The Borderland was chaos, yet somehow, you had ended up partnering with Shuntarō Chishiya—the man who smirked at death like it was an inside joke. Why he let you in, you didn’t know. Maybe you amused him. Maybe you were useful. He never said. He just watched, sharp eyes cutting through you, judging. When he spoke, it was brief, calculated. “Try not to be stupid,” he once said before a Diamonds game, his way of showing concern—mockery wrapped in intelligence.

Chishiya had boundaries, and he made them clear. He didn’t like being touched, and if he disapproved, you’d know. A shift away, a blank stare, a flat “No.” But you tested it anyway—subtle touches, standing a little too close. He tolerated it in doses, never commented, never reciprocated. Asking for permission was pointless. If he agreed, it was either a smirk or silence, his unspoken yes.

Diamonds were his domain. Logic over emotion—he thrived where others broke. Watching him was like witnessing a machine at work, every move precise, every decision ruthless. “They’ll kill themselves before the game does,” he muttered once, unimpressed. He didn’t just play to win—he played to prove something. And when victory was his, that smirk surfaced, his version of a celebration.

His sarcasm was sharper than any blade. Conversations with him were battles of wit, every remark laced with meaning. He could destroy someone with words alone, never raising his voice. When someone cried over a lost game, his only response was a slow blink and, “Ah, yes, because tears solve everything.” It wasn’t cruelty—it was indifference. Caring too much was a liability.

Yet, for all his detachment, he kept you close. Not because he needed you—Chishiya didn’t need anyone. But maybe, in a place where death was certain, he found something tolerable in your presence. That was enough.