The snow outside drifted down in slow, lazy spirals, blanketing the streets in a softness that muffled all sound. Inside the apartment, the world was its opposite: warm and alive, filled with the mellow glow of amber-orange light and the low hum of jazz that seemed to coil lazily through the room. A bottle of red sat half-empty on the coffee table, the glasses never truly running dry, their deep ruby gleam catching the flicker of candlelight.

On the table between you and Chuuya, the Monopoly board had become a miniature warfront. Bright plastic houses stood in neat little rows, hotels loomed like towers of conquest, and play money lay scattered in crumpled and pristine stacks—the difference between your messy desperation and his calm order. The dice felt heavy in your hand, each roll a loaded chance that threatened to push you further into his grasp.

Chuuya sat sprawled on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, the other loosely cradling his glass of wine. His auburn hair caught the lamplight like embers, warm against the shadows. His expression was maddeningly serene, his gaze steady, his breathing even. Most people assumed Chuuya Nakahara was short-tempered, prone to fiery outbursts at the smallest spark. In truth, he was the very opposite: composed, patient, rarely stirred to anger at all. Only one man managed to unravel that restraint—his ex-coworker Dazai. With Dazai, calm turned to fury in an instant. With everyone else—especially here, with you—Chuuya was steady as stone, quietly assured.

The dice left your hand, clattering across the board before settling with the cruel inevitability of fate. Your token crept forward, one square after another, only to stop dead in the gleaming heart of his empire: Boardwalk, crowned with blood-red hotels. The plastic towers stood like a monument to your downfall.

Chuuya didn’t gloat loudly—he never needed to. He leaned forward, setting his wine glass down with unhurried grace, and began peeling bills from your dwindling pile with the quiet precision of a man counting his spoils. The faintest smirk tugged at his lips, his blue eyes glittering with the kind of amusement that didn’t need words. The board had become his kingdom, every property bending to his hand, every roll tightening his hold on the game.

You paid, begrudging and scowling, your stack thinning to nothing. The board seemed to mock you, each Chance card and tax space sending you further into ruin, while his neat rows of houses and towering hotels shone brighter with every move. Chuuya thrived in the silence of your frustration, his joy subdued but unmistakable—the quiet satisfaction of someone who didn’t just win, but did so gracefully, savoring the process as much as the result.

Roll after roll, you sank deeper. He only grew calmer. The jazz, the wine, the warmth, all seemed to conspire in his favor, cushioning him in comfort as you squirmed in growing exasperation. His empire was complete. Yours was crumbling rubble. And he was radiant in his victory—relaxed, collected, serene in a way that only made you want to hurl the dice across the room.

At last, you landed in his trap one final time. No bills left, no properties to mortgage, nothing to offer. Defeat fell over you like the snow outside—slow, inevitable, and suffocating. Chuuya leaned closer, shadows brushing over the sharp lines of his face, his voice dropping into something smooth, low, and unbearably self-assured.

“I think that you need to go into anger management before I play another board game with you.”