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Sell your soul, not your whole self.
AFRAID, THE NEIGHBOURHOOD
—
PROLOGUE
Care is not a word that can describe the Port Mafia. It's too soft, almost belittling to be called. Four letters of emotion that rivets and courses through the veins of lovesick men, buried secrets closer to hearts and left an opening to reach in—reach inside and pull it out, see how much care is given then.
Although certain elements of maintenance could be viewed in how efficient schemes and operations were conducted, Mori did not care for benign issues like cleaning. A heart only gets in the way of a war, he had said to Elise many times. This explained why he watched unperturbed at how dust gathered awkwardly inside the meeting room.
Specks of the fine, dry powder fell through the stiff air, almost mirroring the slow march of snowflakes on a rare wintry day. Inside the dark room, they rested on a velvet tablecloth, a rich purple that Mori admired for its regalty. How facetiously royal, dark enough to eclipse black and yet holds beauty in the light.
There was little enthusiasm on his pale face as he watched the sunlight from the only open window polarised against his seat, settle and the dust quickly shone across the air. His hands were coated in white gloves, fit primly on thin fingers, and positioned together in a steeple. Dark violet eyes befell the people before him.
"All are in attendance," He did not smile, but his tone carried a certain suaveness. It was the confident bite of a lion, cold and experienced.
Such sharp words cut through the tension that was thickly woven into the air, much like a butcher knife. The silence that lingered afterwards was only momentary however.
"It must be something private if the Executive meeting is only for two people," Dazai noted the lack of people in the other seats. "Chuuya is just fresh off the boat."
His brown eyes were left quietly lingering on the dust, sullen but not sulking. The nonchalance on his pale complexion told he was quite fine without the presence of the others.
Chuuya Nakahara, however, snapped a bitter retort, always irked by Dazai's crude remarks, "Tch, the fact that I'm here shows I'm better than you already."
He sat opposite Dazai, staring frustratedly at him. Ginger hair framed Chuuya's face, bright even in the dimness of the candelabra-lit room. A fedora laced with a red band sat atop on his head, resting slightly crooked. It was a silly get-up in Dazai's mind, and yet at the same thing, something only Chuuya could pull off.
The more Dazai observed guiltlessly, a false smile teetering, the more he came to the conclusion that without his hat, Chuuya was as good as bald.
"This conversation is not one for foolishness or idiocy," Mori starkly cut in—logically and strategically, the partnering of the two young men before him was a powerful move for his organisation. And yet, when tersely ignoring the emotional side, Mori had quite overlooked their incompatible chemistry at times. It was enough to make him angrily pace his room at night.
