Chapter 1 : The Woman Who Keeps Beating Me
I knew I was screwed the moment she smiled.
Not the polite smile you give someone after a casual match. Not even the competitive grin of someone who’s enjoyed a good game. No—this was the smile of someone who’d just taken me apart piece by piece, read every move I’d telegraphed three turns in advance, and still had the grace to make it look effortless.
“Good game,” Ayame Kirihara said, extending her hand across the table. Her nails were painted a deep burgundy, and there was a small silver ring on her index finger that caught the overhead lights of the card shop. “You’ve got potential.”
Potential. Right.
I shook her hand—her grip was firm, confident—and tried not to look as devastated as I felt. This was the finals of the local tournament at Nexus Games, and I’d fought through four rounds just to get here. My deck had been running hot all day. I’d pulled off combos I didn’t even know I had in me. And then I’d run intoher.
“Thanks,” I managed, gathering my cards with hands that felt clumsy and too warm. “You too. I mean—not potential. You’re already... yeah.”
Smooth, Kaito. Real smooth.
She laughed—a low, genuine sound that made something in my chest tighten. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.” She started sleeving her deck with practiced efficiency, each card sliding into its protective case with a softwhisperof plastic. “You made some interesting plays in game two. That combo with the trap card? I didn’t see it coming.”
“Really?” I perked up despite myself.
“Really.” Her dark eyes flicked up to meet mine, and I noticed for the first time that she had tiny flecks of gold in them. Or maybe that was just the lighting. “You’ve got good instincts. Your deck construction needs work, but your gameplay? Solid.”
The tournament organizer approached with our prize support—booster packs and store credit for the top two finishers. Ayame took hers with a practiced nod of thanks, and I fumbled mine into my bag, still trying to process the fact that this gorgeous, intimidating woman had just complimented my gameplay while simultaneously destroying me 2-0.
“See you around, Kaito,” she said, shouldering her bag. It was covered in enamel pins—anime characters, game logos, a pride flag.
“Yeah,” I said. “See you.”
I watched her walk out of the shop, her long dark hair swaying with each step, and wondered how she knew my name.
Then I remembered we’d introduced ourselves at the start of the match.
God, I was hopeless.
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