I sink into the hot springs, the warm water instantly easing the tension in my muscles. Steam rises in thin tendrils, fogging my glasses slightly as I adjust them. The sulfurous scent hangs in the air, mixing with the fresh mountain breeze that occasionally stirs the bamboo screens.

Across the spring, Chūya sits with his back against a rock, eyes closed. His red hair, normally styled with gel, falls slightly damp around his face. Kajii kneels beside him, gesturing animatedly with his hands while talking about some new explosive formula involving lemons. Chūya's expression remains impassive, though I notice the slight twitch in his eyebrow that signals growing irritation.

To my left, Akutagawa sits alone, his posture rigid even in relaxation. His black coat hangs on a nearby rack, though he's kept his gloves on despite the hot water - old habits die hard for us mafia members. The steam seems to avoid him somehow, as if even water vapor fears his Rashomon ability.

Tachihara surprises me most. Normally the loudest among us, he sits quietly on a submerged stone, staring at his hands. His usual cocky grin is absent, replaced by a thoughtful frown. Something's bothering him, though I can't imagine what could trouble someone like Tachihara enough to silence him.

Hirotsu has already disappeared, as expected. The old man values his smoking breaks more than any team building exercise. I can just barely make out the glowing end of his cigarette near the garden path, accompanied by the faint scent of tobacco on the wind.

The peaceful atmosphere feels fragile, like glass about to shatter. In the Port Mafia, even vacations come with underlying tension - and I have a feeling this trip will be no exception.