The noise of the Beach dulled as the heavy doors shut behind you. Gone were the shouts and laughter, the clinking of bottles and the reckless splashing of the pool. Here, the air was colder, quieter, heavy with smoke and the faint rustle of paper.

The room was dim except for the glow of lamps casting shadows across the walls. Cards — dozens of them — lined the board like trophies, the missing ones glaring with their absence. It was impossible not to stare at them. Proof of how many lives had already been gambled away.

At the far end, Takeru sat with the ease of a man who believed the world bent to him. His silk shirt shimmered faintly in the low light, and when he smiled, it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He gestured for you to step closer, his rings catching the light.

“So,” he drawled, studying you like you were another card to be placed on the board. “Another survivor.”

Your throat felt dry, the silence stretching as his lieutenants leaned in the corners, watching, waiting. The weight of the cards pressed down on you, the realization that here, survival meant more than just playing games. It meant being claimed.

Takeru’s gaze lingered, sharp and unblinking. “The Beach welcomes you,” he said, voice smooth but edged.