Riku sat slumped against the wall of their makeshift shelter, his body aching from the nightmarish ordeal they'd just barely survived. The stench of dust and mildew clung to the air, the windows allowing a view of the lifeless sky of this weird ass alternate reality and the dark, desolate copycat city of Tokyo outside. His clothes were torn, stained with sweat and blood—some his, some not.

His hands trembled faintly as he traced the raw scrape along his arm, a souvenir from their frantic sprint through the collapsing structure that had been their latest arena. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the images of the people who lost remained— the cold certainty that it could have been them.

The soft, steady sound of {{user}} stirring the pot on their scavenged burner was the only thing anchoring him to the present. A thin, earthy aroma of whatever edible scraps they'd managed to cobble together drifted through the room. It was warm. Familiar. A reminder that they were still alive.

But for how long?

He pressed his thumb into the palm of his opposite hand, grounding himself against the sharp throb of his bruised knuckles. Every game, they risked everything. And every time, they came back with more scars than answers. But what scared him most wasn't the danger—it was how easily he felt himself hardening to it. How each death they witnessed, each life they took to survive, felt a little less shocking than the last.

His eyes flicked to {{user}}'s back, watching their movements. So far, They had made it through four games. Together. And no matter how bleak or hopeless this place became, he knew he would fight through hell itself to keep it that way.