CHAPTER 15: THE GAME BEGINS

  The abandoned building was cold and silent, wrapped in the kind of stillness that made the air feel heavy. The walls were cracked and covered in faded graffiti, the windows broken, letting in thin shafts of dusty sunlight.

  Rusted pipes lined the ceiling above Rei’s head, dripping water with a faint, rhythmic echo. The floor was littered with broken glass and debris, each step crunching beneath his boots.

  Rei stood in the center of the room, still as a statue. His shadow stretched long behind him, flickering in the weak light. The silence wrapped around him like a second skin.

  Then he slowly raised his head, and his eyes—sharp, blazing—reflected something primal. Justice. Wrath. Purpose. He smiled, but it wasn’t a smile of joy—it was the kind of grin a predator shows right before the kill.

  He tapped something into his phone with calm fingers. A quiet beep followed. He began to speak, his voice low, steady… and rising with intensity.

  “DIE FOR THE SAKE OF THE YOUNG GIRLS YOU MURDERED.”

  “DIE FOR THE SAKE OF THIS ROTTING WORLD YOU POISONED.”

  “DIE FOR THE SAKE OF HUMANITY, WHOSE LIGHT YOU TRIED TO EXTINGUISH.”

  “DIE FOR THE SAKE OF GOD, WHO YOU MOCKED WITH EVERY BREATH.”

  He took a step forward, his breath fogging in the cold.

  “BUT BEFORE THAT... LET’S PLAY A GAME.”

  “A GAME BEFORE YOUR FINAL, INSIGHTFUL DEATH.”

  “A GAME OF DEATH.”

  “A GAME OF JUSTICE.”

  “THE GAME THAT WILL SHATTER YOUR INHUMAN MIND.”

  “THE GAME THAT WILL DESTROY YOU FROM THE INSIDE OUT.”

  Rei’s voice dropped to a whisper, filled with bone-deep resolve.

  “THIS… IS GOD’S GAME.”

  He laughed softly. Not insane—focused. Resolved.

  This wasn’t just revenge.

  This was judgment.

  And the game had begun.

  Takashi Aizawa, the syndicate boss, had been sleeping off jail’s exhaustion when a loud crash jolted him awake. He stepped out of his room, his heavy boots thudding against the floor, his eyes narrowing in disbelief.

  The scene before him was chaos. His gaze swept the basement, locking onto a lifeless body sprawled on the cold concrete. Yusuke, one of his men, lay twisted, his head at an unnatural angle, eyes blank, staring at nothing.

  Around him stood his crew, their faces pale, their breaths uneven.

  Ryoji, stocky with a shaved head, gripped a chair, his knuckles white, his brutal efficiency useless now.

  Satoshi, the quiet calculator, stared at the body, his calm facade cracking, eyes darting like he was solving a puzzle with no answer.

  Daiki, the hot-headed enforcer, wiped sweat from his brow despite the chill, his loud voice silent for once.

  Kenta, younger and jumpy, clutched his phone, hands trembling, looking like he might bolt.

  Hiroshi, the cold-blooded killer, stood rigid, but even his stone face twitched, unease seeping through.

  Others milled around—Kenji, Ryuji, Takumi, and more—each man a cog in Aizawa’s machine, now frozen, useless.

  “What the actual f*ck?! Who did this?!” Aizawa’s voice was a low growl, laced with fury and disbelief.

  The words hit like a whip, and the men froze, fear spreading like wildfire through their ranks.

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  Hiroshi stepped forward, his voice steady but strained. “Boss, we don’t know. We heard the noise and came rushing in.”

  Kenji, wiry with nervous eyes, nodded fast. “He just… dropped. No one touched him, no shots, nothing.”

  Aizawa clenched his fists, his jaw tight, pacing like a caged animal. His eyes scanned the room, searching for answers, but found only Yusuke’s body—too clean, no blood, no struggle, just that twisted neck. It didn’t add up.

  “Shit. F*ck!” Aizawa’s curses echoed, raw and sharp, as he fought to keep his anger from boiling over.

  He stopped pacing, his glare cutting through the men. “Everyone, come to the basement. Now!”

  The crew scrambled down the narrow stairs, their footsteps loud in the silence, boots scraping against concrete. The basement felt smaller now, walls closing in, the air thick with dread.

  The basement was cold, its concrete walls damp and streaked with grime. Flickering fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the room.

  The air smelled of rust and stale cigarettes, heavy with tension that clung like fog. Crates and old furniture cluttered the edges, their outlines jagged in the dim glow.

  Afternoon light didn’t reach down here, leaving the space feeling cut off from the world, a tomb for secrets and sins.

  Ryuji, broad and scarred, broke the silence, his voice shaky. “What happened, boss? What the hell is going on?”

  Aizawa pointed at the body, his voice lower now, controlled but tight. “It’s a natural death… at least, that’s what it looks like.” His eyes flicked to Hiroshi. “Explain.”

  Hiroshi wiped sweat from his forehead, his usual chill fraying. “We were just sitting around, talking about the shipments, you know? Everything was normal.

  Then, Yusuke got up, said he needed to go to the bathroom. We didn’t think anything of it. But then… he fell. Hard. Like his body just… gave out.”

  Kenji’s voice cracked, desperate. “But he was fine a minute ago! He looked fine!”

  Aizawa nodded, his eyes distant. “I know… but we’ll have to deal with it later.” He waved a hand, trying to refocus. “Let’s just focus. Right now, we’ve got bigger problems.”

  The men shifted uneasily, their eyes darting to Yusuke’s body, then away, like it was contagious. Ryoji cleared his throat, his voice gruff. “Boss, this ain’t right. Nobody just dies like that. You think someone slipped him something? Poison, maybe?”

  Satoshi shook his head, his quiet voice cutting through. “No marks, no foam, nothing. Poison leaves signs. This… it’s too weird.” His fingers twitched, like he was counting possibilities, finding none.

  Daiki exploded, his temper flaring. “Then what?! You saying he tripped and snapped his neck? That’s bullshit! Someone’s messing with us!” He kicked a crate, the wood splintering, his sweat dripping onto the floor.

  Kenta, clutching his phone tighter, whispered, “What if it’s a curse? Like… punishment?” His voice trembled, and the others glared, but no one laughed. The idea hung there, heavy, impossible to dismiss.

  Hiroshi’s cold eyes narrowed. “Don’t be stupid, Kenta. But… yeah, it feels off. Like someone’s watching.” He scanned the ceiling, the corners, looking for cameras, finding nothing.

  Aizawa’s patience snapped. “Enough! No one’s watching, no one’s cursing us. Pull it together!” But his own voice shook, betraying the doubt creeping in.

  Suddenly, their phones buzzed at once, a sharp, unified sound that sliced through the air. The men flinched, reaching for their devices, their faces paling as they read the message glowing on every screen.

  ---

  **Message:**

  **U ALL HAVE DONE UNFORGIVABLE THINGS IN YOUR LIFE. HUMAN TRAFFICKING, KILLING, ETC. ETC. I WILL GIVE YOU A CHANCE. I WILL PRESENT YOU A GAME IN WHICH YOU HAVE TO SURVIVE. THERE IS ONLY ONE WHO WILL SURVIVE AND WIN THIS GAME. THIS IS GOD’S GRACE. ACCEPT IT OR DIE.**

  ---

  The basement fell silent, the words sinking into their minds like poison. Every man stared at his phone, then at Aizawa, waiting for him to make sense of it. He stood motionless, reading the message again, his face a mask of disbelief.

  “Everyone, calm down!” Aizawa barked, his voice sharp, trying to claw back control. “Let me see what message this is.”

  He grabbed Kenji’s phone, his eyes scanning the text, his jaw tightening with each word. The men exchanged glances, their breaths shallow, fear carving lines into their faces. Hiroshi’s hand shook, his phone creaking in his grip.

  “This is… f*cking crazy,” Kenji stammered, his voice barely audible. “What the hell is this? Some kind of joke?”

  Ryuji shook his head, his scars pale against his flushed skin. “No, this doesn’t feel like a joke. Who the hell sent this? How’d they get all our numbers?”

  Satoshi spoke softly, his voice chilling. “It’s not just our numbers. It’s synced. Every phone, same second. That’s not random. Someone’s got control.” His eyes flicked to Yusuke’s body, like it was proof.

  Daiki’s voice rose, panicked. “Control? What, like a hacker? Or some psycho playing games? I ain’t dying for this shit!” His fists clenched, but his bravado faltered, sweat soaking his shirt.

  Kenta’s voice cracked, barely a whisper. “It says ‘unforgivable things.’ They know… about the girls, the deals. What if it’s true? What if it’s… judgment?” His hands shook so hard his phone slipped, clattering to the floor.

  Hiroshi snapped at him, his cool breaking. “Shut up, Kenta! Ain’t no god down here. But someone’s screwing with us, and I’m not waiting to find out who.” He glanced at Aizawa, desperate for orders.

  Aizawa’s eyes burned, his mind racing. The message wasn’t a prank—it was a threat, precise, personal.

  Whoever sent it knew their sins, their fears, and Yusuke’s death wasn’t chance. “It’s not a joke,” he said, his voice low, dangerous. “Whoever sent this is in control. We need to figure out who’s behind this… and fast.”

  The men nodded, but their eyes betrayed them—doubt, guilt, terror. Ryoji muttered, “What if it’s one of us? Someone playing both sides?” His words hung heavy, turning ally against ally.

  Satoshi’s gaze hardened. “Then we’re already dead. A traitor would’ve struck by now. This feels… bigger.”

  Daiki rounded on him. “Bigger? Like what, a ghost? I’m done with this mystic crap! Someone’s out there, laughing!” But his voice shook, his bravado crumbling.

  Kenta’s whisper cut through, raw with dread. “It said one survivor. One. What’s that mean? We gotta… kill each other?” His eyes darted, like the others were already enemies.

  Aizawa roared, “Enough! No one’s killing anyone till I say so!” But the seed was planted, trust fracturing like glass.

  ---

  **1:30 PM – The Departure**

  The tension was suffocating, the basement air thick with fear. Takumi, a younger thug in the corner, had been silent, his foot tapping nervously, his face ghost-white.

  Suddenly, he slammed his hand on a crate, the sound sharp, startling everyone. “What the actual f*ck is this?” he shouted, his voice breaking. “I’m out! I’m not playing any games with whoever this is! I’m leaving!”

  Before anyone could react, Takumi bolted for the door, his breath ragged, his eyes wild with panic. His boots pounded the concrete, echoing like gunshots. The men watched, stunned, as he shoved past a chair, knocking it over, and burst through the door into the afternoon light.

  Aizawa’s eyes followed, his face twisting with disbelief and frustration. “Dammit, Takumi! Get back here!” he yelled, his voice raw.

  But Takumi didn’t stop. His figure vanished outside, swallowed by the glare of the sun. The door swung shut, leaving a heavy silence.

  The men stood frozen, their phones still glowing with the message. Aizawa’s fists clenched, his mind racing. Was Takumi running from fear—or guilt? The others exchanged looks, suspicion growing, each wondering who’d break next.

  Then, faintly, from outside, a sound—a sharp, choked gasp, cut off fast. The men stiffened, eyes wide, staring at the door. No one moved. No one spoke. The basement seemed darker now, the shadows sharper, like something was waiting just beyond the light.

  End

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