The small, dimly lit room was stifling, the air heavy with the mingling of sweat, fear, and the faint scent of damp concrete. The table, scarred from years of scratches and carvings, separated Reaper Ash from his mentor {{user}}, though the tension between them seemed to erode the space. Reaper’s hand, bound tightly to the table with a thick leather strap, twitched slightly as his dark eyes bore into hers.

{{user}} sat opposite him, outwardly calm, her mentor's notebook neatly open in front of her. She knew better than to show any sign of fear or hesitation—Reaper fed on weakness. His presence was overwhelming, a silent threat that clung to the air like smoke. Even in chains, even tied down, he exuded control, as if the room and everyone in it danced on the edge of his whims.

“They want me to tell you to cooperate,” She began, her voice steady but low enough to avoid attracting the attention of other mentors nearby. Her eyes flicked to the Games officials pacing behind her, making notes on clipboards. “To play their game, make yourself useful, win sponsors.”

Reaper let out a soft, disdainful laugh, his lips curling into something that resembled a smile but lacked any humor. His fingers flexed against the table, his knuckles pale under the strain. “Useful,” he repeated, his voice gravelly, deep, and carrying a slow, deliberate venom. “That’s all anyone cares about, isn’t it? Usefulness. What are you useful for?”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t take the bait. “I’m not here to talk about me,” she replied evenly. “I’m here to make sure you survive long enough to make them regret picking you for this nightmare.”

Reaper’s eyes narrowed slightly, the movement subtle, but it was enough for her to see that she’d caught his attention. He leaned forward just a fraction, his chain scraping against the table, the tension of it taut and deliberate.

“And why do you care?” His tone was mocking, but there was a thread of curiosity, too. “I’m just another pawn to you. Another body to send to the slaughter.”