The hall shimmered with the golden glow of chandeliers and the large screens. Showing the updated leaderboard of Group D. Tom and Harriet stood together among the crowd of competitors, gamblers and spectators. The atmosphere was thick with tension and anticipation.
The Announcer's voice flowed across the dome, crisp and theatrical.
"Ladies and gentlemen…. the final results are in!"
Everyone turned toward the massive floating display. Tom folded his arms, trying to look calm. Harriet, on the other hand was tapping his foot impatiently, pretending to be bored.
The announcer continued, "From Group D…."
Tom leaned forward slightly.
Harriet whispered, "You think you made it?"
Tom smirked. "I didn't lose that badly."
"Yeah." Harriet snorted, "You died, remember?"
Tom sighed. "….Minor setback."
The announcer's voice boomed again, cutting through the chatter,
"Group D's qualifiers are.… Gyro with four points…"
The crowd cheered loudly. Gyro's name flashed in bright gold on the board.
"….and second place.... Varn Okra with one point!"
There was another wave of applause but Harriet was already grinning. He elbowed Tom lightly. "Well, well, Mr. Detective, looks like you're going home early."
Tom frowned, staring up at the board. His name glowed faintly in third place. "Tch.… figures."
Harriet leaned closer, whispering mockingly, "Maybe if you hadn't jumped into the sun, you'd have made it."
Tom gave him a deadpan look. "Only if you'd stopped crying about my wages, I'd be richer."
Before Harriet could respond, the announcer's voice returned more dramatic.
"However…."
Everyone froze. Even Harriet's grin wavered.
The announcer spoke again:
"Since contestant Varn Okra died in his last match against Gyro, the next highest-ranking contestant will advance in his place."
A hush fell over the hall. The leaderboard flickered. Tom's name began to glow brighter, replacing Varn's.
"….Advancing to the quarter-finals from Group D — Albert Newton!"
Harriet's jaw dropped. Tom blinked and then made low noise like a witch laughing.
An mischievous smirk spread across his face.
He raised his arm dramatically, tipping his hat with exaggerated flair. "Guess who won by losing, Harriet."
The crowd murmured in confusion. Harriet facepalmed. "You lost and still made it in. Your luck was good."
Tom shrugged smugly. "It's called efficiency."
Harriet crossed his arms. "You aren't the first man to qualify by accident. There are couple of competitors who advanced like this in previous groups."
Tom started walking toward the exit, smirking. "Destiny knows talent when it sees it."
Harriet sighed and followed. "Yeah, sure, destiny or dumb luck."
Tom pointed at his glowing name one last time. "Winner by defeat. Kinda poetic, huh?"
Harriet groaned. "More like pathetic."
....
Harriet sat lazily on the couch in the resort's lounge, sipping a tall glass of strawberry milkshake through a bent straw.
The soft hum of ceiling fans and faint music filled the air. "You know," he said between slurps, "if you ever tried one of these, your stress levels might drop below homicidal."
Tom leaned against the wall, his hat tilted low. "I don't do milk." he muttered.
Harriet gave a dramatic sigh. "You don't do fun either."
A woman in a white uniform called Harriet's name from the massage room. He grinned. "Duty calls." he said, rising with exaggerated flair. "A Guardian's shoulders must remain loose, after all."
Tom shook his head. "You're a charlatan."
Harriet winked as two women led him inside. "Jealousy detected." His voice trailed off behind the beaded curtains, followed by the faint sound of relaxing music and Harriet's occasional satisfied hums.
Tom wandered outside into the hallway. The floor glowed faintly beneath his boots, reflecting the shifting lights from the gambling center below. Voices narrowed from nearby rooms. Gossips about matches, ranks, rumors.
He stopped when he overheard two people talking by the corner.
".…that Piere Lal guy, he's terrifying. Quarter-finals! Poor soul whoever faces him."
Tom's brows furrowed. "Piere Lal?" he muttered under his breath.
He pulled up his holo-screen, scrolling through the tournament board. His eyes stopped at the flashing name beside his own.
[ Albert Newton vs. Piere Lal — 3rd Quarter Final ]
Tom closed the screen slowly. "Great," he whispered. "Another psychopath with a fancy name."
From inside, Harriet's voice came.
"Don't wait up, I'm getting the deluxe package!"
Tom sighed. "Of course you are."
The thought of "Piere Lal" stayed sharp in his mind.
Tom's boots clicked again softly against the cobbled path as he wandered through the narrow lane between the markets. The smell of roasted nuts and old wood carried in the air. He stopped at a small stall. Nothing grand, just a wooden counter and an old man behind it, stirring chilled milk in glass jars.
"One milkshake," Tom said.
The man nodded silently. A moment later, Tom held a cold metal cup, drinking slowly as he watched people fade in and out of the street's dim horizon. The milk tasted simple — a reminder of ordinary life between chaos.
He turned to leave when a voice stopped him.
"Waiting for something to end? You might be Albert Newton."
Tom turned. A man stood there. Middle-aged, tall but almost fragile in build, like he'd been carved from paper and stubbornness.
He wore a yellow zamarra lined with sheepskin, the fur soft and faded with age. On his head, a white beret sat tilted not quite of an artist, not quite of a priest. His face was sharp, elegant, but weary, eyes gray and quiet like a cloudy mirror.
Tom raised a brow. "Sorry. Do I know you?"
The man smiled faintly. "Only the ones I'll meet twice." He extended his hand. "Piere Lal."
The name hit faint recognition in Tom's mind. "You mean my opponent?"
Piere nodded once. "You've done your homework."
Tom set his cup aside. "So, we're opponents in the quarter-finals."
"Seems so." Piere's tone was calm, polite, like a man discussing the weather instead of combat. "I didn't thought I will meet you before the stage takes place."
Tom smirked. "You are talking like I'm already gone."
Piere looked at him, gaze soft but unwavering. "Because you are. Not yet in body, but soon in memory."
Tom chuckled dryly. "Sounding like one of those prophecy men with cracked voices and hollow pockets."
"Prophecy is for children," Piere said. "I deal in inevitability."
Tom tilted his head. "You threatening me, old man?"
Piere shook his head. "No, Mr. Newton. I'm mourning you. There's a difference."
For a second, the street fell silent. Even the hum of vendors seemed to fade.
Tom stared, uneasy but hiding it well. "And what makes you so sure it'll be me who falls?"
Piere's gray eyes drifted past him to the fading sunset. "Because the sun never burns the man who walks willingly into its light. It burns the one who hesitates at the shadow."
Tom frowned, unsure whether to laugh or think. "You really enjoy speaking in riddles, huh?"
Piere smiled again, polite, distant. "Riddles only confuse those who still hope for answers. Complexity is the curse of the attentive minds that like to think deeply and are unwilling to stay ignorant."
He adjusted his beret, the gesture small, deliberate. "Good evening, Mr. Newton. Enjoy your milkshake. It may be your last sweet before the heat takes you."
Then he turned, walking away slowly, every step quiet, every motion sure.
Tom watched him disappear into the misty light. He muttered, "Aight. I saw only few dramatic monks like you since I spawned."
He crushed the empty plastic cup in his hand and tossed it into the bin.
"Last seconds of my life, huh?" he murmured, a crooked grin forming. "We'll see about that."
Still, as he walked away, that grin didn't quite reach his eyes.