggered as the gravitational field intensified, his own bullets rebelling under competing forces. Sweat slid down his temple. He yanked a length of steel rebar from the shattered concrete and hurled it forward like a spear.
Chuuya caught it mid-flight with a flick of his wrist.
It hovered.
Then it twisted.
Metal screamed as it bent in on itself, compressing into a tight spiral. Chuuya sent it hurtling back. Tachihara deflected it at the last second, the spiral slamming into a support pillar instead and leaving a cratered wound.
The building groaned.
Outside, sirens wailed faintly—distant, approaching.
They were going to collapse the entire warehouse over a clerical error.
For a breathless moment, they both realised it at the same time.
The remaining bullets hung in the air between them, trembling violently under dueling control.
Chuuya’s hat had fallen somewhere during the chaos. His hair clung damply to his forehead, eyes burning blue in the dark.
Tachihara’s chest heaved.
“Stand down,” Tachihara said, though it came out hoarse.
“You first,” Chuuya replied.
A crack split across the ceiling.
Concrete dust rained down.
One of the suspended bullets slipped free from both their grasps and dropped to the floor with a small, almost anticlimactic clink.
The sound was absurdly quiet compared to the destruction around them.
Tachihara exhaled sharply and released his hold.
The bullets fell.
They hit the floor in a scattered cascade of harmless metal.
Chuuya held his gravity field for one heartbeat longer—just enough to make a point—before letting it dissolve.
The warehouse stilled, though it leaned precariously.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Chuuya rolled his shoulder, as if shaking off stiffness rather than the urge to commit homicide.
“You owe me a new hat,” he said flatly.
Tachihara stared at him. “You tried to implode my face.”
“You started it.”
“You called me replaceable.”
Chuuya glanced at the destroyed pillars, the cratered walls, the spent ammunition littering the floor like metallic confetti.
“…You’re not,” he muttered.
Tachihara blinked.
Chuuya shoved his hands back into his pockets and strode toward the exit as though the building weren’t seconds from surrendering to gravity on its own.
“Next time we argue,” Chuuya called over his shoulder, “we’re doing it without bullets.”
Tachihara followed, stepping over debris. “Next time, you’re reading the paperwork properly.”
“Next time,” Chuuya snapped, “you’re buying the drinks.”
Outside, the rain washed gunpowder from the air.
Behind them, the warehouse finally gave in and collapsed inward with a thunderous roar.
And somewhere in the Port Mafia headquarters the next day, a new unofficial rule quietly circulated:
Chuuya and Tachihara should not be trusted around bullets when arguing.