The air inside the VIP box seemed to solidify, heavy enough to crush lungs. Crow, the Notary, stood in the center of the room. His featureless white mask looked like a tombstone, radiating a chilling dread.
Viper slumped on the sofa, his expensive suit soaked in cold sweat. He stared fixedly at the charred drive on the table, then at the young man who didn't seem to know the meaning of fear. In all his years in District 9, Viper had seen countless desperadoes, but never a gambler this insane. To wager his own life for a discarded experimental weapon?
"Since both parties have confirmed the stakes, the protocol gamble known as Domino Execution is now established."
Crow's voice was flat. He raised a white-gloved hand and snapped his fingers.
The floor of the box split open silently. A mechanical device, hideous in its industrial beauty, rose slowly. It was a long metal table, its surface a chaotic web of red and blue wires and intricate hydraulic pistons. At either end of the table sat an execution chair equipped with heavy restraints.
"Please be seated," Crow gestured.
Vance didn't hesitate. With a lazy smile, he sat in the left chair. Click-clack. Metal cuffs automatically locked around his wrists and ankles, bolting him to the seat.
Viper gritted his teeth. His eyes darted between the drive and the arena below. A flicker of ruthlessness returned to his face. This was his turf. He wouldn't lose to a stray dog. He stood up and took the seat opposite Vance.
The cuffs locked. They were both meat on the chopping block now.
"The rules are as follows."
Crow walked to the middle of the table, pointing at the dense tangle of wires.
"This is a domino circuit board. There are twenty-four main wires connecting to the high-pressure neurotoxin injectors behind your chairs. Only one is a Death Wire. Cut it, and the toxin injects instantly. Brain death in 0.5 seconds."
"Of the remaining twenty-three, six are Safe Wires. Nothing happens when cut. The remaining seventeen are Domino Wires. Cutting a Domino Wire randomly transfers the death signal to the remaining wires and increases the risk weight for the next cut."
"You will take turns cutting wires. Until one party triggers the execution, or forfeits."
Crow paused, his mask turning toward Viper.
"Manager Viper, as the Challenged, you have the right of the second move. Challenger Vance takes the first turn. Do you object?"
"No." Viper sneered. The arrogance of a predator returned to his eyes as he stared at Vance. "I'll gladly watch this kid play himself to death."
He was smiling.
Vance saw it clearly.
Amidst the nauseating smell of cheap cologne and anxious sweat, Vance smelled a faint, cooling scent. Like Mint.
Confidence.
Vance's mind raced. The Domino Execution device was provided by The Balance, but this form of gambling wasn't rare in the Underground. As the Arena Manager, Viper dealt with traps daily. Perhaps this wasn't his first time playing; perhaps he knew the circuit logic better than anyone.
But that was exactly what Vance wanted.
If the opponent were an idiot who knew nothing, the game would be boring. Hunting was only fun when the prey thought they were the hunter.
"Mr. Vance, please begin." Crow handed Vance a pair of insulated wire cutters.
Vance weighed the tool in his hand. He looked across the table, meeting Viper's gaze directly through his sunglasses.
"Manager, before we start, a question." Vance's voice was as light as casual chatter. "That boy, Cerberus... how much inhibitor did you pump into him?"
Viper frowned, surprised that Vance was worrying about the monster at death's door.
"Inhibitors?" Viper scoffed. "That thing doesn't need drugs. It only understands pain and electricity. Why, feeling sorry for it? If you get on your knees and beg, maybe I'll give him a shot of anesthesia before he dies."
"No, just curious." Vance glanced down at the white-haired boy standing blankly in the pool of blood below. "I wonder what kind of terror it takes to break a soul with self-awareness into a puppet like that."
As he spoke, Vance's hand moved.
He didn't inspect the wiring path. Like pruning a stray weed, snip. He cut the red wire closest to him.
Beep.
The indicator light flashed green.
"Safe Wire," Crow announced. "Next turn."
Viper blinked, clearly not expecting such recklessness. In a game of death, even bomb disposal experts calculated for minutes. This kid just... guessed?
"Lucky guess." Viper huffed, picking up his cutters.
He wasn't as casual as Vance. He leaned in close to the board. The auxiliary thermal vision in his cybernetic eye activated, rapidly analyzing the circuit flow. Although The Balance's device had anti-scan coating, his years of experience allowed him to deduce patterns from the wire thickness and layout.
Seconds later, Viper cut a blue wire in the third row.
Beep. Green. Safe.
"Your turn, kid." Viper put down the cutters, his mockery deepening. "How long can your luck hold? This isn't street magic. This is math."
Vance smiled and raised his cutters again.
This time, he didn't cut immediately. He watched Viper's face closely, while his nostrils flared slightly.
He was smelling.
As the game progressed, the scent in the air shifted. Every snap of the pliers, every flash of the light caused minute fluctuations in the man across the table.
When the light turned green, a faint smell of tobacco drifted by—Viper relaxing. When Viper hesitated, the air filled with sour lemon—fermenting anxiety.
But what Vance cared about most was the scent that appeared when his cutters hovered over specific wires.
A rotting sweetness.
It was the smell of extreme anticipation. Like a voyeur watching prey step into a trap. A dark, twisted excitement.
Vance's cutters hovered over a yellow wire. The rotting sweetness intensified. Viper's eyes widened slightly—a micro-expression Vance caught instantly. Viper was expecting it. He wanted Vance to cut this one.
That meant this wire was likely not Safe. It was probably the Death Wire.
Vance's lips curled. His hand moved without warning, shifting to a nondescript black wire nearby.
Snip.
Beep. Green. Safe.
In that instant, Vance smelled it. A sharp, fleeting scent of Burnt Rubber from across the table. Disappointment. The psychological drop of a missed expectation.
"Seems my luck is holding up," Vance said, observing Viper's slightly altered expression. "Or perhaps, Manager, your expectations were let down?"
Viper's pupils constricted. His grip on the cutters tightened. The crack in his composure had appeared.
"Cut the crap." Viper grit his teeth.
The game continued. Wires were severed one by one. The dense board grew empty. With every cut, the probability of triggering the Reaper rose geometrically.
Death was closing in.
Under this extreme pressure, the smile on Vance's face only grew wider. He wasn't just gambling; he was enjoying it. He savored the thrill of dancing on the cliff edge, and even more, he savored the sight and scent of the arrogant hunter falling into the trap.
It was a top-tier spice called Panic.