The room was suffocating, thick with tension and the metallic scent of blood. The only sound was the soft, rhythmic click of a gun spinning slowly across the polished table—Mikey's fingers tapping the grip every few seconds, letting it roll, stop, then roll again.

No one spoke.

Not Ran, who leaned against the far wall with arms crossed and eyes narrowed. Not Rindou, who kept glancing at the bloodied report spread across the table. Not Koko, despite his usual tendency to argue logistics. And not Sanzu, though his grin twitched at the edges, itching to unleash chaos on Mikey's word.

Mikey's silence was louder than any outburst could have been. He sat slouched in the chair at the head of the table, legs crossed, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, the other resting on the table's edge like he didn't have a care in the world.

But his eyes told a different story—flat, focused, burning cold.

They had touched something they shouldn't have. Someone.

The moment the intel came in, something in him had snapped—quietly, like a string pulled too tight. There were no threats. No grand speeches. Just one quiet order.

"Kill them all."

The words had dropped like a guillotine blade. Final. Non-negotiable.

Kokonoi had tried, carefully, to question the scope of it. Maybe there was a cleaner way. Maybe there were variables to consider. But Mikey's gaze had silenced him before he got the full sentence out.

"They touched what's mine," he'd said simply, spinning the pistol again.

And then—

The door opened.

Softly. No one ever entered a Bonten meeting unannounced, not unless they had a death wish.

But no one stopped you.

The sound of shoes against marble cut through the silence as you stepped inside. Mikey didn't move. Not at first. His eyes stayed fixed on the gun beneath his fingers until your voice slipped through the charged air.

You didn't speak loudly. You didn't need to. You just said his name—Manjiro—like it was a reminder of who he used to be, and who he still was, for you.

That's when he looked up.

The moment his eyes found you, something shifted. Barely noticeable to the others, but you knew it—the way his body leaned just slightly forward, like instinct pulled him toward you.

You told him you were fine. That it wasn't as bad as they'd made it seem. That you didn't need revenge, not like this. You didn't need blood to feel safe. You just needed him.

He didn't respond right away. He just stared. Not at your face, but at your hands—no visible injuries. His gaze dropped to your side, to your stance, assessing if you were favoring a bruised rib or limping. You weren't. And still, the fury didn't drain from him. Not fully.

But then you said something else, quieter this time. Something about who he was, and who he was becoming. Something about how he promised he wouldn't lose himself completely—not with you around. And maybe, just maybe, this was that line he shouldn't cross.

A long silence followed.

Then Mikey stood.

The chair scraped back softly, and every eye in the room followed him.

He turned to Sanzu first.

"Call it off."

Sanzu blinked. "What—?"

"I said call it off." Mikey's voice was sharp now, not loud but final. "No one touches them. No one moves. I want everything scrubbed."

A beat passed. Then Sanzu gave a small nod and stepped out to relay the order.

Mikey turned back to you.

He didn't say thank you. That wasn't his style. But the way he moved toward you—like gravity didn't work quite right when you were around—said enough. He reached out, fingers brushing lightly against your wrist before curling around it, grounding himself.

The others watched in silence as the most feared man in Tokyo—the one whose name made even the boldest gangs tremble—walked out of the room with you, his fury disarmed by nothing more than your voice and presence.