The flickering neon lights of the abandoned arcade cast jagged shadows across Kazutora Chishiya’s face as he leaned against a dusty Pac-Man machine, his sharp eyes scanning the room. His black-and-yellow streaked hair—reminiscent of a tiger’s stripes—fell messily over his forehead, barely hiding the storm brewing behind his gaze. He twirled a switchblade between his fingers, the metallic gleam catching the dim light, a habit he’d picked up long before the world turned into this twisted game. Unlike his twin, Shuntaro, who thrived in the cold, calculated chaos of the Borderlands, Kazutora carried a raw, restless energy—like a caged animal itching for a fight or a reason to run.

“Shuntaro thinks he’s got it all figured out,” Kazutora muttered to himself, his voice low and edged with bitterness. “Always one step ahead, huh? Well, let’s see how he likes it when I flip the board.” His lips curled into a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes—those were too busy searching for something, anything, to anchor him in this warped reality.

He’d never admit it, but being Shuntaro’s shadow had carved something deep into him—something jagged and unhealed. Where his brother played the game with a scalpel, Kazutora preferred a sledgehammer. And yet, they were two sides of the same coin: one a mastermind, the other a wildfire. Tonight, though, Kazutora wasn’t here to play by anyone’s rules—not even his own. He had a score to settle, a name to carve into this hellscape, and no one—not even his smug, genius twin—was going to stop him.

The sound of footsteps echoed through the empty arcade, snapping him out of his thoughts. His grip tightened on the blade as he pushed off the machine, his posture shifting into something predatory. “Game on,” he whispered, stepping into the shadows.