Only the two of them remained.
The table, perfectly lit from above, seemed smaller now. The surrounding space had become useless. The guards stood motionless in the corners, arms at their sides, faces expressionless. Surveillance cameras hung from the ceiling like cold, black eyes—impossible to ignore.
The dealer, unmoving, kept his hands folded in front of him.
Only Hiroki and Ren.
Face to face.
One seat left.
A place at the table of the "chosen." The ones with black tokens. The supposedly superior ones.
Hiroki leaned back in his chair and let out a short laugh.
— Hey, Ren… How do you feel?
Ren didn't answer immediately.
— How do I feel… in what sense?
Hiroki slowly turned the ring on his finger.
— After helping your friend leave.
His tone wasn't aggressive.
It was curious.
Ren gave a slight smile. A restrained one.
— It was a game.
— It was more than that, Hiroki said calmly. You looked at him differently when he left.
Ren rested his elbows on the table.
— If you're trying to destabilize me, you're late.
— I'm not trying to destabilize you.
Pause.
— I'm just trying to understand what kind of person you are.
Ren fixed his gaze on him.
— Has anyone ever understood you?
The corner of Hiroki's mouth moved almost imperceptibly.
— No.
And for a second, the atmosphere shifted.
It wasn't a duel anymore.
It was silence.
—
The cards were dealt again.
Their sound was clean. Mechanical. Ritualistic.
Ren noticed Hiroki was no longer smiling.
He didn't seem affected by Haruto's elimination. He didn't look triumphant. He didn't look tense.
Just present.
Too present.
— It's interesting, Hiroki said as he lifted his eyes. You play like you have something to lose.
Ren didn't blink.
— We all do.
— No, Hiroki replied calmly. Some people don't have anything left to lose. And that makes them different.
Ren felt something in the way he said that.
It wasn't a general statement.
It was personal.
— And you? Ren asked.
Hiroki didn't answer.
He simply lowered his gaze to the cards.
And for the first time, behind his calm exterior, Ren saw something old.
Something deep.
Something that didn't belong to the table.
—
Years earlier.
The orphanage never smelled like food.
It smelled like cheap detergent and cold metal.
The hallways were long and gray, and the children's voices echoed without joy. It wasn't chaos.
It was order.
Imposed order.
Hiroki didn't stand out.
He wasn't the smallest. He wasn't the weakest. He wasn't the loudest either.
He was… one of many.
And that made him easy to ignore.
Or to hit.
In the cafeteria, the tables were perfectly aligned. Trays were distributed quickly. Each child took their portion and sat down without noise.
Hiroki received his tray.
The portion was small.
But it was his.
He sat down.
He didn't even get to lift the spoon to his mouth.
A shadow fell over him.
— Hey, leave me alone… he muttered instinctively.
Two hands grabbed his shoulders.
Not brutally.
But firmly enough.
Itsuki.
The unofficial leader of the older boys.
— You're small and skinny, Hiroki. You don't need that much food.
A third boy pulled the tray away.
While they held him, the food disappeared quickly.
Hiroki didn't resist.
He couldn't.
Itsuki finished and looked at him.
— See? That's how it's done.
Then he spat beside him.
And, without warning, punched him in the stomach.
The air left Hiroki like something dropped onto the floor.
He fell to his knees.
Clutched his abdomen.
And then he saw him.
At the table beside his.
Another boy.
Slightly smaller.
Suffering the same fate.
The same hunger.
The same powerlessness.
Their eyes met.
It wasn't compassion.
It was recognition.
—
After the older boys left, Hiroki slowly stood up.
He approached him.
Extended his hand.
— It's always like this, isn't it?
The boy looked at him suspiciously at first.
Then accepted the help.
— Yeah, he murmured. If only I could do something to them… but I'm not like them.
Hiroki stared at him.
— Neither am I.
Pause.
— I'm Hiroki.
— Reiji.
And that's where it began.
—
They didn't suddenly become stronger.
The beatings continued.
The trays disappeared.
The mockery was constant.
— Hey, little dolls, are you two together? Itsuki would laugh.
Hiroki usually stayed silent.
But one day, after going without food for the third time in a row, something cracked.
— I don't think you'll ever get a girlfriend, idiot.
It was a small reply.
Weak.
But for Itsuki, it was defiance.
The blows that day were different.
They weren't demonstrations anymore.
They were punishments.
Itsuki left them on the floor.
— I'm the leader. If you don't respect me… maybe you should leave.
Leave.
The word stayed.
—
That night, in the cold hallway, Hiroki and Reiji didn't speak.
They looked at each other.
And understood.
— We should do something, Reiji said.
Hiroki nodded.
There was no anger in his eyes.
There was decision.
—
Itsuki went to the bathroom at midnight.
The light was dim.
Reiji was waiting.
— Oh, little doll… Where's your boyfriend?
Reiji smiled.
Not shy.
Confident.
— You're an idiot.
Itsuki stepped forward.
And then Hiroki came from the side.
He slammed into him.
Pinned him against the wall.
Not to defeat him.
But to create a moment.
Reiji pulled a fork from Hiroki's back pocket.
A cafeteria fork.
Their eyes met.
No words.
Just confirmation.
The movement was quick.
Several times.
The sound wasn't loud.
Itsuki fell.
He wasn't laughing anymore.
He wasn't a leader anymore.
Just a body.
Their breathing was heavy.
— It went according to plan, Hiroki said.
Reiji nodded.
— I told you it would.
They weren't shaking.
They weren't crying.
They didn't yet understand what they had done.
But they knew one thing.
They were no longer victims.
—
It was their last night at the orphanage.
By morning, they were gone.
No trace.
No explanation.
Just two empty beds.
—
Present.
Hiroki shifted slightly in his chair.
His gaze returned to Ren.
— You know what's interesting? he said.
Ren raised an eyebrow.
— What?
— The ones who grow up asking for permission… always stay behind.
Ren studied him carefully.
— And you don't ask for permission anymore.
Hiroki smiled.
— Never.