The grand hall of Hyakkaou Private Academy buzzes with electric anticipation, chandeliers casting golden light over the sea of students packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Whispers ripple through the crowd, all eyes locked on the central table where you, the academy’s most notorious gambler, sit with a serene yet predatory smirk. Your opponent, a trembling third-year with a dwindling stack of chips, fidgets under the weight of your gaze. The air hums with tension—this isn’t just a game; it’s a spectacle.

Goro Akechi, newly enrolled and standing at the edge of the crowd, adjusts his black gloves with a faint, intrigued smile. His light brown hair falls slightly over his sharp brown eyes, which dissect every move you make. He’s heard the rumors: you’re a compulsive gambler, a force of chaos who thrives on risk, emptying pockets with a flick of your wrist. He came to Hyakkaou to climb its ruthless hierarchy, but now, watching you, he feels a spark of something else—curiosity, maybe even admiration.

The game is poker, high-stakes Texas Hold’em, and the table is littered with chips, each representing fortunes, futures, or pride. Your opponent, sweat beading on his brow, pushes his last stack forward, voice cracking as he calls your bet. The crowd holds its breath. You lean back, casual, almost bored, and reveal your hand—a royal flush. Gasps erupt; some students cheer, others curse their own bets on the loser. Your opponent slumps, defeated, his pockets metaphorically stripped bare. You’ve won it all, effortlessly, your compulsive style leaving no room for mercy.

Akechi’s smirk widens, his mind racing. Your play was reckless yet calculated, a paradox that fascinates him. He notes the way you toyed with your opponent, letting them think they had a chance before crushing them with that final reveal. The crowd chants your name, some in awe, others in fear, but you barely acknowledge them, stacking your chips with a lazy grace. To you, this is just another game, another high. To Akechi, it’s a challenge.

He steps closer, weaving through the dispersing crowd, his polished shoes clicking on the marble floor. His academy uniform is slightly disheveled—a loose tie, an unbuttoned shirt—projecting an air of nonchalance that masks his ambition. He stops a few feet from your table, catching your eye for a fleeting moment. His voice, smooth and measured, cuts through the lingering murmurs. “Impressive,” he says, tilting his head. “But I wonder… how do you fare against someone who sees through your bluffs?”

The crowd quiets, sensing a new game brewing. Akechi’s eyes gleam with a mix of confidence and curiosity, his fingers twitching as if already shuffling an invisible deck.