The Dragon's Head Conflict, the Previous Boss, the Scalpel.
The first term was etched into the memories of every citizen in Yokohama—a brutal war where countless underworld factions clashed, each vying for the throne of the city's darkest king.
The second term was an open secret among seasoned mafiosi—the mad king who had nearly driven the Port Mafia to ruin during that very conflict.
As for the last term… it seemed meaningless.
Because the significance of the scalpel wasn't something just anyone knew.
"Must I spell it out for you?" Tokisaki Kurumi asked, her tone laced with amusement. "I thought we could share a little unspoken understanding."
"My apologies, but I don't share unspoken understandings with strangers," Mori Ōgai replied bluntly.
"How cold." Kurumi didn't seem the least bit offended. "During the Dragon's Head Conflict, Mori-san disregarded the previous Boss's wishes, assassinated him with a scalpel, forged his will, and usurped his position."
A decade ago, during the height of the war, the former Port Mafia Boss had recklessly expanded his territory, draining the organization's strength and plunging Yokohama into chaos.
To ensure the Mafia's survival and the city's stability, Mori Ōgai—then the Boss's personal physician—had slit his throat during a routine medical examination. He forged the will and claimed the throne for himself.
The weapon used? A scalpel, meant for healing.
This was a secret known only to a handful within the Port Mafia.
No—strictly speaking, only two people knew.
It should have been only two.
Now, even the practiced smile on Mori's face vanished entirely.
His cold gaze swept over the girl before him, searching for any flicker of emotion—arrogance, fear, nervousness—anything that might betray her thoughts.
If he could decipher her, negotiations would proceed smoothly.
But to his frustration, none of those emotions surfaced.
Instead, what he saw was calm, rooted in absolute confidence.
As if she knew he couldn't touch her.
And truthfully? He couldn't.
As a Spirit who wielded time itself, Tokisaki Kurumi wasn't the strongest in direct combat. With limited time reserves, she might not even defeat Elise, the manifestation of Mori's ability.
But capturing her? Impossible.
Even if she couldn't overpower the entire Port Mafia, slipping away unscathed was child's play.
Kurumi was, after all, a Spirit who excelled in escape.
Her shadows allowed her to slip in and out of any location undetected, and her Aleph bullet could accelerate time, granting her near-teleportation speed.
No matter how dire this meeting turned, she could vanish without a scratch.
That was why she dared to waltz into the Port Mafia's headquarters alone.
"How did you learn of this?" Mori's fingers drummed against the armrest. "Don't tell me… Dazai told you?"
Dazai Osamu—former head of the Port Mafia's intelligence division, the youngest executive in history.
Once, Mori had placed his utmost trust in him, even grooming him as his successor. Many within the organization had believed Dazai would inherit the title of Boss.
But then, one day, the heir betrayed them.
Not only did he defect, but he joined their sworn enemy—the Armed Detective Agency.
Had it been anyone else, Mori would have sent assassins to execute the traitor. But Dazai was different. The consequences of killing him were too severe.
And so, he became the only defector who lived freely under the Port Mafia's nose, enjoying his second life.
Still, one fact remained: Dazai was the only other person who knew Mori had killed the previous Boss.
That day. That room. Those bloodstained walls.
And the only man standing beside him—Dazai Osamu.
No third person should have known.
If someone else did, it could only mean one thing.
Dazai had talked.
"No, I didn't learn this from Dazai," Kurumi denied, shaking her head. "My ability told me."
"Your ability?"
"Indeed. One of them, at least."
With a flick of her wrist, a short flintlock pistol materialized in her grasp.
Alice, standing guard, tensed—but Mori raised a hand, signaling her to stand down.
Kurumi wielded two guns, manifestations of her Angel, [Zafkiel]. The long flintlock, shaped from the minute hand, was her primary weapon. The short one, formed from the hour hand, activated her twelve time-based abilities.
Among them, Yud–the Tenth Bullet, allowed her to transmit the memories of whatever—or whoever—she struck.
Twirling the ornate firearm in her hand, she explained, "This lets me glimpse the past of whatever I shoot. Think of it as… memory extraction. I can learn the history of people or objects by hitting them."
"I see. So that's how you uncovered my secret." Mori exhaled, reluctantly accepting the explanation. "No matter how thorough the precautions, variables always slip through. The world is full of uncertainties."
Kurumi hadn't lied about her ability—Yod did retrieve memories.
But the real reason she knew Mori's darkest secret?
She was a transmigrator.
A fan of Bungou Stray Dogs, armed with meta-knowledge.
But that was something she'd never reveal.
Even if Mori believed her, doing so would instantly fail her third side mission.
So, Yud was the perfect cover.
"Now then," Mori mused, his voice low, "you didn't storm into Port Mafia headquarters just to share tea, did you?"
A brief flicker of frustration crossed his face before his usual composure returned—sharp, calculating.
He'd done everything to bury this secret.
If it still leaked, that wasn't his failure.
"Rest assured, Mori-san, I come with no ill intent." Kurumi smiled. "If anything, I bring goodwill."
"Honestly, I don't care if your intentions are good or ill."
Mori's gaze bore into her, as if peeling back layers to see the color of her soul.
"What I care about is your purpose. So tell me, mysterious lady—why have you come?"
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