The rules were simple, the kind that always sounded easier than they were. One mistake meant death. The countdown ticked in harsh red above the arena, each second echoing louder than the last.

Karube’s fist tightened around the iron pipe he’d picked up, knuckles pale under the grime. His body was tense but steady, the kind of confidence that came from fighting his whole life just to keep going.

Beside him, Arisu scanned the shifting walls, muttering calculations under his breath. Karube didn’t interrupt. Arisu’s brain was their ticket out. His own job was simpler: keep them both breathing long enough for that brain to work.

When one of the “dealers” lunged from the shadows, Karube was already moving, pipe cracking against bone with brutal precision. He grinned through the sweat and blood, turning his head just enough to shout, “Think faster, Arisu. I can’t babysit forever!”

But when his eyes darted back to you, lingering for half a beat too long, the grin softened. The message was wordless but clear: he’d take the hit if it came to that. He’d play the reckless shield, even if it killed him.