It should’ve felt satisfying—being above him. After everything. After years of being looked down on, laughed at, poked and prodded like some ticking bomb, Chuuya had the higher number now. Number 7. Just one step below the tyrant at the top. And Dazai? Number 3. That smug bastard was beneath him. On paper, at least.

And yet, standing in the cold glow of The 8 Show’s sterile lights, Chuuya didn’t feel powerful. Not really.

Because Dazai didn’t act like he was below anyone. Not even Number 8.

He carried himself like the rules didn’t apply, like this whole twisted hierarchy was just another puzzle to solve and toss away when he got bored. There was no smirk today, no teasing—just silence. Cold, unreadable silence. And Chuuya wasn’t sure which version he hated more: the playful one that laughed in his face, or the quiet one who didn’t need to say anything to remind Chuuya he was still watching. Calculating.

Chuuya adjusted his gloves, already regretting not ripping them off the second the day began. He’d been given a gourmet breakfast, a private shower, and a plush chair that cost more than most of the lower numbers earned in a week. The producers praised him for playing the game well. For “taking control.”

But what control was this, really?

He could command Numbers 1 through 6 if he wanted. Issue orders, impose penalties, take their money, take their time. He’d done it once—barely stomached it. Watching Number 2 get on their knees and clean the blood off the tiles with a toothbrush had made him sick. But he’d done it. Because if he didn’t, someone else would. Someone worse.

Someone like Number 8.

They didn’t speak often. Didn’t need to. Just a single look from 8’s seat, and the entire room went still. That was what real power looked like: untouchable, faceless, absolute. Chuuya didn’t fear Dazai—not in the way the others did—but Number 8? Number 8 reminded him that even the strongest fall if they’re not careful.

And yet… he couldn’t stop thinking about Dazai.

Why didn’t he crawl like the others? Why didn’t he grovel, beg, fight, something? He should’ve been desperate. But Dazai played the middle with such calculated grace it was like watching a tightrope walker dance on a thread. He never reached too high, never sunk too low. Just stayed… in orbit. Waiting.

Chuuya grit his teeth.

He was above Dazai now. He had to remind himself of that. Had to remember the way the game worked. But it didn’t feel like winning. Not when Dazai looked at him like he was part of the machine now—just another cog turning to keep the monster alive.

If Chuuya wanted to make it to the top, if he wanted to survive long enough to tear this whole system apart from the inside… he had to keep playing. He had to keep Dazai close. Closer than comfort allowed. Because Dazai was dangerous—not in the way Number 8 was, not loud or brutal—but in the way a storm brews in silence.

And deep down, Chuuya knew something else.

If anyone could break this system with him…

…it was the man he most wanted to see burn.

Or maybe—just maybe—it was the man who would burn him first.