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OBSIDIAN KINGS vs WHITE SHARKS



 

The Dark World has its own set of famous teams, too—except these players stay anonymous and play very, very dirty. Regular Warcross teams are sponsored by wealthy patrons; Dark World teams are owned by gangsters. When you win, you win money for the gang that owns you. When you lose, the audience casts bets for you to go onto the assassination lottery. Lose enough times, and you just might see yourself listed at the top of the lottery. And then even your own sponsor might be the one to assassinate you.

Everyone who is looking at the cylinder now sees a JOIN button hovering in the center of their vision. I press it. A field pops up to ask me how many notes I want to bet. I look around the room, staring at the numbers that hover over each of the other gamblers: N1,000. N5,000. N10,000. I even see a few who have cast bets of well over N100,000.

I cast a bet of N100. No need to stand out here.

The world around us changes, and suddenly we are no longer standing on the deck of the Pirate’s Den, but on top of a skyscraper, illuminated by a bloodred sky. Neon-white players pop up in the world, glowing alongside power-ups. The view of the Pirate’s Den minimizes to a smaller screen in the corner of my vision, one that will appear over the center of my view whenever I glance down at it. Now I use it, searching for Ren’s gold dot.

There he is, standing just a few feet away from me. Over his head is a light green number of notes: 100. I raise an eyebrow. Not a very high bidder, either. That’s strange. Usually, when I track someone down under, the gambler tends to blow eye-popping numbers of notes.

 

But Ren is risking his reputation as a professional player just to gamble a handful of notes here in an illegal game. Doesn’t add up. He’s not here for the game. He’s dallying around, probably just keeping a low profile while he waits. I’m willing to bet he’s here to make contact with someone.

 

The announcer comes on, introduces the ten players, and then starts the match. Unlike regular games, this game has two numbers displayed at the bottom of my view. Each number is the total notes bet on each team. I can hear the roar of the audience as the players dart into motion. Two opposing players


reach each other and both swing their arms back to attack. As they do, one of them suddenly glitches out of sight. He glitches back in behind the other player, and before the second player can react, the first one kicks him off the building’s roof. The crowd cheers. I just stay quiet, watching. In a real game, a move like that would have been banned immediately. But here, with no official Henka Games employees overseeing it, anything goes.

 

As the game continues, the notes bet on each team changes in my view in a live display. Obsidian Kings, who started out with more bets than the White Sharks, are now falling behind. As their Architect is taken down by an Icicle power-up (temporary paralysis), the Sharks go up even higher.

 

I sigh. Nothing unusual has happened, other than Ren’s unusually low bet. What if I’m just wasting my time in here, and Ren is a giant red herring?

That’s when I notice a new gambler enter the Pirate’s Den.

 

I would have missed him, were it not for my hack. Most people around me don’t seem to notice his presence—except for a few. Like Ren, who turns to stare at him, too.

 

In the midst of all these hulking avatars, the newcomer is inconspicuous, a lean shadow. His face is hidden completely behind a dark, opaque helmet, and he wears a fitted suit of black body armor. Lean muscles ripple as he moves, outlined by the Den’s neon lights. And even though I have no info on him at all, nothing to tell me who this person might be, a chill runs through me from head to toe, some sixth sense of certainty. This is who Ren has been waiting to see. This is who Ren is meeting.

 

It’s Zero.


 

 

16

 

You don’t know that for sure, I remind myself. It could be anyone. But everything about him—his sense of command, a confidence that betrays how often he comes here, the fact that there is nothing, nothing I can read about him —makes my heartbeat quicken.

 

I shouldn’t feel this surprised to see him here. But still—bumping into Zero face-to-face makes me forget myself for a moment. I barely react quickly enough to move out of his way as he cuts through the crowd.

 

Abruptly, Zero pauses. His head turns in my direction—but more specifically, he sees me.

 

I’m not supposed to be able to see him, I realize. That’s why no one else in the crowd seems to notice. In fact, he is probably supposed to be invisible to everyone except the people who already knew he was coming, those who he knows are his supporters. Zero had noticed me trying to get out of his way. He knows I can see him.

 

Can he tell who I am? What if he’s staring at me through his own hack, downloading all of my info? Questions fly through my mind. If I exit now, it’ll be obvious that I saw him.

Ignore him. Just stand still and look at the game. He isn’t here.

Zero stares quietly at me, then steps closer. His black helmet is completely opaque, so that all I see in it is the reflection of my generic avatar. Even though everyone in here is encrypted, Zero has absolutely no info at all. Not a fake identity, not a randomized username, nothing. He is a black hole. He paces around me in a slow, deliberate circle, studying me, silent as a predator, his steps echoing in the den. I stand as still as I can, holding my breath, careful to stay calm. In real life, I am typing furiously, pulling back what I’m doing and guarding myself. No doubt that his real-life person is doing the same thing right now. Even though I should be encrypted and off the grid, I feel like his stare is stripping me bare. My heart beats steadily in my chest. I’d dealt with gangsters before. If I could keep my cool around them, I remind myself, then this should be nothing.

 

A girl standing very close beside him jots something down on a clipboard. She has a short blue bob haircut and wears a black blazer with jeans, but her


eyes are what startle me. They are completely white. At first I think she’s one of the other gamblers. But when she and Zero both turn their heads simultaneously, I realize that she is a proxy, a security shield behind which Zero can completely hide his identity. If someone does manage to record this session in the Pirate’s Den, and they somehow notice Zero, the only info they’ll get is this girl’s, whose data will lead to nothing.

 

What did she jot down on her clipboard? Info about us?

Zero stares at me for another beat. Then, miraculously, he turns his attention away. His proxy does the same. My hands are clenched so hard that I can feel my nails cutting into my palms.

 

As I look on, Zero casts a bet of 34.05 notes on the Obsidian Kings. I frown. What a strange number to bet. I wait in silence, until exactly one minute passes. Then, Zero casts another bet, this time in favor of the White Sharks. 118.25 notes.

Now he’s betting on the opposite team? What the hell is he doing?

Another gambler across the den now also casts a bet of 34.05 notes. A minute later, he then casts a bet of 118.25 notes in favor of the White Sharks. The exact same pair of bets that Zero cast. Zero’s proxy jots something down on her clipboard.

He’s not betting at all. He’s communicating with the other gambler.

Of course he is. Record the numbers, I tell myself. I look on as Zero waits another few minutes before casting a new bet. This time, it’s 55.75 notes for the Obsidian Kings, and 37.62 notes for the Sharks.

 

Sure enough—across the den, a different gambler now casts the same bets in order. Again, the proxy jots this down.

 

I watch in perplexed silence as this continues, on and on, as everyone around me continues to cheer on the game. No one else seems bothered by these bets—they have no reason to be, really, because only the big bets are bolded and significantly change the tallies on either side. Why would anyone care about these strange, small sums?

 

Then, Zero casts a pair of bets—and Ren is the responding gambler. Finally, when the match ends, Zero stands up with his proxy and steps away

 

from the glass cylinder without a word. Beside him, his proxy nods once at the crowd, and the ones who had responded in code now nod back once. Overhead, the electronic track momentarily shifts to a different melody, as if it had hit a glitch. Go out with a bang, the singer on this new track croons. Yeah / let’s go out with a bang. Then the track hops back to its usual beat. The Obsidian Kings end up winning, and the tally over the White Sharks disappears, divided and paid proportionally among the winning gamblers. I look down at my list of recorded


numbers that Zero had bet.

 

Fifty pairs of numbers. All of them are small bets. They range as high as 153, and as low as 0. As I stare at them, a possibility comes to me. It’s such a strange thought that at first I dismiss it. But the more I stare at the numbers, the more they seem to fit.

They’re locations. Longitudes and latitudes.

What if they’re locations of cities? My mind feels feverish with dread, the coming together of something big, of finally stumbling upon significant clues. Why, exactly, is Zero assigning a bunch of locations to others? What is he planning?

 

In a daze, I initiate a log out to leave the Dark World. Right as I do, I glimpse Zero across the room one last time.

He’s staring straight at me.


 

 

17

 

I don’t know if he recognized me. He might not have been paying attention to me at all, and his glance might have just been coincidental. But the memory of his head turned in my direction sends a shudder through me as I now find myself back in my room, staring out at the balcony again. I let out a slow breath. The serenity of the real world feels jarring after my jaunt in the Dark World.

 

What if Zero is on to me?

I pull up a map to hover transparently before me, along with the list of coordinates I’d just jotted down in the Pirate’s Den. Then I turn my attention to the longitudes and latitudes on the map’s sides.

 

“Thirty-one point two,” I mutter out loud, running my finger along the projection. “One hundred twenty-one point five.”

My finger stops right over Shanghai.

I do another set of numbers. “Thirty-four point zero five. One hundred eighteen point twenty-five.”

Los Angeles.

40.71, 74.01. New York City.

55.75, 37.62. Moscow.

 

And so on. I compare each set of numbers, sometimes adding a negative in front of a number whenever it ends up in the middle of nowhere or in the ocean. Sure enough, every set of coordinates matches up with a major city. In fact, Zero had listed out the top fifty largest cities in the world, each one repeated back to him by someone else in the crowd at the Pirate’s Den.

Whatever Zero’s doing, it is a global operation. And somehow, I have an ominous feeling that his endgame involves much more than just messing up some Warcross tournaments.

What if lives are at stake?

A knock on my door jolts me from my thoughts. “Yes?” I call out.

 

No answer. I stay where I am for a moment, then get up and walk to my door. I push the button that slides the door open.

 

It’s Ren, leaning against the side of the entryway, his headphones looped around his neck. A smile appears on his face that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Heard you skipped lunch,” he says. He tilts his head at me. “Headache?”


My blood freezes. Still, I remind myself to be calm—so I narrow my eyes at him and put my hands on my hips. “Heard you skipped to make music,” I reply.

He shrugs. “I have a contract with my studio to fulfill, Warcross or no. The others told me to come up here and get you. They’re starting a round of games downstairs, if you want to join.” He nods toward the stairs.

 

What were you doing in the Dark World, Ren? I think to myself as I study his face. What does your connection to Zero mean? What are you planning?

“Not tonight,” I lie, nodding toward my bed. “I have an appointment to get a license for my new board.”

 

Ren looks at me for a beat that’s just a hint too long. Then he pushes away from my door and turns toward the stairs. “Busy little wild card,” he says in French, his words translating in my view.

 

Busy little wild card. I wonder, for a moment, whether he suspects me of following him. As he heads down the stairs and disappears from view, I close my door and place a quiet call to Hideo. When he picks up, a virtual version of him appears in my view.

 

“Emika,” he says. It sends a thrill through me of both excitement and urgency.

“Hey,” I whisper. “Can we meet?”

 

• • • • •

 

BY THE TIME I emerge from my room, Asher, Roshan, and Hammie are gathered on the couches, shoving pizza into their mouths while they play Mario Kart. Ren lounges nearby in a soft chair, watching them play. Their karts zoom along a rainbow-colored road that tunnels through the center of a galaxy.

 

“Oh yeah!” Hammie shouts as her kart edges into first place. “This one’s mine, boys.”

 

“Calling it too soon, Hams,” Roshan shoots back. “That’s your final warning.”

“Don’t go this easy on me, then.”

“I don’t throw games.”

 

My gaze darts to Ren. He looks calm and unfazed, his gold-winged headphones looped around his neck. He notices me now and gives me a lazy smile, as if he’d always been here, instead of gambling in the Dark World just an hour ago.

 

Hammie shrieks. “No!” A blue shell comes whizzing out of nowhere and hits her kart right as she’s about to cross the finish line. As she struggles to get


her kart moving again, the other karts zoom past her. Her rank goes from first to eighth as she finally drags herself across the line.

 

Asher bursts out laughing as Hammie shoots up from her seat and throws her hands up. She glares at Roshan, who gives her his gentle smile. “Sorry, love. Like I said, I don’t throw games.”

“Sorry, my ass!” she exclaims. “I want revenge.”

“Man, Roshan,” Asher replies, clapping him on the back. “Angel in real life, demon in a kart.”

 

Ren glances at me. “Hey, Emika,” he says. “You want in? I’m joining the next round.”

 

Why were you in the Pirate’s Den, Ren? What were you doing with Zero? Are you a danger to everyone in this room? But outwardly, I smile and hoist my electric board on my shoulder. “I was going to go try my new board in the city.”

 

Beside Ren, Hammie groans. “Come on, Em,” she says.

“I just want some fresh air tonight,” I reply. I give her an apologetic look. “Like I said. Tomorrow, I promise.”

 

As I turn to leave, Asher calls out to me. “Hey, wild card.” I turn back around to see him giving me a serious look. “Last time you get to skip out on your team. Got it?”

 

I nod without saying a word. Asher then turns away, but before I can head out, I see Ren giving me a brief smile. “Have fun,” he calls out to me before turning away, too.

 

I steal away down the back hall, step out the door, then tug my shoes on and head toward a black sedan that is idling in the driveway. I’ll have to switch up how often I see Hideo at night like this. These are the sedans used by team players for transportation around the city—but still, best not to arouse suspicions. Asher will expect me to hang around for team-bonding time, especially in the weeks leading up to the first official game.

 

By the time I reach the Henka Games headquarters, night has completely fallen, and the heart of Tokyo has turned back into a wonderland of neon lights. The headquarters themselves even look different, and with my lenses on, the walls are covered in swirls of color and artistic renditions of the company’s logo. As the car pulls up to the front of the building, I’m greeted by two of Hideo’s bodyguards, both dressed in dark suits. They bow their heads at me in unison.

 

“This way, Miss Chen,” one says.

I give them an awkward bow in return, then follow them into the building.

 

We walk in silence until we reach Hideo’s office.

Hideo is leaning over a table, his head down in concentration, his dark hair tussled. He’s dressed in his usual collar shirt and dark trousers, although the shirt


is black this time, with pencil-thin gray stripes. My eyes go down to his shoes. They are blue-and-gray oxfords today, embellished with black lines. His cuff links are purposefully mismatched, one a crescent moon and the other a star. How does he always look this polished? Dad would be impressed.

He looks up when we enter. I remember that I’m supposed to bow my head in greeting and give him a quick bob.

 

“Emika,” he says, straightening. His serious expression softens at the sight of me. “Good evening.” He exchanges a brief glance with each of the bodyguards. One of them opens his mouth to protest, but when Hideo tilts his head once toward the door, the man sighs and guides both of them out of the room.

 

“They’ve been with me since I was fifteen,” Hideo says as he steps around the table toward me. “You’ll have to forgive them if they’re occasionally overprotective.”

 

“Maybe they think I’m a danger to you.” He smiles as he reaches me. “And are you?”

 

“I try to restrain myself,” I answer, returning his smile. “For now, I’m just here to tell you what I found.”

 

“I’m assuming you discovered something interesting in the Dark World?”

 

Interesting doesn’t even begin to cover it.” I glance around the office. “I hope you’re ready to settle in. I’ve got a bunch of information for you.”

 

“Good, because I was thinking we try something different with our meeting tonight.” His gaze lingers on me for a beat longer. “Have you eaten yet?”

Is he asking me to dinner? “No,” I say, trying to stay casual.

He takes a dark gray peacoat off the back of a chair and pulls it on. Then he tilts his head once toward the door. “Join me.”


 

 

18

 

We end up in Shibuya, right in front of a skyscraper with the name Rossella Osteria floating at the top of it. We take an elevator to the roof of the building, where a set of tall glass doors slides open for us. I walk into a space that makes my jaw drop. A segment of the floor is made of glass, real glass, not a virtual simulation, and through it swims a stream of gold and scarlet koi fish. Vases of flowers adorn marble pedestals around the edges of the restaurant. The entire place is empty.

 

The host hurries over to greet Hideo. “Tanaka-sama!” he exclaims in Japanese, bowing his head low. In his nervous gestures, I can see myself when I first met Hideo, falling all over myself under Hideo’s serious stare. “A thousand apologies—we didn’t know you had scheduled anyone to come with you tonight.”

 

He sneaks an anxious glance at me. Suddenly I realize that he must think I’m Hideo’s date. Maybe I am. I shift awkwardly on my feet.

 

Hideo nods at him. “No apologies needed,” he replies in Japanese, then glances at me. “This is Miss Emika Chen, my colleague.” He holds his hand out for me to walk in front of him. “Please.”

 

I follow the host, perplexed and hyperaware that Hideo is behind me, until we reach an outside patio framed by ornate pillars and lit by trails of fairy lights. Heat lamps glow in regularly spaced intervals, their flames adding a golden warmth to our skin, and the lights of the city shimmer down below. As we take a seat, the waiter hands us menus and hurriedly takes his leave, so that we—and the bodyguards—are the only people remaining out here.

“Why is this restaurant completely empty?” I ask.

 

Hideo doesn’t bother touching the menu. “I own it,” he replies. “Once a month, it’s reserved for me and any potential business meetings I might have. I thought you might prefer some Western food, at any rate.”

 

My stomach growls loudly in reply, and I cough in an attempt to hide the sound. I wouldn’t be surprised if Hideo owned half of Tokyo. “Italian’s great,” I say.

 

We order our food, and before long, the plates arrive, filling the air with the rich aroma of basil and tomato. As we eat, I bring up my account and send Hideo


an invite to join me. “I followed Ren into the Pirate’s Den,” I say. “And? What did you see?”

 

“And he was with this guy.” I put down my fork and bring up a Memory of what I’d seen in the Den—the figure in dark armor, accompanied by his proxy, placing bets on the illegal Warcross game.

Hideo leans forward at the sight. “Is this Zero?”

I nod, tapping the table twice. “I’m almost certain it was him. He was hidden behind an armored avatar and this proxy, and he was giving out a lot of information to what seemed to be his followers in the Pirate’s Den. Dozens of followers. This is no lone operation.”

“What kind of information was he giving out?”

“Coordinates of cities. Look.” I pull up the list of numbers I’d recorded, explaining the system of small bets that Zero had been using to pass them along to his followers. Then I bring up a virtual map to hover between us, scattering the coordinates across it. My finger stops at the coordinates 35.68, 139.68. “And this—Tokyo—was the city that Ren answered for. Maybe everyone else also responded based on whatever city they’re physically located in.”

 

Hideo’s eyes narrow as he analyzes the locations. “These cities are where the largest dome events happen for the championships.” He glances at me. “Any clues as to how many meetings he has already conducted before this?”

 

I shake my head. “No. But he seems like he’s got a large group. I need another encounter with Zero to get a better sense of what all this means, but the chances of me getting more information from him like that before the games start are slim.”

 

Hideo shakes his head once. “You won’t need to. We’ll bring him to us. The first official game happens on April fifth. We already know he and his followers will be watching it, and that Ren will be the one assigned to the dome event in Tokyo. It’s likely he will be in direct, encrypted communication with Zero during this game.”

“You want me to hack his system during our game?”

“Yes. We’ll plant something on you in the first official game. Force Ren to interact with you in the middle of it, and it will disable the shields that protect him. It will expose any data between him and Zero.”

It sounds like a solid plan. “What are you going to plant on me?”

Hideo smiles a little. His hand brushes my wrist, turning it over, and his thumb presses carefully against my pulse. A tingle runs through me at his warm touch. Then he moves his hand away from mine and makes a brief gesture in the air. My data appears between us, the text glowing a faint blue. I look on in fascination as he weaves my data into what we already have of Ren’s, an


algorithm right before my eyes, fashioning it into the equivalent of a noose.

 

“What is it?” I ask.

“A snare. Grab his wrist at any point during the game. It will cut through his security and expose his data for you.” Then he takes my hand again and wraps the trap around my wrist like a bracelet, the web of data glittering against my skin for a moment before turning invisible. Something about the gesture feels nostalgic, and suddenly I can see my father hunched over the dining room table, humming cheerfully to himself as he measures strips of fabric against his wrist, a half-empty wine bottle nearby, the floor around him cluttered with sequins and reams of cloth.

 

I pull my hand away and into my lap, feeling momentarily vulnerable. “Will do,” I say.

Hideo’s expression wavers. He studies me. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” I shake my head, annoyed with myself for being so obvious. Just a memory, that’s all. And I’m about to say this to him in order to brush it away—but then I look up, meet his eyes, and this time, I feel my own walls lowering. “I was remembering my father,” I say instead, gesturing at my wrist. “He used to measure out short lengths of fabric by wrapping them around his wrist.”

 

Hideo must have caught the shift in my tone. “Used to?” he says softly. I look down, concentrating on the table. “It’s been a while since he died.” Hideo is quiet for a long moment. There’s a familiarity in his look, a beat of

 

silence shared by everyone who has ever experienced loss. One of his hands tightens and loosens. I watch the bruises on his knuckles shift. “Your father was an artist,” he finally says.

 

I nod. “Dad used to shake his head and wonder where the hell I got my love for numbers from.”

“And your mother? What does she do?”

My mother. A faded memory flashes through my mind of Dad holding my tiny, chubby hand, the two of us looking on helplessly as she laced up her boots and adjusted her silk scarf. While Dad spoke to her in a low, sad voice, I stared up in awe at the silver handle of her suitcase, the perfection of her nails, the silky blackness of her hair. I can still feel her smooth, cool hand against my cheek, patting it once, twice, then pulling away without any reluctance. She’s so beautiful, I remember thinking. The door closed behind her without a sound. Not long afterward, Dad’s gambling habit started.

“She left,” I reply.

 

I can tell that Hideo is piecing something together about me. “I'm sorry,” he says gently.


I look down, annoyed at the ache in my chest. “After Dad passed away, I preoccupied myself at my foster group home by digging obsessively into your API. It helped me, you know . . . forget.”

There it is again, that brief moment of understanding on Hideo’s face, of old grief and dark history. “And are you able to forget?” he says after a while.

I search his gaze. “Do your bruised knuckles give you release?” I answer in a soft voice.

 

Hideo looks out toward the city. He doesn’t comment on why I asked him about the bruises, or how long I’ve been wondering about them. “I think we know the answer to both those questions,” he murmurs. And I find myself overwhelmed by another slew of thoughts crowding my mind, guesses of what might have happened to Hideo in his past.

 

We settle into a comfortable silence as we admire the shimmering lights of the city. The sky has turned fully dark now, the stars erased from view by the neon streets of Tokyo below. My eyes turn upward, instinctively, as I search for any hint of constellations. No use. We’re too far inside the city to see anything more than one or two dots in the sky.

 

It takes me a moment to notice that Hideo has leaned back in his chair and is watching me again, a small smile hovering on the edges of his lips. The darkness of his eyes shifts in the low light, catching hints of fairy light as well as the warmth from the heat lamps.

“You search the sky,” he says.

I turn my eyes down and laugh. “It’s just a habit. I’ve only seen the sky full of stars when Dad used to take me on road trips through the countryside. I’ve looked for the constellations ever since then.”

 

Hideo glances up, then moves his fingers in a single, subtle motion. A clear box appears, asking me to accept a shared view. I do. The virtual overlays in my view adjust—and suddenly, the true night sky appears overhead, a sheet of spring constellations against countless numbers of stars, silver and gold and sapphire and scarlet, so bright that the Milky Way band itself is visible. In this moment, it seems entirely possible that starlight could rain down upon us, dusting us in glitter.

 

“One of the first things I put on my personal, augmented reality view was an unobstructed night sky,” Hideo says. He looks at me. “Do you like it?”

I nod without saying a word, my breath still caught in my throat.

 

Hideo smiles at me, truly smiles, in a way that brightens his eyes. His gaze wanders across my face. He is so close now that, if he wanted, he could lean forward and kiss me—and I find myself leaning toward him, too, hoping that he’ll close the gap between us.


“Tanaka-san.”

 

One of Hideo’s bodyguards approaches us, bowing his head respectfully. “A call for you,” he says.

 

Hideo’s eyes linger on me for a final moment. Then he moves away, and his presence is replaced with cool air. I nearly slump in my chair from disappointment. Hideo turns away from me and glances up. When he sees the bodyguard’s expression, he nods. “Excuse me,” he says to me, then stands and walks back inside the restaurant.

 

I sigh. A cold breeze blows by, making me shiver, and I turn my eyes back to the sky, where the sheet of stars still hangs in my view. I imagine him creating this, his face turned skyward, too, longing to see the stars.

 

Maybe we both need the cold air to clear our heads.

I work for him. He’s my client. This is a bounty hunt, just like every other hunt I’ve ever done. When I finish—when I win—I’ll be on my way back to New York and never have to take on another hunt again. And yet, here I am, sharing something about my mother that I haven’t thought about in years. I think back to the look in his eyes. Who had he lost from his life?

 

I’m starting to think I won’t see Hideo again tonight when something warm is draped around my shoulders. It’s Hideo’s gray peacoat. I look up to see him pass me by. “You looked cold,” he says as he sits down again.

 

I slide his coat down over my shoulders. “Thank you,” I reply.

He gives me an apologetic shake of his head. I hope he says something to acknowledge the spark that had danced between us, but instead, he says, “I’m afraid I have to leave soon. My guards will escort you out of a hidden exit, for your privacy.”

 

“Oh, of course,” I reply, trying to hide my disappointment behind something that I hope sounds upbeat.

“When can I see you again?”

I look sharply at him. A swarm of butterflies stirs in my stomach, and my heart starts hammering again. “Well,” I start to say, “aside from what we already discussed, I’m not sure I’ll have much more to report until after—” Hideo shakes his head once. “No reports. Just your company.”

 

Just my company. His gaze is calm, but I notice the way he’s turned toward me, the light in his eyes. “After the first game,” I hear the words stumble out of me.

Hideo smiles, and this time, it is a secret smile. “I look forward to it.”


 

 

19

 

The morning of our first official game begins with Asher ramming his wheelchair repeatedly against my door. I startle awake, squinting and muttering, barely able to process his words.

 

“Level’s in!” he’s shouting as he moves on to ram Hammie’s door. “Get up!

 

Up!”

Level’s in. My eyes fly open, and I bolt upright in bed. Today is the first day. I fumble around in my blankets until I find my phone, then do a quick scan

of my messages. There’s only one new message, and it’s from Hideo.

Best of luck today. You’ll hardly need it.

 

I can’t tell if the flurry in my stomach is from the anxiety of my first game or from his words. In the last couple of weeks since our dinner, I’ve talked to Hideo almost every day. Most of our exchanges are innocent, strictly business, but sometimes—when our chats happen late at night—I feel the tug that reminds me of the moment during our dinner when he’d leaned close.

See you in the dome. And thanks—believe me, I could use the luck.

 


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