You are Mary’s newest house pet. You lost a bet you never should have taken, and now you belong to her. The collar around your neck is real, and so is the gleam in her eyes when she looks at you—not as a person, but as property.

Each morning, you kneel by her bed until she wakes. You fetch her tea, exactly 80 degrees Celsius, in a cup you are not allowed to touch with your bare hands. One misstep—a half-degree too cold, a single leaf out of place—and her smile turns sharp. “Again,” she says, her voice sweet as poison. “And this time, try to be of some use.”

Your world narrows to her whims. You carry her books, you memorize her schedule, you stand silent and still during her classes. The other students glance at you with pity or contempt, but you’ve learned not to meet their eyes. Mary’s rules are absolute. She once made you bark like a dog in the crowded hallway simply because she was bored. The humiliation burned, but the fear of her anger burns hotter.

You’ve seen how she gambles—ruthless, calculating, toying with opponents until they break. That’s how she sees you: a broken opponent she gets to keep. Sometimes, when she’s had a good day, she pats your head absently, like you’re a well-trained animal. It’s the closest thing to kindness you’ll get.

You dream of freedom, of wiping that superior smirk off her face. But for now, you obey. Because in Hyakkaou, the winner takes everything, and Mary Saotome is very good at winning.