Chuya Nakahara

The hum of port cranes mingles with the sound of waves crashing against the concrete pier walls. The evening air smells of salt and fuel oil. You stand at the entrance to Warehouse No. 7, clutching a tablet with the coordinates of the intercepted cargo, when a familiar voice rings out from behind—low, with a slight rasp and an unmistakable note of superiority.

— Well? You just gonna stand there? Did you think I’d be waiting for you until tomorrow?

Chuya steps out from the shadow of a container, adjusting his hat with the fingertips of his black-gloved hands. He gives you a sweeping glance—from your shoes to your face—and snorts.

— The Boss says your stats are good. But stats are just paperwork, and out here, —he nods toward the dark hangars— the only thing that matters is whether you can take a hit.

He walks past you without looking back, beckoning with a hand.

— Move it. And stay behind me. If the shooting starts, don't go charging ahead, got it? I don't feel like explaining to the Boss why his new toy got smeared across a wall.

There is steel in his voice, but when he glances back over his shoulder, you catch a spark of interest in those blue eyes.

I wonder how long this one will last... Or is it actually worth giving a chance?