The Apex Sports Tech Integration Center looked more like a five-star hotel than a medical facility where people came to gamble with their lives.
Naoya stood in the massive lobby, surrounded by glass and chrome. Around him, dozens of other applicants walked about, some pacing nervously, others sitting with their heads in their hands.
A week. It had taken them only a week to review his application and send the acceptance notification.
Congratulations, Mr. Sato. You have been selected for the System Integration Program. Please report to the Tokyo facility on...
He hadn't told his mother. Hadn't told Yuki. What was the point? It would just make them worry even more.
"Oi, isn't that the guy who missed?"
The whisper came from somewhere to his left. Naoya kept his eyes forward, focused on the reception desk ahead.
"No way. What's he doing here? Trying to redeem himself?"
"More like trying to die with some dignity." They laughed wickedly.
Naoya's jaw tightened, but he kept walking. Three more steps to the desk. Two more. One.
"Hey!" A hand grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around. "I'm talking to you, traitor."
The man was broad-shouldered, maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven, with the kind of athletic build that screamed former professional. His face was twisted with contempt, and behind him, two other guys watched with matching expressions of disgust.
"Do you have any idea how much money I lost because of you?" the man snarled. "I bet everything on Japan winning. Everything. And you—"
His fist drew back.
Naoya didn't flinch. At this point, what was one more hit?
To his shock, a hand, massive and gentle, caught the man's wrist mid-swing.
"Knock it off."
The voice was deep but soft. Naoya looked up, and up, at the person who had intervened. The guy was enormous, about six-foot-five, with shoulders that could carry the weight of the world and a frame that belonged on a sumo wrestler or a heavyweight boxer. But his face was kind, with warm brown eyes and a slight smile that seemed permanently etched into his features.
"Who the hell are you?" The aggressive man tried to yank his wrist free, but the giant's grip didn't budge.
"Someone who thinks we have bigger problems than old World Cup matches." The giant released the man's wrist gently. "We are all here for the same reason, yeah? Let's not kill each other before the surgery does it for us."
The man spat at Naoya's feet, shot the giant a venomous glare, and stalked off with his friends in tow.
Naoya exhaled slowly. "Thanks."
"No problem." The giant extended his hand. "Ryota Kuze. Nice to meet you."
"Naoya Sato." He shook the offered hand, feeling like a child gripping a baseball mitt. "You didn't have to do that."
"Probably not." Ryota shrugged, his smile widening. "But I did anyway. Come on, the line is not getting any shorter."
They checked in together, received their ID badges and room assignments. The facility had private waiting rooms for each participant, but Ryota followed Naoya to his without a care.
"So," Ryota said, settling into one of the sleek chairs. "Striker, right? I saw some of your games before... well, you know."
"Yeah." Naoya sat across from him, grateful that Ryota hadn't actually said it. "You?"
"Goalkeeper." Ryota laughed, a booming sound that filled the room with unexpected warmth. "Not a very good one, though. I played for a J3 League team for two years before they cut me. Too slow, they said. Not quick enough on the reactions." He tapped his temple. "Hopefully this system thing fixes that, yeah?"
"Hopefully."
They fell into easy conversation after that. Ryota was from Osaka originally, had bounced around the lower leagues for five years before finally accepting that he would never make it to the top. His personality was infectious, one that made you forget, even for a moment, where you were and why.
"So," Ryota said eventually, his tone shifting to something more serious. "Are you scared? Of dying?"
Naoya considered the question. Was he scared? He had spent the last week in a strange limbo, not quite believing this was real, not quite accepting that he had actually volunteered for something with a one-in-four chance of killing him.
"I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe? It is hard to be scared of dying when you already feel dead, you know?"
Ryota nodded slowly. "I get that. Different reasons, but I get it."
"How about you?"
"Me?" Ryota's smile returned, but there was something hollow behind it now. "I am an orphan. No relatives, no family waiting for news. So even if I die in there..." He gestured vaguely toward the surgical wing. "No one will miss me. Makes it easier, somehow."
He said it so casually, so matter-of-factly, that it took Naoya a moment to process the devastating loneliness buried in those words. Here was this gentle giant with a smile that could light up a room, and he genuinely believed no one would mourn him.
"I would miss you," Naoya said before he could stop himself.
Ryota blinked, then laughed, louder this time. "We just met, Sato."
"Yeah, but you stopped that guy from punching me. That counts for something." Naoya found himself smiling too, the first genuine smile in weeks. "I am rooting for you."
"Thanks, man." Ryota stood as a nurse appeared in the doorway, clipboard in hand. "Looks like I am up."
"Ryota Kuze?" the nurse confirmed.
"That's me." Ryota turned back to Naoya, extending his fist for a bump. "See you on the other side, yeah? We will get drinks, celebrate our new superhuman abilities."
Naoya returned the fist bump. "Good luck."
"You too."
And then Ryota was gone, following the nurse down the sterile hallway toward the surgical wing. Naoya watched until they disappeared around a corner, then settled back into his chair.
The room was quiet now. He checked his phone, and noticed it still had dozens of missed calls, messages piling up from numbers he didn't recognize. Reporters, probably, or maybe former teammates mocking him.
He didn't open any of them.
Time moved strangely after that. Minutes felt like hours. Hours felt like seconds. Naoya dozed in the chair, exhaustion finally catching up with anxiety, pulling him under into fitful half-sleep.
"Mr. Sato?"
He jerked awake. A different nurse stood in the doorway, her expression professionally neutral in that way medical professionals had when they were hiding something.
"Yes?" Naoya stood, his heart already starting to race.
"It is your turn. Please follow me."
"Wait. The person who went in before me. Ryota Kuze. How is he?"
The nurse hesitated. It was only a second, maybe less, but Naoya saw the truth in that pause, in the way her eyes shifted away from his.
"Mr. Kuze..." She took a breath. "I am very sorry. He did not survive the procedure."
The room tilted. Naoya gripped the back of the chair, knuckles white, vision blurring at the edges. Ryota's smile flashed in his mind, that booming laugh, the casual way he had said no one would miss him.
"Mr. Sato?" The nurse's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Do you still want to proceed?"
Naoya's throat burned. His eyes stung. He thought about Ryota, about the man who had stopped a stranger from hitting him, who had made him smile for the first time in weeks, who had walked into that surgical suite believing he was alone in the world.
He thought about going back to his dark apartment, to the spit and the hatred and the endless replay of his greatest failure.
He thought about his mother's missed calls. About Yuki, who had always believed in him even when he couldn't believe in himself.
"Mr. Sato?"
Naoya gritted his teeth. He felt something hot slide down his cheek, but he wiped it away quickly.
"Yes," he said, his voice hoarse but steady. "Let's go."
The nurse nodded and turned toward the hallway. Behind him, the empty waiting room stood silent.
Ahead, the surgical suite waited.