The basement was a suffocating cage of concrete and dim light, its air thick with the sour tang of sweat and fear. Flickering fluorescent bulbs cast jagged shadows across the cracked walls, where peeling paint curled like dead skin.

  The floor was cold, littered with cigarette butts and empty cans, remnants of restless hours spent waiting for something—anything—to happen. Seventeen men were crammed into the space, their bodies pressed too close, their breaths ragged and uneven.

  The single window, grimy and streaked with dust, offered a narrow view of the street outside, where the afternoon light was fading into a bruised, gray dusk. It was through this window that Aizawa had watched Takumi sprint into the open, his silhouette swallowed by the lengthening shadows.

  The men behind Aizawa were statues, frozen in place, their hearts hammering so loudly it seemed the room itself pulsed with their dread. Every creak of the old building, every distant hum of a car, felt like a warning of something worse creeping closer.

  No one spoke, but their eyes darted—toward the door, the window, each other—as if searching for answers none of them had. Aizawa’s hands gripped the windowsill, his knuckles white, his jaw locked tight. He was their leader, the one they looked to, but even he couldn’t shake the gnawing sense that something was horribly wrong.

  He pulled his phone from his pocket, his fingers trembling slightly as he dialed security. The call connected after one ring.

  “Get down here. Now,” Aizawa barked, his voice low but sharp, like a blade cutting through the tension.

  Seconds later, the heavy door to the basement groaned open, and four guards shuffled in, their boots scuffing against the gritty floor. Their faces were pale, their eyes wide, scanning the room as if expecting an ambush. Aizawa’s gaze swept over them, counting heads, and his stomach dropped.

  “Where’s the fifth one?” he asked, his voice dangerously calm, though his eyes burned with barely contained fury.

  The lead guard, a stocky man named Haruo, swallowed hard.

  “We… we don’t know, boss.”

  Aizawa’s composure snapped.

  “What the hell do you mean, you don’t know?!” His voice exploded, echoing off the walls, making the other men flinch. He stepped forward, towering over Haruo, his fists clenched.

  “What?!”

  Haruo shrank back, his hands raised defensively.

  “We checked the perimeter, the rooms upstairs—nothing. He was with us an hour ago, then… gone.”

  Aizawa’s face twisted with rage and disbelief.

  “What the hell is happening?!” He paced, his boots stomping against the concrete, his mind racing.

  “What happened outside? Tell me everything.”

  Haruo hesitated, glancing at the other guards for support, but they avoided his eyes.

  “There was… a speaker. Out in the street. It played gunshots—loud, like a machine gun. But it wasn’t real. No bullets, no shooter. It felt… planned. Like someone wanted us to hear it.”

  Aizawa stopped pacing, his eyes narrowing.

  “Planned?” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

  “You’re telling me this was orchestrated?”

  Haruto nodded, his throat bobbing.

  “Yeah. Like someone knew exactly what they were doing.”

  Aizawa’s mind churned, pieces clicking together in a way that made his blood run cold.

  “Damn,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. He turned away, staring at the window again, his thoughts spiraling.

  That means… someone infiltrated this house.

  The guards exchanged uneasy glances.

  Haruto shook his head.

  “But we saw nothing, boss. No one came in, no one left. We’d have noticed.”

  Aizawa spun back, his eyes blazing.

  “You saw nothing? Nothing?! Then how the hell do you explain this?!”

  He gestured wildly at the window, at the street where Takumi had vanished.

  “What the hell is even happening?!” His voice cracked, a mix of fury and desperation.

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  He slammed his fist against the wall, the impact sending a dull thud through the room.

  “Find the fifth guard. Now!”

  The guards scrambled, their footsteps echoing as they hurried out, leaving the basement door ajar.

  Aizawa stood alone for a moment, his chest heaving.

  His mind raced, chasing possibilities that felt too wild to be true.

  If the fifth guard is dead… or unconscious… that proves someone got in.

  He rubbed his temples, his thoughts darkening.

  But what if… what if the fifth guard is the infiltrator?

  His eyes widened slightly, the idea hitting him like a punch.

  That would explain everything. The speaker, the gunshots, Takumi running…

  He shook his head, muttering to himself.

  “But how? How could a human pull this off? Damn, this is impossible.”

  ---

  Outside, Takumi had made his choice—to run.

  He’d pushed through the basement door, his sneakers pounding against the pavement, driven by a desperate need to escape the suffocating fear of the house.

  The street was quiet, too quiet, the kind of stillness that felt like it was holding its breath.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket, a sharp vibration that made him fumble as he pulled it out.

  The screen lit up, and words—strange, disjointed words—flashed across it.

  Before he could process them, a sound erupted from the device, a piercing, garbled noise at full volume, like a scream trapped in static.

  Takumi’s head spun. His vision blurred, the edges of the world smearing into streaks of gray and black.

  His legs buckled, his knees hitting the ground hard.

  He clutched his stomach, gasping, but there was no pain, no wound—just an overwhelming sense of wrongness, as if his body was shutting down from the inside.

  The pavement tilted beneath him, and he pitched forward, unable to stop himself.

  His skull struck the concrete with a sickening crack, blood pooling beneath him, spreading in a dark, glossy stain.

  His body twitched once, then went still.

  No gunshot.

  No knife.

  No visible cause.

  Just a lifeless heap where a man had been seconds before.

  ---

  Back in the basement, the men were unraveling.

  Ryuji, a wiry guy with a scar across his cheek, was the first to break the silence, rushing to the window.

  “Boss! He’s down! Takumi’s down!” His voice was high, panicked, cracking like glass.

  Aizawa’s heart lurched.

  He shoved past the others, peering through the window.

  There, in the street, was Takumi—sprawled, motionless, his limbs twisted at unnatural angles.

  No blood, no bullet holes, just… wrongness.

  Aizawa’s breath caught.

  “What the hell?!”

  The others crowded around, their faces pale, their eyes wide with terror.

  Kenji, a heavyset man with a shaved head, stammered,

  “How… how did he just…?”

  No one answered.

  The room felt smaller, the air heavier, as if the walls were closing in.

  The men’s fear was a living thing now, curling around them, tightening its grip.

  They’d seen death before—fights, stabbings, shootouts—but this was different.

  This was unnatural, like something out of a nightmare.

  Ryuji’s voice trembled.

  “He didn’t get shot. There’s no blood. He just… fell.”

  Kenji shook his head, backing away from the window.

  “No way. People don’t just collapse like that. Something’s out there. Something got him.”

  “Shut up!” snapped Daichi, a lean man with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

  “You’re freaking everyone out. There’s gotta be an explanation.”

  “Then explain it!” Kenji shot back.

  “Go on, tell me why Takumi’s dead out there!”

  “I don’t know!” Daichi shouted, throwing his hands up.

  “Maybe he tripped, hit his head—”

  “Tripped?!” Ryuji cut in, incredulous.

  “You saw him! That wasn’t a trip. That was… something else.”

  Aizawa’s voice sliced through the argument, cold and commanding.

  “Enough.”

  He turned from the window, his face a mask of controlled fury.

  “We’re all in this together now. Takumi made a choice to run, and it killed him. We can’t make the same mistake.”

  The men fell silent, their eyes on Aizawa, searching for reassurance he couldn’t give.

  He felt their fear, their desperation, and it mirrored his own, though he’d never admit it.

  He was about to speak again when a new sound broke the silence—a low, synchronized buzz.

  Every phone in the room vibrated at once.

  The men froze, their hands hovering over their pockets, afraid to look.

  Aizawa pulled his phone out first, his expression darkening as he read the message.

  His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it, like a wire pulled taut.

  “You thought you could escape?” he read aloud, each word deliberate.

  “You cannot outrun your sins. You cannot escape the game. Takumi chose to run, and he chose death.

  The rules are simple: escape, and you die. Stay, and you die.

  You will all die unless you play the game. This is your chance to survive. Choose wisely.

  If you want to know what it feels like to make a fatal choice, ask Takumi. He just felt it firsthand.”

  The room was silent, the words hanging like a noose.

  No one moved. No one breathed.

  The message was clear, personal, as if it had been written just for them.

  And deep down, they all knew who was behind it—Rei, the shadow they’d been running from for months, always one step ahead, always pulling the strings.

  Kenji broke the silence, his voice barely a whisper.

  “RAY… it’s gotta be RAY.” ( Ray - rival criminal organisation)

  Daichi snorted, but it was forced, nervous.

  “Don’t start with that ghost story crap. Ray ’s just a name. No one’s that good.”

  “Then explain the message!” Kenji snapped, holding up his phone.

  “Explain Takumi! Explain any of this!”

  “I can’t!” Daichi shouted, his cigarette falling to the floor.

  “But I’m not gonna sit here and act like some boogeyman’s coming for us!”

  “Enough!” Aizawa roared, silencing them again.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think through the fog of panic.

  RAY or not, someone’s playing us. And we’re not gonna survive if we keep fighting like rats.

  The men nodded, reluctant, their fear still simmering.

  Aizawa turned back to the window, staring at Takumi’s body, now just a dark shape against the pavement.

  The street was empty, but he felt eyes on them—watching, waiting.

  He didn’t know what Rei’s game was, but he knew one thing:

  They were all pieces on the board, and the next move could be their last.

  ---

  The guards returned twenty minutes later, their faces grim.

  Haruto stepped forward, his voice low.

  “We found him. The fifth guard. He’s… unconscious. Upstairs, in the storage room.”

  Aizawa’s eyes narrowed.

  “Unconscious? How?”

  Haruo shook his head.

  “No marks, no blood. Just… out cold. Like he dropped where he stood.”

  Aizawa’s stomach twisted.

  Like Takumi.

  He didn’t say it aloud, but the thought was loud enough.

  “Take me to him.”

  They climbed the creaking stairs to the storage room, a cluttered space filled with dusty crates and old furniture.

  The fifth guard, a lanky man named Taro, lay sprawled on the floor, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling faintly.

  Aizawa knelt beside him, checking his pulse.

  Steady, but weak.

  “He’s alive,” Aizawa said, his voice tight.

  “But this… this isn’t normal.”

  Haruo shifted uncomfortably.

  “You think… someone did this to him?”

  Aizawa didn’t answer right away. He stood, his eyes scanning the room, looking for anything out of place—a footprint, a weapon, a clue. But there was nothing.

  Just Taro, lying there like a discarded puppet.

  His mind raced back to the message, to Takumi’s body, to the speaker in the street.

  “If he’s not the infiltrator,” Aizawa said finally, his voice low,

  “then someone else is. And they’re still here.”

  The guards exchanged nervous glances, their hands tightening on their weapons.

  Downstairs, the other men were waiting, their fear growing with every passing second.

  The basement, once a refuge, now felt like a trap, its walls closing in, its shadows hiding something—or someone—that wanted them all dead.

  Aizawa straightened, his jaw set.

  “Wake him up. And lock this place down. No one leaves until we figure out what’s going on.”

  But even as REI TSUKUMO gave the order, Aizawa knew it wouldn’t be enough.

  Rei’s game had begun, and the rules were clear:

  Play, or die.

  And right now, they were losing.

  ---