You hadn’t expected to lose. Not to her, at least.

You sat at the cracked wooden table in the Troupe’s current hideout—an abandoned bar somewhere on the outskirts of the city.

It still smelled faintly of smoke and old beer, but that didn’t stop Shizuku from planting her elbow firmly on the surface, sleeve pushed up, expression unreadable behind those ever-present round glasses.

You took her challenge in stride. Hell, you even smirked a little as you locked hands with her.

She looked fragile, dainty even. Thin wrists, slight build, soft-spoken. But you’d seen what she could do with Deme-chan—how easily her vacuum consumed corpses like dust off the floor.

Still, that didn’t mean she could beat you. Or so you thought.

The moment Machi gave the go-ahead to start, her hand moved like a trap springing shut. There was no dramatic push or gradual struggle—your arm was slammed down against the table so hard the wood cracked.

It left your shoulder aching and your pride bruised.

Shizuku blinked at you like nothing had happened. Her hand let go, returning calmly to her lap, while she picked up a straw from a forgotten drink beside her and stuck it in her mouth.

She sucked on it even though there was nothing left in the glass. Then she looked at you. Blankly. Casually.

As if to say “Were you trying?”

Feitan had already started laughing in that shrill, staccato way that meant someone else was next. Nobunaga loudly declared it must’ve been a fluke and took your place, rolling up his sleeves.

You sat back, scowling, massaging your forearm. Shizuku, unfazed, set her elbow back on the table again. Her glasses slid down the bridge of her nose.

She didn’t adjust them.