Fujiro's rage didn't explode.
It fractured.
Ren felt it before he understood it. A subtle shift—like pressure building behind the eyes, like the moment right before glass gives way. Fujiro's confident, mocking expression emptied itself of humor in an instant. His pupils dilated, jaw locking tight, the muscles in his neck standing out like cords pulled too far.
Something fundamental had snapped.
This isn't anger, Ren realized distantly.This is humiliation.
The air around the table felt heavier, thicker, as if the room itself had leaned closer to watch what came next. Ren's body reacted on instinct—heart rate spiking, breath growing shallow—long before his thoughts could catch up.
Fujiro turned slowly toward the dealer.
"You…" he said quietly. Too quietly. "What do you think you're doing?"
The dealer flinched.
Ren noticed it immediately. The boy wasn't pretending anymore. The mask was gone. He was a kid—too young, too thin, shoulders drawn inward like he was trying to fold into himself. He didn't belong at that table. He never had.
"N–no… we're n–not a… a team…" the dealer stammered, voice cracking, words tripping over one another. Tears welled in his eyes. "I swear, I—"
He didn't get to finish.
Fujiro's hand moved to his waistband.
Ren didn't process the moment clearly. Later, when he tried to remember it, there would be gaps—blank spaces where memory refused to cooperate. All he truly remembered was the sound.
Dry. Hollow. Absolute.
Not loud like in movies. Not dramatic.
Final.
The table jolted as if struck by a physical force. Cards scattered across the felt, flipping end over end. The air filled instantly with a sharp, metallic stench that made Ren's stomach lurch.
The dealer's body slammed against the edge of the table.
Then collapsed to the floor.
Still.
Too still.
Ren stared, frozen, his mind abruptly severed from his body—as if someone had drawn a thick curtain between him and reality.
This isn't real, he told himself.This can't be real.
But the smell wouldn't go away. His hands were shaking now, visibly, and no amount of willpower could stop them. His stomach twisted violently, a cold nausea rising from deep inside his chest.
Fujiro sucked in air like a drowning man breaking the surface. Loud. Ragged. His breathing was uneven, animalistic. Saliva gathered at the corner of his mouth, eyes bloodshot and unfocused, as though the world had narrowed to a single point.
Rios and Mika stiffened.
Not again, passed through them like an unspoken curse.
"Hey, Fujiro… bro," Rios said, forcing calm into his voice. "It's just three hundred thousand. We'll take it back. It's not worth it."
Fujiro laughed.
A short, broken sound. Empty of joy.
"A kid…" he muttered. "A nobody… makes a fool out of me…"
His gaze snapped back to Ren.
Ren felt something inside him drop—like the sudden absence of ground beneath his feet.
He's not angry because he lost, Ren realized.He's angry because I saw him.
"This isn't online," Fujiro continued, voice tearing itself apart between fury and contempt. "You don't hide behind a screen here. You don't 'read' people here."
He spat the word like an insult.
"You pay."
That's it, Ren thought.This is where it ends.
The gun came up slowly. No rush. No hesitation. Fujiro's grip was steady, practiced. This wasn't the first time he'd done this. That realization hit Ren harder than the weapon itself.
"You're done, kid," Fujiro said. "You thought you could read me?"
His finger tightened on the trigger.
Time stretched.
Ren didn't see his life flash before his eyes. There were no images. No memories. Just a vast, suffocating emptiness. A strange calm settled over him, heavy and unreal.
So this is how it ends, he thought.Not as someone special. Not as a genius. Just another idiot who sat at the wrong table.
Then—
Something cut through the air.
A sharp, slicing sound.
Fujiro screamed.
A playing card had embedded itself in his hand—deep enough to tear skin, deep enough to shatter his grip. Pain exploded through his arm, reflex overriding intent. The gun slipped.
The shot fired.
The bullet tore past Ren's head, close enough to stir his hair, and slammed into the wall behind him.
Ren didn't move.
He couldn't.
I should be dead, his mind whispered.I was supposed to be dead.
"What the f—?!" Fujiro roared, clutching his bleeding hand.
He didn't get to finish.
A black silhouette appeared out of nowhere.
A short, brutal strike to Fujiro's abdomen drove the air from his lungs. He folded forward instinctively. A hand slipped out from a sleeve, holding another card—not like a card.
Like a blade.
The motion was precise. Efficient.
Final.
Fujiro dropped to his knees.
The sound that followed didn't echo.
It didn't need to.
The silhouette straightened.
A tall man. Pale. Dressed entirely in black—gloves, hat, long coat. His presence erased resistance from the room, like gravity suddenly increasing.
"Damn it…" he muttered, examining the blood staining his gloves. "Dirty again."
He lifted his gaze toward Rios and Mika.
"The table is cleared."
No threat. No raised voice.
They stood immediately.
Ren was still seated, paralyzed. Fear coursed through him, thick and hot, mixed with a surreal detachment—as if he were watching someone else's nightmare.
"Kid," the man said calmly, turning to him. "What's your name?"
Ren swallowed hard.
"R… Ren…"
The man pulled something from his pocket and tossed it toward him. Ren caught it on reflex.
A white coin.
Cold.
Heavy.
Engraved with two words:
Invitation Token
"Tomorrow morning, go to the address on the note," the man said, tossing him a folded piece of paper. "If you truly love poker, you'll be there. You have potential."
He paused.
"Don't waste it in bars full of trash."
He turned to leave, then added over his shoulder:
"Tell them you're coming from Yoshi."
Silence fell like ash.
"Take the money and leave."
Ren looked down at the table.
The cash was still there.
Heavy.
Stained.
Am I really taking blood money? he wondered.
His hand moved anyway.
I need it.
Outside, the cold night air slammed into his lungs. He breathed hard, heart racing wildly. The city felt distant, unreal. He searched for a taxi—anything to anchor him back to reality.
That's when he saw her.
The woman with heavy makeup.
Their eyes met.
Ren approached her, steps unsteady, adrenaline still holding him upright.
"How much?" he asked.
She smirked, looking him up and down.
"That depends," she said lazily. "How badly do you wanna feel like a man, pretty boy?"
Ren hesitated.
Then—
"Fifty thousand."
Her eyes sparkled.
"Tch. Cute," she scoffed. "Alright, prince. Don't get any stupid ideas."
Under the streetlamp's pale glow, Ren tilted his head back, staring at the star-filled sky. Everything felt amplified—sound, breath, pulse.
It wasn't just about pleasure.
It was something else.
Ren didn't want comfort.
He didn't want escape.
He just wanted to feel alive.
And for the first time in a long while—
He did.