Three days later…
The apartment screamed money.
Wide glass windows. Soft golden lighting. Furniture that looked like it had never been sat on—except for the couch, which was currently occupied by Adrian, sprawled out like he paid rent with audacity alone.
He crunched loudly.
CRUNCH. CRUNCH.
A bag of chips rested on his chest, one hand lazily dipping in while the other dangled off the couch.
Peace.
Then—
BANG!
The kitchen door slammed open.
"ADRIAAAN!!"
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
Adrian flinched. "…What?!"
Dravers stormed out, eyes blazing, apron still on, murderous intent leaking from every step.
"WHERE."
She jabbed a finger at him.
"ARE. MY. DELI. CHIPS?!"
Adrian sat up halfway, defensive instincts kicking in.
"How the hell am I supposed to know?!"
Dravers' eye twitched.
"You are in absolutely no position to lie, you idiot!"
"Why the hell are you assuming I took your stupid chips?!"
"BECAUSE YOU'RE LITERALLY EATING THEM!!!"
She pointed.
The camera slowly—mercilessly—zoomed in on the bag in Adrian's hand.
DELI CHIPS
Limited Edition
Silence.
Even the air conditioner stopped humming.
"…Have you thought," Adrian said slowly, desperately, "that maybe I'm eating them because I knew you'd assume I ate them anyway?!"
Dravers didn't blink.
She lunged.
"WAIT—!"
Too late.
She wrapped her arm around his neck and yanked him into a perfect sleeper hold.
Adrian's legs kicked. His arms flailed uselessly like a drowning octopus.
"I—CAN'T—BREATHE—YOU'RE—INSANE—!"
The doorbell rang.
DING—DONG.
Dravers paused.
Adrian's survival instincts went feral.
He twisted, slipped out of her grip, and teleported—not literally, but spiritually—to the far corner of the room.
He pointed at her, panting.
"What the hell is wrong with you, you OLD HAG?!"
The room went quiet.
Dravers slowly turned.
"…Old hag?"
She reached down.
Picked up the TV remote.
And without hesitation—
WHAM!
The remote left her hand like a professional fastball.
DIRECT HIT.
"BWAAAH—!!"
It nailed Adrian square in the forehead.
He toppled backward with a dull THUD, legs stiff, soul briefly exiting his body.
"I'M ONLY TWO DAYS OLDER THAN YOU, YOU FREAKING IDIOT!!!"
She stormed past him, yanked the door open, and slammed it behind her.
Silence.
Adrian groaned.
Slowly… painfully… he sat up, clutching his swelling forehead.
"…Worth it," he muttered.
He reached for the TV remote—
Paused.
"…Oh."
He turned on the TV anyway.
The news flickered to life.
Adrian crunched another chip.
CRUNCH.
"…She's gonna kill me one day."
The TV screen flickered.
"…and in other news," the anchor continued smoothly, "S-rank fighter King Tudor has officially announced that he will be departing for an isolated island—alone—with no guards accompanying him."
Adrian froze mid-crunch.
"…What?"
He grabbed the remote and cranked the volume up.
The broadcast cut to a recorded message.
King Tudor filled the screen—towering, bare-chested, arms crossed, muscles bulging like carved stone. He grinned straight into the camera, all teeth and arrogance.
"To all my little stalkers," Tudor said, voice booming, amused.
"I'll be leaving for an island in the east of Hell. No guards."
He leaned closer, as if sharing a secret.
"Thinking about it… it's the perfect time to get visitors."
He scratched his chin theatrically.
"Don't disappoint me."
The video cut.
Silence.
Adrian slowly turned his head.
Dravers had just walked back into the room, two airplane tickets dangling between her fingers.
Destination: Netherlands.
Adrian's eyes went wide.
His mouth dropped open.
"…This is—" He snapped his head between the TV and the tickets.
"This is the perfect opportunity to assassinate him, don't you think?!"
Dravers didn't answer.
She giggled.
A small one. Soft. Almost cute.
Adrian blinked.
Then she laughed again.
Longer this time.
Then louder.
She bent forward slightly, one hand on her stomach, shoulders shaking.
Adrian leaned back, staring at her with a look that could only be described as deeply concerned confusion mixed with mild disgust—one eyebrow raised, lips pulled sideways, eyes narrowed like he'd just seen someone lick a subway pole.
"…Jeez," he muttered. "What's her problem?"
The laughter abruptly stopped.
Dravers straightened.
Her eyes were sharp now. Clear. Focused.
"He knows," she said calmly.
Adrian frowned. "Knows what?"
"That we're coming," she replied. "And he's setting the stage for us."
She tossed the tickets onto the table.
"It's a trap."
"A… trap?" Adrian echoed, genuinely confused.
"Yes," she said flatly. "Somehow, he knows. And he sent us the tickets himself."
She gestured at the TV.
"'East of Hell' is what people on the surface call the Netherlands."
Adrian's smile faded.
"…He's calling us out."
Dravers crossed her arms.
"If we fight him head-on," she continued, "it's almost impossible for us to win."
Adrian swallowed.
"But—" she added, eyes narrowing, "this is a situation we will never get again."
She began pacing.
"His guards are all at least B-rank. That alone makes him untouchable under normal circumstances."
She stopped.
"We know it's a trap," she said quietly.
"But we can't ignore the offer."
Adrian stared at the tickets.
Then—slowly—he smiled.
A sharp, excited grin.
"He went out of his way," Adrian said, eyes gleaming, "to create a stage for us."
He leaned back into the couch, hands behind his head.
"Well then," he said lightly,
"let's do him a favor…"
His smile widened.
"…and give him a good show."
The TV continued to hum softly in the background.