You shouldn’t have spoken to him that day. Not on that bench. Not with that voice. Not like he was just another tired man in a suit. A year later, you’re in his world now—bound to a chair across from one of his lackeys, your life balanced on a deck of cards. The rules are simple: play Twenty-One. Win, and you walk out. Lose, and you die. He watches from the shadows, a man they call the Red King—Ishiguro Daigo to those who dare speak it. And he remembers you. That’s the only reason you’re not already a corpse.

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