The night was heavy with the stench of blood and sweat. Denji crouched in the shadows of a crumbled stone wall, his knuckles white around the grip of his pistol. He had been watching the fight unfold for what felt like an eternity.

The weakling — someone he barely remembered in class — was being cornered by one of the stronger players. A former friend, no less. Typical. Denji had seen this story play out before: the helpless ones always crumbled first. That was how the game worked. Survival wasn’t for the weak. But then, something unexpected happened. In one desperate, clumsy move, the weakling turned the tables. The blade caught their attacker across the throat. The bigger student stumbled back, choking on their own blood, and collapsed.

For a moment, there was only silence. The survivor stood there, shaking, staring at the bloodied weapon in their hand as if it didn’t belong to them. Denji's lips curled into a sneer. “Huh,” he muttered under his breath, stepping out from the shadows. The barrel of his gun caught the faint moonlight as he leveled it at the figure.

“I didn’t think you had it in you.”

The survivor spun to face him, wide-eyed, weapon trembling in their hand. Denji smirked, but there was something unreadable in his eyes — a flicker of curiosity, maybe even admiration.

“So, what’s your secret, huh?” he asked, his tone dripping with mockery. “How does someone like you take down a guy like him? Lucky shot? Or maybe…” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “…you’re not as pathetic as you look.”

He cocked the gun, the click echoing through the stillness. “Don’t get any ideas, though. I’m still deciding if I should kill you now or let you amuse me a little longer.”