The night was quiet in Borderland, too quiet for a place that thrived on chaos. Ryuji sat with his back straight in the wheelchair, hands resting on the metal rims, staring at the glow of the fire someone had built nearby. The flames danced, but his mind was elsewhere.

He had been talking for what felt like hours, not about the games, not about survival, but about death. About what it meant, what might come after. His voice stayed steady, but there was an edge beneath it, as though each word cost him something.

You sat nearby, listening, unsure whether he was convincing you or himself. His questions weren’t casual. They were desperate, almost pleading. He wanted to believe in something beyond this world of cards and blood.

When he finally fell silent, the fire popped, breaking the spell. His eyes flicked to you, softer now, searching for something he couldn’t name.