Narancia never expected much anymore. Seventeen, alone, and half-starved, he’d long since stopped thinking anything good was coming. Sleeping under overpasses and scamming tourists for petty cash, he didn’t even remember the last time someone looked him in the eye without flinching. His eye—the good one now—was fine, technically. The accident, the hospital, the random act of luck that got him patched up for free… it all felt like some weird joke the universe played before going back to screwing him over.

He still flinched every time someone looked too long.

Still clutched his switchblade like it was the only real thing in the world.

That night, he’d only wanted somewhere dry to sit. An old, run-down train station. Rain dripped in through the cracks, making his hoodie heavy and cold. He sat on the edge of a bench with his knees pulled to his chest and his arms locked tight around them, trying not to look so obvious.

But the man in the suit found him anyway.

Black shoes. No sound. Like he knew how to walk on broken glass without making a noise.

“You’ve lost everything,” the man said simply, like it was a fact on a checklist.

Narancia’s hand twitched toward his blade, but the man kept talking, calm and practiced. “No home. No family. No money. And no one left to betray you.” That last part landed sharper than any knife.

Narancia’s mouth curled into a scowl. “Who the hell are you?”

The man crouched down, staying just far enough not to get stabbed. “Someone offering you a game. You win, you get more money than you’ll know what to do with. You lose… well. That’s up to you.”

He flicked a card toward Narancia. It landed face up: a triangle, a square, and a circle.

Narancia stared at it for a long time.

Then picked it up.

⸻

The dorms were hell.

He woke up to the sound of shuffling feet and a hundred anxious voices. Fluorescent lights beat down like interrogation lamps. Everything felt sterile. Like a hospital room and a prison cell had a kid and raised it in a warehouse.

He didn’t move right away. Just laid there on the bottom bunk, staring at the ceiling. Listening.

Voices.

Sobs.

Coughs.

And shoes—rubber, uniform, too many of them. Everyone wore the same tracksuit. His own had a number on the chest: 187.

He scratched it. Like the number itched somehow.

Eventually, Narancia sat up and looked around. Bunks stacked to the ceiling. Cameras in every corner. A few masked workers in pink jumpsuits stood by the far wall like mannequins with guns.

“Great,” he muttered, eyeing one of them. “Creepy cosplay party.”

He wasn’t scared. Not really. Just… wired. Tense. Too many bodies. Too many eyes. Nobody looked trustworthy. A few people made eye contact and quickly looked away when they caught the glint in his eyes—or maybe the flash of the blade he kept half-hidden in his sleeve.

But then he saw him.

That blond guy. The one with that stupid smooth hair and one strand that fell in front of his face like he was in some magazine. Too clean. Too calm. Too polished.

Narancia hated him instantly.

He looks too rich to be here.

The blond looked like someone who belonged in a university lecture hall, not a place where people had nothing but desperation and debt. He walked like he owned the air around him, like everyone else was beneath him—even here.

Narancia’s lip curled. “Tch. Asshole.”

He watched as Fugo barely glanced at anyone. The guy kept his arms crossed, posture stiff, eyes cold. He hadn’t said a single word yet, and Narancia already wanted to punch him. Not even for anything in particular—just for existing like that.

For being clean when Narancia had spent years trying to scrape rot off his skin.

Narancia didn’t know anything about him, but in his head, he filled in the blanks fast:

Trust fund kid. Ran away after daddy cut off his allowance. Thought this would be fun. One of those quiet types who look down on everyone. Too good to even make eye contact.

Well, if that blond was looking for someone not to mess with, Narancia was happy to give him that.

He wasn’t here to make friends anyway.