When Tsuna slipped his arms into the sleeves of his uniform, he realizes that it doesn't fit him the same way it used to when he was fifteen.

The shirt sagged, hung loosely on his bony shoulders and swallowed his arms and hands, too big and too heavy with a weight that had nothing to do with the material of the clothing but with memories of mocking jeers and hand-shaped bruises on his skin, of scribbled letters on his desk and belongings.

It felt- different, felt a little like slipping into something that didn't belong to him.

In a way, he supposes it doesn't.

He isn't him after all.

Tsuna had looked down at himself when he wore it, at the barely perceptible tremble in his limbs as he lifted his bandaged arms to wear the black vest and bent his scraped knees, at the mottling of purple, greenish blue, and black bruises over his shoulders and down his torso, at the vivid red that colored and outlined his knuckles and thin fingers as he fixed his collar. His body had yet to heal from his recent run in with the yakuza, hadn't fully healed from any other confrontations he had prior to it, his injuries standing out all the more in stark contrast to the pristine white of his shirt.

The Sawada Tsunayoshi of this world would wear this with more meat under his skin, Tsuna thinks, more muscle, more something, and he would have bruises and scars but it would be for an entirely different reason than he does now. He would fiddle with the hem, ruin the straight edges with anxious twisting and folding, would dirty it with soil from stumbling over his own feet and water from dirty buckets and vindictive laughter. He would have stains on the edges of his sleeves, colors or ink or blood, one could only hope to guess, tattered and fraying.

(It would be easy, he allows himself to think for just a fleeting moment, to pretend that he is him.

Back inside his bedroom dressing for school minutes before the bell rings as his mother yells from downstairs, telling him to hurry, Tsu-kun, you'll be late for your classes, the imminent fear of being scolded by Hibari for being late and Nezu-sensei for another unaccomplished homework creeping in the back of his mind. Back in his seat, shifty-eyed and desperate not to be called in front of the class, not to be humiliated for not knowing, for never knowing things that everybody else did, the loud roar of their laughter - Dame-Tsuna, Dame-Tsuna - in his ears. Back before Reborn and Vongola, helpless and wasting and hopelessly lost as he gives up on his studies, on making friends, on being something that wouldn't embarrass his mother in the streets because there was no point in trying to be something that he isn't, that he couldn't be.

But this isn't back then. Tsuna isn't fourteen anymore.

He's learned to be a lot of things after the inheritance and the war.

Being delusional isn't one of them.)

He probably should have expected it, a part of him thinks. Instead, all he could do was pretend he never noticed as he turns to walk to the long table in the center of the room with a slight limp in his step and straightens his shoulders, the motion tugging uncomfortably at his injuries, his uniform feeling a little too much like a second layer of skin that's peeling on the surface. He looks at it, more splintering wood than smooth polished brown, and sighs.

Several flash drives and five burner phones are arranged in a small disorganized cluster on its surface, forged identity and credit cards peeking from unsealed envelopes just below a gigantic stack of portfolios that contained information on the yakuza and current operating hierarchy of crime in the town. He shuffles through the documents, rereading the handwritten notes at the margins of the paper and once again studying the timetable of classes in Namimori and the Disciplinary Committee's roster, one hip leaning against the side of the desk. There's nothing on paper that he doesn't already know but he does it anyway despite the migraine and dancing spots in his dry eyes.

Logically, he knows that there is a - significantly - low probability of failure.

Chances of a student finding and being able to identify him after his one-month disappearance (succeeding in erasing all information that has to do with him and his mother in the government's database and putting a stop to the investigation of the demolition of the household doesn't immediately translate to being completely and magically forgotten by his classmates and teachers who have spent the better part of his years tormenting him) are rather unlikely due to the current rotation, seeing as it's Hibari who is currently staking claim on patrol for the week. Minimum crowding in the hallways, but a higher risk of encountering the prefect himself. Considering, however, the teenager's lack of investment in his affairs prior to Reborn's arrival, he doesn't think it would pose much of a problem unless he were to deliberately provoke the prefect into thinking otherwise.

He puts the papers back down and stares at the other object on his desk. It gleams ominously, untouched and achingly familiar in its presence, and his eyes narrow, a slither of something dark showing through warm brown.

A .44 Magnum revolver

(Don't let your guard down, Reborn told him once during training, muzzle pressed brutally against the back of his head, the click of his gun like a gunshot in the silence.

It was the very same gun that took Reborn away from him.)

There is a low probability of failure, but that doesn't mean it's a guaranteed success.

After a moment, he inches closer to take the revolver in his hand, finger smoothly sliding to press lightly over the trigger as he raises his arm and aims at the wall, the movement casual and practiced. He holds, halts, waits, the bend of his fingertip just shy of sending a bullet through the weathered concrete.

If he's caught or recognized, it wouldn't just compromise what he's been doing for the past month but also his current identity.

He's in no condition to be able to win a battle against Hibari in a fight, his body too young and frail for the agility and strength he honed through several near-death experiences in the future. For that same reason, he doubts he'd be able to escape or survive a confrontation even if he tried.

Tsuna's hands aren't completely clean - quite the contrary, in fact - of matters that would concern the committee's cause. He's pretty much elbow deep in their repertoire, far past the point of discreet meddling from a watchful distance and straight into the territory of sweeping thugs and criminals right under their noses seconds before they could set their foot to investigate the scene. Illegal possession of firearms and counterfeit money, identity document forgery, credit card fraud, computer hacking, and to their eyes, he's a minor, barely even fifteen and taking residence in an abandoned amusement park without parental guidance or a - ironically - guardian.

Combining Hibari's influence as the head of the Disciplinary Committee with his family's - which he knew based from the man's passing remarks in the future was involved with the yakuza and Triads - not insignificant reputation in the country, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that he's subjecting himself to an irreversible and inescapable death sentence once they lay their eyes on him and match his face with a name. Hibari despises needless meddling in matters that he's claimed the reinforcement of discipline over and he holds an even greater grudge when said needless meddling happens without him knowing. Going with how long Tsuna's interference has been happening, it doesn't take a genius to figure out what would happen if the teenager sought to look into his background and history.

Vongola is just a breath away from digging their claws into him. With the Arcobalenos alive and Nono still bearing the throne, he knows that one small slip is all it takes before it's game over and the thought of it alone is-

Something shutters over his eyes, like the clanking of chains, like the groaning of steel as an iron wall falls.

("There are… There are times, Boss," Chrome admitted softly, lone eye boring into wooden floor as she desperately clutched at the handle of her trident. She's shaking, Tsuna realized. "Where you get this look in your eyes. Like you're… like you're somebody else. They… don't turn orange like they do when you- when you take the pill or the bullet. They are distant. Like you aren't actually seeing us, like you're- studying us. Like you're about to- like you want to..."

Tsuna averted his gaze. He could feel Mukuro's presence lurking, hovering over her as if he's afraid that he'll-

"...They remind me of Byakuran's eyes.")

It can't happen. He won't let it. No matter how little time he's given, no matter how broken his body becomes, he will do everything in his power to prevent it from happening.

Even if this isn't real. Even if everything is just a dream-

Tsuna shoots, the recoil barely fazing him as he stands his ground and pictures lifeless grey eyes staring back at him. The resounding bang startles the flock of birds in the trees outside the busted windows, their wings catching against rustling leaves and frantically fluttering to carry them away from the source of the sound. He doesn't move.

He was never fond of using guns, preferring the weight of his gloves and fists over the resounding bang and squelch of a bullet tearing through skin and flesh. Reborn has trained him regardless of his continued expression of displeasure until he's proficient enough to be a challenge for the Sun Arcobaleno himself, and his training hasn't failed him in the war.

"Do it, Tsunayoshi."

It won't fail him now.

"I heard that the Monteverde Famiglia was taken out."

"Aren't they allied with Chiavarone Famiglia?"

"They used to be allied with Chiavarone. The alliance lasted two months before the Chiavarone Decimo discovered their involvement with recent cases of child pornography and prostitution in Giappone. He wasn't too happy when he found out. Monteverde took it quietly."

"It'd be asking for a death sentence if they didn't, considering Chiavarone's alliance with Vongola."

"Was it Chiavarone who took them out, then?"

"It's a possibility, but it's highly unlikely. The Chiavarone Decimo isn't the type to attack without provocation."

"It's quite a shame that their famiglia prefers to play passively, considering their sphere of influence."

"Actually, some famiglias are speculating it's Quintilio Salone."

"Salone?"

"Yeah. Haven't heard of their infamous rivalry?"

"No, not really."

"The Monteverde and Salone have been butting heads for four generations. A long history of skirmishes over territory that has only worsened over the years; almost every famiglia knows of it."

"The Salone Famiglia was uninvolved from what I gathered. They were in the middle of a negotiation with Vericchi in Germany when it happened. Unless Quintilio was plotting against Monteverde with Vericchi's assistance, which I doubt they are, then they couldn't have done it."

"Isn't it suspicious? Monteverde isn't small. They aren't short on firepower or influence- there's a reason why Chiavarone considered proposing an alliance even if the Decimo wasn't in favor of their methods."

"I can't think of any other famiglia that's capable of taking down a famiglia their size without dragging attention towards them."

"'Taking down'?" a voice interrupts. "You really are living up to Gatto's reputation of all brawns and no brains."

Several pairs of eyes flicker with undisguised animosity and mistrustful scrutiny towards the group of men in the far left of the bar, pinpointing white casts on broken arms and crutches propped on creaking wood near fractured legs, the blood on their chins fresh and the swelling bruises on their eyes and faces telling of a recent battle.

The Fourth boss of Limone famiglia sneers. "What made you all think it was a battle that took Monteverde down?"

"Wasn't it?" one of Gatto's men scoffs. "How else would Monteverde have been taken down?"

A man from the corner of the establishment - Armellino, based on the sigil on the back of his hand - snorts derisively.

"There weren't any reported casualties, were there? War and gunfire isn't the only way to bring down a famiglia," he points out as he knocks his drink back. "Ever considered bankruptcy?"

Limone smirks dryly as he tilts his wrist to swirl the amber liquor in his glass.

"Seems oddly and disgustingly familiar, doesn't it?" he asks. "A famiglia of noteworthy influence and not insignificant reputation suffering from sudden bankruptcy that nobody could explain."

"I'm pretty certain that every mafiosi in this establishment has considered the possibility, Limone," a man with a distinct facial scar on the left half of his face says. Savelli, the word that ran across his bandaged torso reads in intricate lettering. "But don't you think it's a bit too far-fetched to assume he has something to do with Monteverde?"

"'He'?"

"The rumored perpetrator behind Bellafiore's fall. Ieyasu. You haven't heard of him?"

"Oh. Oh, shit."

Another man barks a sharp laugh, wildly gesturing at the people seated around the bar and nearly knocking two bottles over. "At this point, who fucking hasn't heard of him? The fucker pulverized Bellafiore's men, left them crippled and hospitalized, stripped them of their reputation until they're lower than Estraneo. Money, authority, research. Gone from their vaults and their database." He sloppily snaps his fingers. "Just like that."

"I couldn't believe it."

"Who are you kidding? Nobody did. Not until they saw Bellafiore limping out of their headquarters and begging for an alliance with Bovino."

It's with bitter resentment that someone - Di Girolamo, the bright gleam of jewelry adorning his neck and fingers almost blinding - concedes, "For once, I agree with Limone."

They regard him questioningly, eyebrows raised.

"It makes perfect sense that he'd go for Monteverde," he says while flicking his cigarette stick with a fingertip. Upon noticing the uncomprehending expressions, he adds exasperatedly, "You said it yourself; the reason why they lost the alliance with Chiavarone."

The boss of Limone swipes at a bottle to pour into his glass before knocking it back, cut lips stretching into an insincere smile. "What exactly do you think he's been doing? Attacking every famiglia he could think of at the top of his head indiscriminately?"

Savelli looks affronted. "But Monteverde has nothing to do with Bellafiore."

"Of course not. Monteverde and Bellafiore have rarely crossed paths in the business."

He leans back on his stool and pours himself another drink.

"You're too focused on Monteverde and Bellafiore that you forget that he hasn't only been going after influential figureheads from the mafia. Guillermo who is barely known in the mafia was also reportedly shut down through the same modus operandi. Why is that?"

"Get straight to the fucking point." Savelli scowls.

"It's Giappone," he says, rolling his eyes. "Where was Bellafiore's base of operations when they were attacked? Where was Monteverde trying to establish a business? Where was Guillermo aiming to further expand their resources? They were all trying to get their hands on Giappone."

Then, hushed, he bares his teeth and whispers, "It's a purge."

The clink of glass against wood is loud in the hushed silence that follows.

"Son of a bitch," more than one mafioso hisses.