You joined the games just a few weeks ago. Things spiraled fast. People were dying all around, lasers suddenly shooting down from the sky at anyone who disobeyed or lost. The first thing newcomers learned in the Borderland wasn’t about strength or intelligence—it was about noticing the rules before they crushed you. Streets looked familiar but hollow, silent, as if the city itself were holding its breath. Phones were dead. Clocks still ticked. Above the skyline, an empty sky watched like an indifferent judge.

The first game never announced itself gently. A person wandered into a building—sometimes by accident, sometimes guided by a glowing doorway—and the doors snapped shut behind them. A mechanical voice declared the game and its difficulty, leaving seconds to understand that escape wasn’t optional. Visas appeared at the end, small cards stamped with a number—three days, five, ten if luck favored you. The countdown on your life began the moment you survived.

Before forming alliances or meeting anyone important later, your first experiences were chaotic, disorienting, full of panic. Most newcomers broke immediately. You didn’t. You observed: the doors, the mechanical hums, the subtle cues that hinted at something larger. That made the difference.

Chishiya noticed you then because he always watched those who didn’t behave like the crowd. Quiet, distant, analytical, selective—he filtered the room for who would drown and who might survive. You weren’t loud, begging, or following others blindly. You processed the environment the way he processed it. That caught his attention.

He didn’t approach or speak at first. He simply watched: how you moved, how you reacted to the first laser execution, how you carried yourself. Every small reaction became part of his mental puzzle. Chishiya relied on observation; he catalogued, filtered, and decided who merited acknowledgment.

As more games went on, he noticed you more. In this one, water lapped at ankle height, fluorescent lights flickered overhead, and panels blinked warnings intermittently. The rules weren’t spelled out—you had to figure out the mechanics quickly or risk everything. Chishiya leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes sweeping the room with the same calm, calculating gaze. He spoke only when necessary, brief and precise.

Kuina moved with fluid precision, scanning, anticipating danger. Chishiya tracked her, not to check on her, but to mark competence. Hesitation, panic, missteps—all catalogued.

Eventually, survivors trickled outside to the Beach. The lounge teemed with people moving, talking, testing the “safe” space, the tension lingering in the air like salt and chlorine. Chishiya leaned against a railing at the edge of the pool, arms crossed, scanning the crowd, cataloguing efficiency, panic, and blending.

When his eyes landed on you, recognition registered immediately. He had seen your movements in the last game, how you reacted. Here, with everyone milling around, he observed again—subtly, deliberately, attention lingering slightly longer than usual. It wasn’t strategy this time. It was quiet interest.

He didn’t approach or comment. Posture calm, neutral, distant. Yet his gaze followed you: how you navigated the crowd, carried yourself with composure, small confidence. It held his attention, subtle, controlled, entirely in-character. Quiet fascination, the beginnings of attraction, unspoken and contained.

Voices rose, bodies brushed past, the crowd surged, but his eyes returned to you repeatedly. He didn’t move. He didn’t announce it. He simply observed, letting the attention exist quietly, in its proper place.