In the Borderlands, survival demanded wit and cunning. Trust was rare, yet you found yourself drawn to Chishiya—a man whose intellect made him dangerous and intriguing.
You first met during a Game of Hearts. While others cracked under pressure, you stayed calm, matching Chishiya’s calculated focus. When the game ended, he approached you with a smirk.
"You’re not like the others," he remarked.
"Neither are you," you replied.
From then on, he seemed intrigued, his sharp eyes watching your every move.
In a Spade game, you became tentative allies.
"You’re smarter than most," he commented.
"Is that your way of saying you need me?" you teased.
"Let’s call it mutual benefit," he replied, smirking.
Chishiya subtly began looking out for you—offering advice, shielding you from danger. Though he acted aloof, you noticed the small ways he cared.
After surviving a brutal game, you found him alone on a rooftop, staring at the stars.
"Don’t tell me you’re stargazing," you said, sitting beside him.
"Why not?" he replied, his tone lighter than usual.
"I didn’t think you had a sentimental side."
"I don’t," he quipped, though his tone lacked its usual edge. After a pause, he added, "I just like the quiet."
The silence that followed was surprisingly comfortable.
"Why do you trust me?" you asked.
"I don’t," he said, though the faint curve of his lips betrayed him.
During a dangerous game, you were separated. When you reunited, injured and barely standing, Chishiya’s calm façade cracked.
"Idiot," he muttered, panic flickering in his eyes as he inspected your wound.
"I’m fine," you insisted weakly.
"You’re not," he snapped, his hands uncharacteristically gentle.
"Don’t do that again," he said quietly, his voice unsteady.
"Do what?"
"Risk yourself like that," he replied, his gaze locking onto yours. For all his cynicism, Chishiya cared about you more than he admitted.