Time had passed.
Not suddenly.Not spectacularly.But slowly. Harshly. Without pause.
Hiroki and Reiji were no longer the weak children from the orphanage. No longer the boys who watched their food get stolen without being able to fight back.
But life had not become kinder either.
They ran without a plan.Without money.Without papers.Without a destination.
The first months were simple: survival.
Sleeping in train stations. In abandoned buildings. Behind stores. Working day labor on construction sites or in warehouses where no one asked questions.
They worked during the day.
At night, they became something else.
Thieves.
Not out of ambition.Not out of pleasure.Out of necessity.
Wallets. Phones. Bags. Whatever they could grab.
They didn't target the elderly. They didn't attack families. They chose drunks. Distracted people. Those who wouldn't notice the loss immediately.
Newspapers had begun writing about a duo.
"Two agile, coordinated youths, impossible to catch."
"Fast attacks, no serious casualties."
"They appear to communicate without speaking."
Tokyo at night was a different city.
Pink and violet lights reflected on wet asphalt. Music bleeding through walls. Taxis lined up.
On a cold night near a strip club in Shinjuku, Reiji leaned against a wall, hood pulled low.
He waited.
Observed.
He wasn't in a hurry.
A man in his forties stumbled out. Expensive suit. Shirt unbuttoned at the top. Eyes glazed.
Beside him — a dancer.
High heels. A fur jacket hanging loosely over her shoulders. Glittering lingerie. No bra. Her half-visible boobs could feel the cold of air. A tired, artificial laugh.
They headed toward a taxi.
Suddenly, Hiroki stepped in front of them.
Black hood.
Cold eyes.
He pulled out a knife.
Not to stab.
To control.
The woman screamed and dropped her purse.
The plan was simple.
Scare.Retreat.Reiji collects.Disappear.
But things are never fully under control.
The man pulled out a gun.
Fast movement.
Sharp.
Hiroki didn't blink.
His gaze stayed steady.
He knew.
Because Reiji was already moving.
From behind.
With a heavy stone.
The strike was clean.
The man collapsed unconscious.
The woman raised her hands.
"I'll give you whatever you want… please… don't kill me… you can… you can do whatever you want…"
The two exchanged a brief look.
That look.
The same one from the night of the fork.
Hiroki answered calmly:
"No. The bag is enough. Thank you."
And they left.
A few steps away, Hiroki smirked faintly.
"That bitch was good. Could've gone for a night."
Reiji flushed slightly.
"Shut up, brother."
Back at home — a tiny apartment, barely furnished — they opened the haul.
Cash.
A phone.
A watch.
Enough for three days.
No more.
Silence.
They looked at each other.
Again.
That same silent communication.
"We can't keep risking our freedom for crumbs," Reiji said. "I know you're thinking it too."
Hiroki nodded.
"I know."
The old television buzzed in the corner of the room, its screen flickering slightly as if struggling to hold the signal.
Neither of them was really watching it.
Commercials rolled one after another — luxury watches, alcohol, smiling faces selling a life neither of them had ever seen up close.
Reiji leaned back in the chair, rubbing his temples.
Hiroki counted the bills again.
Then—
The screen glitched.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
The colors drained for half a second.
The sound cut out.
Both of them looked up at the same time.
The image turned black.
White letters appeared.
HOW MUCH IS A LIFE WORTH?
No logo.
No brand.
No music.
Just the sentence.
The air in the room felt colder.
Reiji straightened slowly.
"...What was that?"
Hiroki didn't answer.
The message lingered for exactly three seconds.
Then it vanished.
The screen snapped back to a loud casino advertisement — bright lights, chips flying across green felt, laughter, the sound of cards being shuffled.
As if nothing had happened.
Reiji stood up.
"Did you see that?"
Hiroki nodded once.
"Yeah."
"It wasn't part of the ad."
"No."
Silence.
The casino commercial continued in the background.
A dealer smiling.
A hand winning.
Coins spinning.
Reiji swallowed.
"How much is a life worth…" he muttered. "What kind of question is that?"
Hiroki stared at the screen.
In his mind, the question wasn't philosophical.
It was literal.
In the orphanage, a life was worth a tray of food.
On the streets, it was worth a stone to the back of the head.
In the clubs, it was worth a dropped purse.
He exhaled slowly.
"Maybe it's just marketing."
Reiji shook his head.
"No brand would do that without context."
Another flicker.
For a split second, the black screen returned.
Just static.
Then poker again.
Reiji turned toward Hiroki.
"You think someone is watching?"
Hiroki almost smiled.
"They always are."
But even he couldn't fully dismiss it.
That message hadn't felt random.
It had felt directed.
Not at the city.
Not at gamblers.
At them.
Reiji sat back down.
"How much is a life worth…"
Hiroki's eyes narrowed slightly.
"If you know the answer," he said quietly, "you can control it."
The poker commercial ended with a bold line:
Play Smart. Play Big.
The two boys looked at each other.
And in that look—
There was no fear.
Only calculation.
Reiji broke the silence first.
"...Poker?"
Hiroki didn't hesitate this time.
"We're already risking our lives."
A pause.
"At least this way, we might actually profit from it."
Reiji's lips curved faintly.
"So we stop stealing wallets."
"And start stealing decisions."
The television light reflected in their eyes.
The message was gone.
But the question remained.
How much is a life worth?
And for the first time—
They were curious enough to find out.
"Poker," Hiroki murmured.
Their eyes met.
It wasn't just an idea.
It was an opportunity.
—
At first, they played in small bars.
Amateur tournaments.
Low stakes.
Drunk players.
They were cautious.
They didn't cheat immediately.
They observed.
Learned.
Hiroki had a natural talent.
He felt people's fractures.
Fear. Ego. Impatience.
Reiji was the cold brain.
He calculated probabilities fast.
Memorized hands.
Studied the environment.
Camera angles.
Reflections.
When they decided to truly play as a team, everything changed.
Subtle signals.
Finger movements.
Breathing rhythm.
Glass positioning.
Hiroki distracted.Reiji analyzed.
Hiroki provoked.Reiji confirmed.
Their earnings didn't double.
They tripled.
Bars began whispering.
"They're cheating."
"It's impossible."
"They understand each other without speaking."
But no one could prove it.
Hiroki became known as "The Ring Bearer."
He turned it when analyzing.
Held it still when bluffing.
Left it untouched when holding a monster.
Reiji earned the nickname "The Feeder."
Because he knew exactly when to feed the pot, when to pass, when to create illusions.
They refused separate matches.
If one wasn't invited, neither played.
Not out of fear.
Out of dependence.
It wasn't just strategy.
It was psychological survival.
Hiroki needed Reiji's cold confirmation.
Reiji needed Hiroki's visceral instinct.
They were two halves of the same weapon.
From criminals, they became players.
From fugitives, they became whispered names.
They no longer lived on the edge.
They no longer slept on floors.
But they never forgot.
Not the hunger.
Not the humiliation.
—
Present.
The table shone under the lights.
Cameras recorded.
The dealer stood motionless.
Hiroki rotated his ring.
Ren sat across from him.
The last obstacle.
"Hey, Ren," Hiroki said calmly. "I want to finish this quickly. Can you keep up, or should we call the medical team?"
Irony.
Subtle.
Ren caught the reference to the blood earlier.
He smiled.
But it wasn't a calm smile.
It was ego.
"Don't worry, Hiroki. I'll finish you quickly."
Hiroki tilted his head slightly.
Behind his calm exterior, Reiji stood only a few meters away.
Still.
Silent.
But present.
And for the first time tonight—
Ren wasn't playing against one man.
He was playing against a brotherhood.
And he still didn't know it.