Chapter Text
The Kakegurui Club didn’t open—it erupted.
The doors barely had time to shut before sound slammed into the room. Music roared from hidden speakers, bass pounding hard enough to rattle the tables, to shake dust loose from the old beams overhead. Lights burned warmer, brighter, gold bleeding into red, casting the room in a feverish glow. Shadows danced and warped, stretched thin by bodies packed shoulder to shoulder.
Students flooded in.
House pets shoved through first, eyes wide, half-terrified and half-drunk on the idea that this place even existed. Upperclassmen followed, grinning, already reaching for chips, already calling out stakes like they owned the room. Laughter cracked sharp and loud, voices stacking over one another, deals made mid-step, hands clasped and released in seconds.
The air was chaos.
Smoke curled thick and constant, cigarette after cigarette lit without ceremony. Someone exhaled a cloud directly over a blackjack table, ash dropping onto the felt. Drinks sloshed over the rims of cups as people shoved past, alcohol biting sharp in the back of throats, loosening tongues, loosening restraint.
“Another round!”
“Double it!”
“Don’t fold, you fucking coward—”
Chips clattered nonstop, a relentless metallic rain. Stacks rose, collapsed, rebuilt. Dice slammed against wood. Cards snapped down so hard the sound cut clean through the music. Cheers erupted—raw, feral—followed by groans that dissolved into laughter and another drink.
It was too much.
It was perfect.
And Yumeko thrived in it.
At the Baccarat table near the back—where the bass rattled the felt and smoke clung low to the lights—the chaos sharpened into something vicious. Double Hand Baccarat. Two hands.
The dealer barely had time to breathe.
Yumeko leaned forward, forearms resting on the edge of the table, fingers already nudging her chips into position. Her pulse wasn’t just racing—it was singing. This was where her instincts burned brightest.
Across from her, the fourth-year adjusted his loosened tie, jaw set, posture rigid with confidence. His stack was tall. Neat. Ordered.
“Bets,” the dealer called.
Yumeko didn’t hesitate.
She split her chips cleanly—Player and Banker—then added more on top, a reckless layering that drew a few sharp breaths from the crowd pressing in behind her.
Cards snapped down.
Banker. Win.
Player. Loss.
She laughed—soft, breathless, delighted—and shoved more chips forward.
Again.
The fourth-year matched her, then raised, eyes flicking to her face like he was searching for something betraying her.
He found none.
The rhythm accelerated. Cards burned. Cards fell. Chips slid back and forth in violent little avalanches. The music pounded harder, the crowd louder, the air hotter.
Yumeko was grinning now.
Not polite. Not controlled.
Ecstatic.
She chased the variance. Pressed wins. Ignored losses. When probability dipped, she doubled down anyway, leaning into the swing instead of away from it. Her stack grew uneven, messy, towering—chips threatened to fall off.
Across from her, the fourth-year’s pile shrank.
His confidence went first.
A bead of sweat traced down his temple. His raises came slower. Sloppier. He stopped watching the dealer and started to watching her instead.
“Double,” he said at last, voice tight.
The word rippled through the crowd.
Yumeko’s eyes lit up like she’d been waiting for it.
“Yes,” she breathed, and pushed everything forward. No split. No safety. All in—twice.
The dealer hesitated.
Then dealt.
Silence snapped into place.
Two hands. Two outcomes.
Banker.
Player.
Both wins.
For her.
The table exploded.
Shouts tore through the room. Someone slammed their palm down hard enough to jolt the chips. Laughter burst loud and wild. The music surged, feeding off the chaos.
The dealer swept the chips toward Yumeko in a glittering wave.
Across from her, the fourth-year froze. His stack was gone.
Not diminished. Not thinned.
Gone.
He stared at the felt like it had betrayed him personally, lips parted, color draining from his face as realization hit—slow, brutal, undeniable.
Yumeko dragged the winnings in with both hands, breath coming fast, laughter spilling out, raw and alive, in a way that bordered on frightening.
“Holy shit,” someone muttered behind her.
Yumeko looked up at her opponent, tilted her head slightly, and smiled.
“Thank you for playing,” she said brightly.
He didn’t even answer. He just pushed back from the table and disappeared into the crowd, swallowed whole.
Yumeko didn’t watch him go. She was already stacking her winnings, fingers trembling with adrenaline, laughter bubbling up as the room surged around her.
Then she paused and pulled out her phone.
22:00.
Two hours left.
The number felt different now—no longer thrilling, just sharp. Pressure narrowed her field of vision, compressing the noise, and the laughter into something urgent and demanding.
“Well,” a familiar voice said beside her, calm opposed to the room, “you look busy.”
Michael stood there, hands in his pockets, gaze flicking once to her stacks before meeting her eyes.
“Care to play?” he asked.
At first glance, he was calm. Hands loose at his sides, posture relaxed, gaze steady despite the chaos surging around them.
Then she noticed it.
His right hand.
A faint tremble. Gone almost as soon as it appeared—but not fast enough.
Her smile dropped.
“Michael,” she said lightly, already pulling her chips closer, fingers moving with practiced speed. “I can’t waste my time playing you. No offense.”
He frowned slightly. Just enough to register.
She tilted her head, studying him now, curiosity threading through his urgency. “And since when do you play?”
The bass thudded hard enough to rattle the table. Someone nearby whooped in victory. Chips spilled, laughter followed.
Michael exhaled through his nose.
“I don’t,” he said. “Usually.”
His eyes flicked—not to the cards, not to her stack—but upward, toward the far wall where the clock glowed faintly through the haze. He caught himself a second too late.
Yumeko hummed, low and satisfied, fingers idly straightening a stack of chips as the noise of the room swelled around her.
Then a voice cut through it.
“Hey, Mickey,” Dori shouted from across the room. “Come here.”
Michael stiffened. His shoulders locked, posture snapping tight as if he’d been caught mid-breath. The calm he’d been wearing since he arrived cracked just enough to show something brittle underneath.
“Whatever it is,” he said quickly, eyes fixed on the table instead of her, “I’m busy.”
Yumeko turned, frowning faintly. She had never seen him like this. Something was off. He hadn’t met her eyes properly in weeks. Hadn’t lingered, hadn’t asked questions the way he used to.
Across the room, Dori stood near the far wall, one hand braced against an old hanging frame. She dragged her sleeve across the glass, dust blooming into the warm light as the image beneath began to surface.
“You guys really should’ve cleaned better,” Dori called lazily. “You forgot this.”
She wiped again, slower this time, smearing the dust away with deliberate care.
“Mickey,” she added, amusement curling sharp at the edges, “you’re gonna wanna see this.”
Michael didn’t move. His jaw tightened, breath shallow.
“I’m positive,” he said flatly, “that I won’t.”
Dori laughed loudly.
“Oh? Because it looks like your dad and my mom back in the day.” She tapped the frame lightly. “Apparently they were members of whatever this is.”
The color drained from Michael’s face all at once.
Yumeko felt it before she understood it—a cold drop in her stomach, instinct screaming before reason could catch up. She looked at him properly now. The way his eyes had gone unfocused. The way his hands had curled like he was holding onto something invisible.
She stood. The movement was smooth, practiced, but something coiled beneath it now.
Michael reached out and caught her arm. “Yumeko,” he said quietly, fingers tightening just enough to stop her. “Let’s just play, okay?”
She shook him off.
The room went distant. Not the music. Not the laughter. Not the chips. None of it reached her anymore.
She crossed the floor toward Dori, steps precise, controlled, as if she were moving through water. Without waiting, she wiped the rest of the dust from the wooden frame herself, glass clearing inch by inch. Faces emerged.
Her mother.
Her father.
The same photograph. The one she had stolen from the Student Council archives. Her chest tightened as recognition settled heavy and undeniable.
Her gaze dropped to the plaque beneath the frame.
Kakegurui Club - 1992
Names followed, engraved into the gold plaque, its surface scratched and darkened with age, the letters catching the light unevenly.
Keiko Hashimoto — Club President and Founder.
Arkadi Timurov — Club Vice President.
Joe Jabami — Club Treasurer.
Her breath caught as her eyes moved faster now, searching, scanning, dread coiling tighter with every line.
Then she saw it.
Gabriel “Ray” Addams — Honorary Member.
Michael hadn’t moved.
He stood frozen near the table, dread written plainly across his face now, stripped of every careful layer he’d worn until this moment. His eyes were fixed on the frame, unfocused, like he was seeing something far older than the room itself. His mouth opened once, then closed again. Whatever he’d been holding back had finally caught up to him—and it showed.
Yumeko didn’t look at him again.
She didn’t need to.
The realization hit with brutal clarity. Not suspicion. Not doubt. Certainty. The shape of the truth snapped into place all at once, sharp enough to steal the air from her lungs.
He had known.
Not guessed. Not pieced together recently.
Known.
Her composure cracked—not loudly, not dramatically—but deep, somewhere beneath the chaos she wore like second skin. The thrill drained out of her veins, replaced by something colder. Heavier. The betrayal wasn’t loud. It was precise.
The music suddenly felt unbearable.
Too loud. Too close. Every laugh scraped against her nerves, every cheer a mockery. The clatter of chips sounded obscene now, like nothing in this room mattered anymore.
She turned away and walked.
Not fast enough to be running. Not slow enough to be like her usual self. Her steps cut straight through the crowd, shoulders squared, eyes fixed ahead as she pushed past bodies and smoke and heat. Mary called her name but she didn’t hear her.
She burst through the doors and into the corridor, the sound dying abruptly behind her. The air here was cooler but also thinner. Her breath came sharp, uneven, hands curling into fists at her sides as she kept moving, boots striking the floor with controlled force.
“Yumeko—”
Michael’s footsteps echoed behind her.
“I can explain,” he said, voice tight, strained, trying to keep up as she rounded the corner.
She stopped so suddenly he nearly ran into her.
She turned.
The look on her face wasn’t wild. It wasn’t frantic.
It was clear.
“You knew,” she said, voice low, steady in a way that was far more dangerous than shouting. “All this time.” Her dark chocolate brown eyes locked onto his, unblinking. “You fucking knew.”
She took a step closer.
“And you let me dig,” she continued, words sharp now, cutting clean through him. “You let me humiliate myself—chasing a truth you were already sitting on. ”
Her jaw tightened, breath shallow but still controlled.
“Say it,” she said, eyes locked on his, daring him to lie to her again. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
Michael swallowed hard, words stacking behind his teeth like they might choke him if he chose wrong. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, fingers flexing once before he clenched them tight.
“I —” he said finally, voice breaking just enough to betray him. “Yumeko, I swear—I was going to tell you.”
She laughed.
Not loudly. Not even bitterly.
Just a soft, breathless sound that held no humor at all.
“You were the only person,” she said calmly, each word placed with care, “who knew why I came to Saint Dom’s”.
A faint smile touched her lips—thin, fleeting, and sad.
“You knew I was here to find who killed my parents.”
She stepped into his space now, close enough that he had to meet her gaze or look away.
“I trusted you.”
She stepped closer.
“You pretended to be my friend for what?” Her voice stayed quiet, dangerously calm. “To get close enough to finish the job?”
“No,” he said immediately— too fast. “No—never. I did it to protect you, Yumeko.”
Her head tilted, sharp and inquisitive.
“Protect me,” she echoed harsher. “Or protect yourself?”
That landed.
Something in Michael’s face shifted—not denial, not anger, but calculation slipping too late.
Yumeko caught it.
Kira.
The realization settled into place with chilling clarity, effortless and complete.
“You’ve been talking to her lately, haven’t you,” Yumeko said quietly. It wasn’t a question. “Feeding her pieces. Not enough to stop me—” her lips curved faintly, bitter, “—just enough to keep me on a leash.”
Michael’s jaw tightened.
“And Dori,” she continued, her gaze flicking once—only once—toward the club doors. “That wasn’t a coincidence, was it.”
She let the silence stretch just long enough.
“You told her when to lock us in,” Yumeko said calmly. “It wasn't Kira. It was all you.” Her eyes returned to his, sharp and unblinking. “You needed me stalled.”
Michael didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
The tension in his shoulders, the way his breath hitched before he could stop it—his eyes betrayed him long before his mouth ever would.
“You didn’t just let it happen,” Yumeko said softly almost in disbelief . “You made it happen.”
The words settled between them. Then she tilted her head again, studying him like a puzzle until she realized something else.
Then she asked, almost gently, “And Ryan.”
That did it.
His shoulders sagged—just a fraction. Enough.
“Was it you,” Yumeko asked, voice steady, precise, “who told her about Ryan’s secret?”
Michael closed his eyes.
Just for a second.
“Yes.”
The word landed heavier than any shout could have.
“Yes,” he repeated, quieter now. “I told her.”
Yumeko didn’t react right away.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t step back.
Her face stayed still—but something in her eyes dimmed, like a light being deliberately shut off.
“You knew what she would do with it,” Yumeko said.
Michael swallowed. “I thought I did.”
She waited.
“When Ryan and I moved in together,” he continued, voice low, stripped of polish now, “last year—there was a night.” His gaze drifted, unfocused. “I came home early. I heard him arguing with his mother on the phone. I wasn’t trying to listen. I just—” He swallowed. “I heard enough.”
Yumeko’s fingers curled slowly at her sides.
“I didn’t confront him,” Michael said. “I didn’t say anything. I started looking instead.” His mouth twisted faintly. “Sealed records. Things I shouldn’t have been able to access—if it weren’t for my family connections.”
“You investigated him,” Yumeko said flatly.
“Yes.”
Michael looked at her then, eyes sharp with something defensive. “I thought she’d scare him. Push him away from you. Make him back off.”
A bitter edge crept into his voice.
“I thought she’d use it as leverage to distance him. To make him leave. But instead, she used it to force him to play—and cheat—against you. To turn you into a house pet.”
Yumeko stared at him.
“You handed her a loaded gun,” she responded, “and convinced yourself she’d use it responsibly.”
Michael’s lips parted. Closed again.
“And you still want me to believe,” she continued, “that everything you did was to protect me.”
“I was trying to control the damage,” he said weakly.
“Did you tell her why I stole that file? Why I’m here?” Yumeko asked, her voice testing the edges.
“No,” Michael said immediately. Too quickly. “I never told her about your parents. About Ray. About what you were looking for.” His voice dropped, stripped of bravado. “I wouldn’t.”
Something in her chest shifted—not relief.
Recalibration.
“Then what?” Yumeko pressed.
Michael dragged a hand through his hair, the careful composure he’d been clinging to finally splintering fully. “I was trying to stop you from getting to Ray, my father.”
Her gaze sharpened.
“From finding out who he really was. From connecting the rest of it” he continued, rushing now, words tumbling as if speed might soften them. ” He swallowed hard. “Because once you did—once you really understood—there was no going back.”
He flinched before she even responded.
“I didn’t have a choice,” he said, voice rough, stripped of polish and excuses. “You were moving too fast. Digging too deep.” His jaw tightened. “You needed to be stopped.”
That did it.
Yumeko’s breath left her slowly, controlled, as if she were steadying a blade instead of herself. Whatever warmth had once existed between them was gone now—burned down to something colder. Cleaner.
“Stopped,” she repeated quietly.
She stepped closer.
Then closer still.
Until there was barely any space left between them.
Her presence wasn’t loud. It wasn’t frantic. It was precise—focused in a way that made the air feel thinner, tighter.
“Look at me,” she said softly.
Michael did.
“Look me in my eyes,” Yumeko continued, her voice slowing, lowering, every syllable placed with deliberate care, “and tell me there is no way your father could have killed my parents.”
Silence.
Not hesitation.
Not denial.
Silence.
Yumeko held his gaze for a long second longer, searching for something she already knew she wouldn’t find.
Then she laughed.
Sharp. Cynical. A sound scraped raw from her throat.
“Wow,” she said quietly, teeth grinding together. “You’re just as bad as he is.”
She turned away from him, already moving back toward the club room—toward the noise, the lights, the lies she now saw clearly for what they were.
Started back toward the club room, toward the noise, the lights, the lies.
Michael grabbed her shoulders.
Hard.
“Yumeko,” he said urgently, fingers digging in as panic finally broke through him, “you don’t understand.”
She stilled—but didn’t pull away.
“My family name,” he continued, voice shaking now, stripped bare, “isn’t built on a fortune like most people here. It’s built on blood.” His grip tightened. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to escape it, knowing that one day I’d be dragged back in.”
Yumeko’s fingers curled slowly at her sides.
Michael leaned closer, desperation bleeding into every word now, control completely gone.
“If you go looking for him,” he said hoarsely, almost pleading, “you will die.”
She turned then.
Slowly.
The look on her face wasn’t shock.
Wasn’t fear.
It was something else entirely.
Fiercer.
“He will kill you,” Michael finished, the words breaking as they left him.
For a moment, Yumeko just looked at him.
Really looked.
At the fear carved deep into his expression—no longer hidden, no longer controlled. At the way his hands trembled now, betraying him despite every effort to still them. At the boy who had sat beside her in the library and cafeteria as a friend, who had shared quiet jokes over shitty coffee, who had warned her when danger crept too close—and lied to her with the same careful tenderness.
She took it all in.
And then she smiled.
Small. Sharp. Devastating.
“You really believe that’s protection,” she said quietly.
Her voice was calm—too calm. Stripped of heat, stripped of doubt, precise in a way that left no room for misunderstanding. Her gaze never left his, dark eyes steady and unflinching.
Michael opened his mouth.
She didn’t let him speak.
“You didn’t try to stop me because I was wrong,” Yumeko said softly, each word landing with deliberate weight. “You stopped me because you were afraid.” A faint tilt of her head. A clinical assessment. “You are a coward. Kira was right about that.”
That landed harder than any shout ever could.
She stepped back then, putting distance between them, already turning toward the club doors. Toward the noise and the lights and the madness she understood far better now.
“If you’re right about him,” Yumeko said quietly, without looking back, “then that only makes things simpler.”
Michael surged forward and grabbed her arm again—harder this time. Desperate.
“Yumeko—don’t,” he said, panic finally tearing through his voice. “You don’t understand—”
She shook him off with effortless force.
The movement was clean. Controlled. Final.
She turned to face him, eyes dark now—emptied of her usual spark, emptied of hesitation.
“I made a vow,” she said.
Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t tremble. It didn’t need to.
“And when I find your father…” She paused just long enough for the words to settle, to take shape in the space between them.
Her eyes met his.
Cold.
Finished.
“I will kill him.”
Michael’s breath hitched, the sound sharp and involuntary, like something breaking inside his chest.
Yumeko leaned in then—just enough for him to hear her next words clearly. Unmistakably.
“We’re done,” she said. “Don’t speak to me. Don’t pretend you’re still allowed near me.” A fractional pause. “I never want to see you again.”
She stepped away.
Turned toward the club doors.
This time, when she walked back into the noise and the light and the madness, there was no hesitation left at all.
No doubt.
No fear.
Only intent.
**********************************************************
The club was still roaring, but the frenzy had shifted.
Not louder—denser.
The sound no longer exploded outward. It pressed in. Music thudded low through the floor, steady and relentless, the bass trapped beneath layers of bodies and smoke. Heat clung to skin, sweat shared between strangers. The air felt chewed up—thick, overworked—harder to breathe, harder to push through without effort.
Glasses clinked closer together now, lifted carefully to avoid spilling. Cards snapped down with less flourish and more intent. Chips scraped and clattered in tight, overlapping rhythms, the noise folding in on itself until it began to sound almost mechanical.
People weren’t shouting as much anymore.
They were leaning.
Watching.
Waiting.
Yumeko sat at a poker table near the center of it all.
She didn’t look overwhelmed. She didn’t look rushed.
She looked almost still.
Her posture was loose, relaxed, one elbow resting against the edge of the table as if this were the most natural place in the world for her to be. Her gaze, however, missed nothing—tracking hands, breaths, hesitation, the way her opponent’s fingers tapped just a fraction too fast against his stack before each decision.
The pot between them had grown obscene.
Chips piled high, messy and careless, the kind of stack that stopped feeling like money after a while and started feeling abstract. Sweat dotted foreheads around the table. Someone wiped their palms on their trousers. No one spoke.
Yumeko barely blinked.
The dealer’s voice cut clean through the noise.
“Showdown.”
Cards hit the felt.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then—
A sharp intake of breath from somewhere behind her.
A murmur rippled across the table, spreading outward as recognition set in, quiet at first and then louder as more people leaned in to see.
Straight flush.
The odds of it—absurd, laughable. One hand in sixty-five thousand. The kind of miracle that made cautious players cross themselves and quit while they were ahead.
Yumeko felt it bloom under her skin instead—warm, electric, intoxicating.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” someone muttered, disbelief edged with something like awe.
Yumeko just smiled.
The dealer didn’t hesitate. The chips were swept toward her in a glittering wave—all of them, dragged across the felt and stacked in front of her with efficient finality.
A whistle cut through the air. Someone laughed, sharp and loud. Another hand slapped the table hard enough to make nearby glasses rattle.
Yumeko leaned back in her chair, the familiar hum of adrenaline settling warm beneath her skin. This—this—was where she belonged. The noise, the pressure, the risk stacked so high it stopped feeling dangerous and started feeling intoxicating.
She reached for her phone.
23:07.
Less than one hour until midnight.
And she was still far from the Top Ten.
Her thumb hovered over the screen a second longer than necessary before she locked it and slipped it away.
When she looked up again, the room had changed.
Not in volume—intent.
More bodies pressed in around the tables now, but the energy had sharpened. Eyes tracked movement instead of cards. Conversations cut short when hands were raised. Deals were watched as closely as they were played.
Chad stood near the roulette table, laughing too loudly, cheeks flushed, already halfway gone. Dori leaned against a pillar, cigarette glowing between her fingers, gaze lazy but sharp, taking in everything without committing to anything. Runa sat perched near the leaderboard, legs crossed, fingers flying across the screen as she updated scores, her grin wide and unapologetic—clearly enjoying herself.
Yumeko gathered her chips slowly. Deliberately. She stacked them with care this time, hands steady despite the buzz still humming through her veins.
The leaderboard refreshed.
Her name climbed.
Once.
Twice.
Then settled.
House pet status—gone.
For the first time in almost a month, she exhaled.
Something tight in her chest finally loosened—not relief, exactly, but release. The weight had shifted.
And there was still time left.
Then the doors opened.
The music didn’t stop—but it faltered. Just a fraction. Enough to be felt.
The bass thinned, as if the room itself had drawn a breath. Conversations unraveled mid-sentence. A laugh burst out too late, sharp and awkward, then died when no one joined in.
Kira stepped inside.
She didn’t need to announce herself. She never did.
The space made room for her instinctively—bodies shifting, shoulders turning, eyes tracking her movement before their owners consciously realized they were doing it. Suki and Riri flanked her, composed and watchful, expressions carefully neutral. Rex followed a step behind, arms crossed, gaze sweeping the room with open disdain.
And then—almost like an afterthought—
Michael.
Yumeko’s smile didn’t disappear.
It changed.
Across the room, Chad straightened so abruptly his chair screeched backward. “Kira, I— I was actually just about to—”
Runa’s hand came up smoothly, covering his mouth without even looking at him. “Shh,” she said lightly. “You’re making it worse.”
Kira didn’t spare Chad a glance.
Her green-bluish eyes were already on Yumeko.
“I’ll deal with you after the retreat,” Kira said coolly, her gaze flicking to Chad for exactly one second—long enough to lock him in place, to drain the color from his face.
Yumeko met her stare head-on, chips stacked neatly in front of her, pulse still racing—not with fear, but with something sharper. Something alive.
Someone near the back exhaled audibly, like they’d been holding their breath without realizing it. Another voice—awed, almost reverent—cut through the hush.
“Yumeko is officially out of house pet status.”
The words landed like a verdict.
Then Yumeko moved.
Not fast. Not hesitant.
She pushed her chair back just enough to rise halfway, spine arching as she straightened. The movement was deliberate—measured in inches, not urgency. One hand slid to her neck. Fingers curled around the thin chain resting against her collarbone.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then she pulled.
The chain snapped with a soft, brittle sound—barely audible beneath the low thrum of music still bleeding through the room. Yumeko didn’t look down. Her gaze never left Kira’s.
She let the broken chain dangle once between her fingers, metal catching the light as it swung. A small thing. A symbol that had weighed far more than it ever should have.
She stepped away from her table.
Each step toward Kira was unhurried, her shoes clicking softly against the floor, precise and unafraid. The broken chain swung once more before she wrapped it loosely around her hand, the tag glinting gold-red beneath the lights.
She stopped an arm’s length away.
Close enough to feel Kira’s presence. Close enough to be unmistakable.
“Nice of you to join us,” Yumeko said, voice light, almost pleasant. “Kira-san.”
A murmur rippled outward, tension cracking through the crowd like static.
Kira’s expression didn’t change—but something else did. A subtle shift, barely visible. The smallest tightening at the corner of her eyes. Her gaze dropped briefly to the tag in Yumeko’s hand, then returned to her face, cool and glacial.
“You’ve been busy,” Kira replied. Her tone was even, composed, sharpened by restraint.
Yumeko smiled.
Not wide. Not playful.
Satisfied.
She lifted the tag between them—not to display it, not to flaunt it—but as if weighing it one last time. As if acknowledging what it had been.
Then she reached forward.
Instead of tossing it aside, instead of letting it fall to the floor or clatter uselessly against a table, she pressed it directly into Kira’s palm.
Closed her fingers around it.
The contact was brief—but unmistakable. Kira’s hand was warmer than Yumeko expected. Not the cool, distant chill she’d imagined—but real, grounded heat, steady and alive beneath her fingers.
Yumeko leaned in, close enough that only Kira could hear her over the returning hum of the room.
“Keep it,” she whispered.
Her breath brushed Kira’s ear—uninvited, warm—and for a fraction of a second, something dangerous happened.
Not anger.
Not humiliation.
Calm.
A quiet, unexpected stillness settled in Kira’s chest before she could stop it—and that unsettled her far more than the provocation ever could.
Yumeko stepped back.
The room reacted all at once.
Whispers snapped into existence, sharp and electric, racing across tables in overlapping waves. Heads leaned together. Eyes widened. Somewhere in the crowd, a laugh broke free—too loud, too sudden—before dissolving into the rising noise.
Yumeko barely registered it.
She was watching Kira.
Watching the faint hitch in her breathing—there and gone. Watching the way her fingers curled once around the tag before stilling. A disruption so small most people would miss it entirely.
Yumeko didn’t.
Her smile widened.
Suki stepped forward, folding his arms, voice calm but edged with warning. “Are you going to put an end to this, Mother?”
Kira didn’t look at him right away.
Her gaze stayed on Yumeko—measuring, cold, searching—as if recalculating something she hadn’t expected to need recalculating.
Then she smiled cruelly.
Slow. Clearly annoyed by the situation but still sharp around the edges.
“And ruin all the fun?” Kira said lightly. “Am I the fun police?”
Suki shot her a surprised look.
The music crept back in, tentative at first, then louder. Laughter followed, brittle but eager. Chips clattered again. The club exhaled, tension bleeding into something louder, wilder, more reckless.
Yumeko remained standing a moment longer.
The house pet tag lay abandoned on the table between them like a discarded collar.
Then she sat back down.
Cards slid from her fingers with effortless precision as she dealt again, her smile still in place—bright, unrepentant, dangerous.
The game rolled on.
But Kira had already turned away.
And somehow, that felt like a promise rather than a dismissal.