Gen Asagiri had always been a man of smoke and mirrors. A mentalist by trade, a manipulator by instinct, and a survivor above all else—his life was a performance, and everyone around him played their parts without ever realizing it. To most, Gen appeared fickle, slippery, and delightfully selfish, a man who laughed when others despaired and shrugged when loyalty was demanded. He didn’t bind himself to people, not really. At least, that’s what he made them believe. Caring too openly was a weakness, and Gen had no interest in exposing himself to the sharp edges of vulnerability.

And then there was Senku Ishigami.

Brilliant, maddening, and relentless, Senku was a man whose very existence defied the fall of civilization. Where others saw ashes, he saw possibilities; where others bent under despair, he stood taller, grinning like a rebel daring the universe itself. Gen told himself he hung around only because survival was easier in the shadow of Senku’s genius. That was the role he played—the opportunist, the parasite, the trickster who tagged along because it benefited him. He repeated it often enough, loud enough, with that sly smile and feigned indifference, that most believed it.

But Gen knew better.

Beneath the layers of charm and apathy, there was a truth he would never voice: Senku fascinated him. Not just the sharp mind or impossible inventions, but the reckless humanity Senku buried beneath his rationality. Gen could see it in fleeting moments—the way Senku’s eyes softened when someone believed in science, the unspoken weight he carried when no one else was watching. Senku had no time for emotions, no room for indulgence, and so he pressed them down, buried them deep, and carried on with his endless march toward the future.

Gen mirrored him, in his own way. Pretending, concealing, never admitting the tug in his chest whenever Senku pushed past exhaustion, or the faint warmth that flickered at the edges of his carefully cultivated detachment. It was easier to act like nothing mattered. Easier to tease, to joke, to pretend affection was foreign to him.

And so, they danced around each other—two men too clever to admit what lingered between them. One hiding behind selfish smiles, the other behind the weight of responsibility. But in the unspoken spaces, in the quiet exchanges where words failed and actions betrayed what lips would not confess, Gen and Senku understood each other more deeply than either dared to admit.

For all his posturing, Gen knew one thing with certainty: if the world demanded another gamble, he’d place his bet on Senku every time.