Their footsteps echoed sharply against the polished floor.
Not loud.
Not chaotic.
Measured.
Ren walked between two guards dressed in black. Their faces were neutral, almost artificial in their composure. Eyes forward. Movements synchronized. Even their breathing seemed regulated.
They didn't touch him.
They didn't push him.
They didn't need to.
Their presence alone was enough.
It was the kind of escort that didn't require aggression to establish authority.
Total control.
The corridor stretched long and immaculate, lined with cold white lights embedded into the ceiling. The polished marble floor reflected everything in muted duplication—shoes, silhouettes, shadows sliding beneath them like obedient ghosts.
Too clean.
Too ordered.
The air felt filtered, conditioned, stripped of human warmth. Even the echo of footsteps seemed intentional—contained, calibrated.
Nothing here was accidental.
So many people…, Ren thought.
So many gathered in one place.
And not just anyone.
He replayed the main hall in his mind.
The crowd.
The laughter.
The crow mask.
The metallic click of guns being raised.
The way chaos had collapsed into silence in less than a second.
That wasn't intimidation.
That was design.
This whole thing is engineered, Ren realized.
Even the fear is part of the atmosphere.
And among all those faces—
Haruto.
Ren bit the inside of his cheek unconsciously.
Seriously… Haruto Kuroda.
The name still felt unreal in this setting.
I haven't seen him since tenth grade.
A quiet laugh flickered in the back of his mind.
Haha… this is actually interesting.
Of all the possible opponents in a tournament like this—
Haruto.
He remembered the last day Haruto had come to school.
No announcement.
No dramatic goodbye.
No explanation.
He had simply stopped showing up.
Teachers had muttered vague phrases: "family circumstances," "personal reasons," "transfer."
Classmates speculated for a week.
Then life moved on.
But Ren hadn't forgotten.
He hadn't forgotten the boy who won dice games without even knowing the rules.
He hadn't forgotten the guy who failed math tests but somehow walked away with everyone's lunch money during improvised card games.
He hadn't forgotten the mornings on the bus—both of them half-awake, holding onto the overhead rail, talking nonsense about teachers, about girls, about absolutely nothing.
We were friends…, Ren told himself.
Not the closest.
But close enough.
Would he even recognize me?
The thought didn't bring anxiety.
Not fear.
Something else.
Curiosity.
The guards stopped abruptly.
Ren nearly walked half a step too far before correcting himself.
In front of them stood a plain metal door.
No number.
No sign.
No decoration.
Just a dull gray surface with a small camera mounted above it, its lens staring downward like a mechanical eye.
"Wait here," one guard said.
The tone wasn't aggressive.
It didn't need to be.
The door opened with a short mechanical sound.
Ren stepped inside.
The room was small.
Smaller than expected.
Almost claustrophobic.
One chair.
One narrow table bolted to the wall.
One harsh white light overhead.
No windows.
No artwork.
No clock.
No distractions.
The waiting room.
The door closed behind him.
Click.
The metallic sound pierced through his thoughts more sharply than the echo of footsteps had.
He was alone.
Ren stood there for a moment, letting his eyes adjust.
The light buzzed faintly.
The air felt stale.
This wasn't luxury anymore.
This was control again.
They strip everything away, he realized.
No stimuli. No time reference.
Just you and your thoughts.
Ren pulled out the chair and sat down slowly.
The metal legs scraped softly against the floor.
For several seconds, he did nothing.
He simply breathed.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Okay…, he told himself.
I'm here.
No turning back.
And then the thoughts erupted.
Haruto.
The image came back clearly.
Athletic posture.
Calm expression.
That faint smile—never loud, never arrogant.
Haruto had never been obnoxious.
Never cruel.
He didn't need to be.
He won naturally.
That irritated people more than bragging ever could.
He was the kind of lucky that felt unfair.
He didn't chase victory.
It chased him.
Poker was similar for him back then.
Not overly aggressive.
Not overly analytical.
He didn't talk about odds.
He didn't study strategy.
And yet, when it mattered—
The river card came.
The final draw saved him.
The coin landed his way.
If he's here…, Ren thought,
then his luck never left him.
A small smile crept onto his lips.
Maybe he'll follow me.
Maybe I'll lead.
The thought straightened his back slightly.
But then—
The other two.
Yamamoto Kazuo.
Ren remembered his words in the hall perfectly.
"I'll buy you and make you my servants."
The tone.
The disdain.
The careless laugh.
What a loser.
Ren let out a silent breath of amusement.
That guy doesn't play poker.
He plays money.
There's a difference.
Yamamoto didn't seem to care about hands.
Or probabilities.
Or variance.
He cared about dominance.
The kind that came from never having to fear consequences.
He's the type who bluffs because he can afford to, Ren analyzed.
Because if he loses, he reloads.
Because loss doesn't threaten him.
Dangerous in a stupid way.
Raw force.
Chaos disguised as confidence.
If he sits at my table…
he'll be loud.
He'll push.
He'll overextend.
Predictable in his unpredictability.
He doesn't scare me.
But Hiroki…
Ren's thoughts slowed there.
Hiroki Sakamoto.
Blond hair.
Silver ring.
Calm gaze.
The way he had looked at everyone in the hall.
Not dismissively.
Not angrily.
Just—
Assessing.
The way he called them "trash."
It hadn't been emotional.
It had been factual.
That bothered Ren more than Yamamoto's arrogance.
Hiroki wasn't loud.
He wasn't throwing money around.
He wasn't trying to dominate socially.
He seemed to already believe he was superior.
The kind of player who doesn't raise his voice.
The kind who doesn't explain himself.
The kind who moves as if he already knows how the game ends.
That's dangerous…, Ren thought.
Hiroki didn't seem to play for fun.
Or for money.
He played for control.
That was different.
Control required patience.
Patience required confidence.
Confidence required something real.
A chill ran down Ren's spine.
And yet—
His excitement surged.
For a moment, he wasn't thinking about money anymore.
Not about hospital fees.
Not about his mother.
Not about consequences.
Only the table.
The game.
The confrontation.
I'll destroy both of them, he thought, eyes sharpening under the sterile light.
Yamamoto will collapse on his own.
Hiroki… will be interesting.
And then—
Haruto.
A genuine smile formed on Ren's face.
With him, it was different.
No hatred.
No contempt.
No ego battle.
Just—
Rivalry.
Clean.
Honest.
I want to beat him, Ren thought.
Not for money.
Not for pride.
But because he was always good.
Because he was the "lucky guy" back in school.
Because I want to know if my path… is better than his.
For the first time since entering this building, Ren felt something new.
Not desperation.
Not survival.
Direction.
Maybe this is it…, he told himself.
Maybe this is the beginning.
He looked down at his hands.
They were trembling slightly.
Not from fear.
From anticipation.
That realization made him inhale deeply.
Calm down.
Poker isn't won with excitement.
It's won with patience.
He leaned back against the chair.
Closed his eyes briefly.
Cleared the mental board.
One opponent at a time.
One hand at a time.
Don't project.
Don't assume.
Observe.
He opened his eyes again.
The room felt smaller now.
But he didn't.
I'm not a kid here.
I'm not an amateur.
Here—
I'm a player.
The door—
opened.
The metallic click echoed again.
And this time—
Ren didn't flinch.