The back alley behind a crumbling Domino City warehouse was steeped in the kind of darkness that felt alive—cloying, watchful. The only illumination came from the flickering neon hum of a broken vending machine, its buzz barely masking the oppressive silence that draped the forgotten corner of the city like a funeral shroud.
Jason Whitesmith stood there in solitude, the hem of his white lab coat fluttering in the soft breeze. The coat, too pristine for this environment, cast an eerie contrast against the dilapidated walls. His expression was measured—a calm mask forged by years of calculation and restraint. But his eyes, sharp behind thin rectangular glasses, shimmered with dangerous insight. They were the eyes of a man who saw more than he let on.
From the darker end of the alley, a figure emerged like mist. Pale, and almost spectral, Bakura appeared as though summoned by the night itself. His hair spilled like silver silk around his face, and his eyes—narrow, cunning, ancient—fixed on Jason with measured curiosity. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but his pupils told a different story. They flickered with suspicion and the hint of a darker hunger.
"You're Jason Whitesmith," Bakura said, his voice carrying the smoothness of charm layered over something far colder. "The American. I've heard whispers... But I didn't expect you to have the gall to call me out here like we were old friends."
Jason gave a slight tilt of the head, almost amused. "I find the cloak-and-dagger theatrics exhausting. I prefer transactions to introductions."
Bakura stepped forward, slowly, his boots soundless on the cracked concrete. "And yet you come bearing presumptions."
Jason reached into his coat, moving with deliberate slowness, and withdrew a black velvet box. He opened it, revealing the Millennium Scale. Its surface gleamed dully, a relic of incalculable power.
Bakura's smirk froze for a heartbeat. His eyes flickered—first to the artifact, then back to Jason. "That's not something you find lying around in an auction house."
Jason snapped the box shut. "No, it's not. Which is why I know its value. I'll trade you—the Millennium Scale for the Millennium Eye. The real one. Not the fake Pegasus used to cover the loss."
For the first time, Bakura's composure slipped. A flicker of real surprise cut across his features—a barely-there widening of the eyes, a parting of the lips. Then it was gone, replaced by a sardonic smile.
"That's a bold claim," Bakura said, folding his arms. "You always start your meetings by accusing people of things they have no business knowing?"
Jason met his gaze without blinking. "Only when the accusations are correct. I study people. Your methods are... unique."
Bakura's eyes narrowed, calculating. His fingers tapped against his arm in slow rhythm. "You know far more than you should. And not just about me.
Bakura studied him, eyes narrowing to slits. There was a long silence, during which the tension thickened. Then Jason produced another item from his coat—a manila envelope. He dropped it at Bakura's feet.
Bakura picked it up, peeled it open, and scanned its contents. Inside was a photograph of a young duelist, complete with registration information, a duel disk serial number, and locator card identification.
"He has your ticket into Battle City," Jason said. "Kill him. Take his duel disk."
Bakura slowly lifted his head. "You want me to commit murder to enter a tournament... just for the chance to trade artifacts with you?"
"More than that," Jason replied. "You want all seven Millennium Items. I can put them in one place. I just need your cooperation."
Bakura smiled, but there was no warmth in it. His voice dropped, barely above a whisper. "Why don't I kill you instead and take the Scale for myself?"
Jason smiled back, unfazed. "Because I'm offering you more than just one relic. I'm offering an alliance—a chance to eliminate every other Millennium Item user. Once that's done, I give you the Eye back."
Bakura stared long and hard. He saw the truth in Jason's eyes, but also the shadow of something else. Something he couldn't yet place. Jason wasn't lying. But he wasn't telling the whole truth either.
"You're hiding something," Bakura said softly, more to himself than anyone else.
Jason nodded faintly. "Of course I am. So are you."
The tension stretched taut between them. Wind tugged at Bakura's coat. Above them, a piece of torn paper danced through the air.
"You're either a madman," Bakura said slowly, "or you've planned this for far longer than you're admitting."
"Both are true," Jason replied.
Bakura looked down at the envelope in his hands. He tucked it inside his coat, eyes not leaving Jason's face.
"You understand that I will kill you if you betray me."
"I'd expect nothing less."
Bakura smiled again. "Then consider your offer... accepted. For now."
Jason nodded. "Good. One more thing."
He tilted his head casually toward a nearby rooftop. "That KaibaCorp agent watching us? Real pain in the ass. Do you mind?"
Bakura didn't even look. His eyes shimmered slightly, as if something older and crueler had awakened in him. He gave a theatrical sigh.
"You really don't like to get your hands dirty, do you?"
Jason met his gaze evenly. "I have other hands for that."
A dark chuckle escaped Bakura's lips. Then, without a sound, his body turned to shadow and disappeared into the gloom.
Jason stood alone once more, the air colder now, as if the alley itself had exhaled.
He remained for a moment longer, then turned and vanished down the opposite end of the alley, the velvet box still clutched in one hand, and something far more dangerous hidden in his mind.
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