The roar of the crowd was deafening. Banners waved, the arena's air thick with heat and dust, and the electric thrum of excitement pulsed through every heartbeat. People chanted names, some hoarse from shouting since morning, others leaning over the rails to try and catch a glimpse of the blood-streaked survivors returning from the Labyrinth Horrora.
Up in the stands, Kuro had been leaning forward so far his elbows ached, but his eyes never left the great obsidian gate that marked the exit. When Astrid and Tarek—still masked, still breathing—stumbled into the sunlight, his jaw dropped.
"Whoa!" Kuro's voice cracked, earning him a few amused side-eyes from nearby spectators. "These matches are insane. Looks like Astrid and Tarek actually made it out of that… Man, that was close."
He let out a laugh, but his chest was still tight from the tension of watching the scry-crystals' feed. Even through the grainy projection, the danger had been obvious—Tarek fighting like a phantom, Astrid swinging with a desperation only survival could sharpen.
Kuro leaned back, shaking his head. "I knew they'd pull through, but…" His voice trailed off into a low whistle.
That was when the announcer walked past.
A flash of red scarf, the faint scent of cologne, and then—a touch. Cold. Barely more than a whisper against the skin of his neck.
Kuro jerked, spinning halfway around. "Uh—?"
The announcer, tall and smiling, tilted his head. His voice was rich, practiced, dripping with charm that could make a lie sound like truth. "My apologies," he said, gesturing politely. "I wasn't paying attention and must have brushed you by accident."
For a moment, Kuro didn't reply. He studied the man's face—sharp cheekbones, eyes that didn't quite match the smile. There was something in them. Something… calculating.
"Oh… okay, sir," Kuro finally muttered, forcing a grin. He rubbed the back of his neck where the touch had been, trying to shake the prickle under his skin.
"Enjoy the show." The announcer's words were casual, but as he turned away, the smile on his lips shifted—stretching, bending into something colder.
Kuro didn't see it.
The man's footsteps faded into the noise of the crowd, swallowed by cheers and the distant clang of the next match being prepared. But behind that charming facade, his mind was already elsewhere.
The touch had been no accident.
It had been a mark.