Streamvale, though? That was its pulse. Neon signs flickered against a deep faux-night sky, artificial clouds rolling through stylized skylines. The group met at the crosswalk near the edge of the stream district, where the buildings looked part arcade, part skyscraper, part comic book panel.
Frosty’s breath still left cold trails in the air, even out here.
Clesphere arrived last, spilling slush out of his double cup, already mid-rant about something no one asked about.
“No seriously, I think skill cooldowns are basically capitalist time loops.”
“Bro,” Delete muttered. “I don’t even know what half those words mean.”
Across the street stood their destination: bathed in blue, purple, and teal LED stripes, flickering out its name every ten seconds like it was buffering reality—
[ I N S E R T C O I N — A R C A D E ]
Frosty was in a plain black shirt with a blue button-up jacket. It was weird, high-collared with white stripes racing down his sleeves, but no one paid him mind. Green-tinted doors slid open on his approach. he was the first one in, but Mizha was already holding her palms up.
She was on coin duty.
“A-ah, Mizha.” Joe laughed nervously, digging in his jean pockets. “I died first. I should be the one doing the exchange this time. It’s only fair.”
She shook her head, and an LED frown buzzed across her mask. Absolute.
Joe forked the cash with a sheepish smile.
One by one, the rest of the crew followed suit—Delete with a sigh, Yusuke like he was tipping a bouncer (placating pat and all), Clesphere with quarters, lint, and a coupon for “one free glomp” from 2014. Mizha took only the usable currency and turned to Slimy, who handed her an “I.O.U.” with an additional promo coupon if she signed up for Bitbase (5$ in slimecoin to him and her upon completion).
Frosty handed her a neatly folded ten.
She nodded once. Transaction complete.
Sleepy, wrapped like a human burrito in a “too big for her” hoodie, shuffled up last and slowly extended a wrinkled five from within her sleeve like it was a rare artifact.
“I was gonna use this for emergency tea,” she mumbled. “But I guess this counts.”
Mizha gave a small, respectful bow and pocketed the bills. Her mask flickered: [$$$]
Then she walked off to the counter like a silent CEO, leaving the rest of the group to scatter.
Insert Coin was alive with chaos—CRT buzz, snack machines humming, glowing cabinets screaming out pixelated soundbites. The air smelled like warm wires, synthetic cherry syrup, and popcorn left just a little too long under a heat lamp.
Clesphere made a beeline for the claw machines, completely locked in. The second he saw a neon fidget cube rotating under the glass, he gasped like it had whispered a prophecy.
“I will die for this,” he muttered, slapping the side of the machine. His outfit was chaotic in a way only he could pull off—oversized Haruhi Shuzumiya tee, white floral windbreaker barely zipped, one pant leg rolled for reasons unknown, and shoes that didn’t match but..somehow worked?
Joe drifted past with the bounce of a carefree spirit and the fashion sense of someone born without the cold gene. Shirtless, gray-skinned, rocking gym shorts with a maple leaf patch and high-top sneakers, he stopped to talk to a bewitched kid beaming at the prize wall.
“That duck?” he pointed. “That one right there? That’s the secret golden 1978 Carmedian Duck. Only five of those are left in the world.”
The kid nodded, awestruck. Joe grinned and continued dredging rubber ducky facts from who knows where. Was he turning into a grandpa?
Sleepy, meanwhile, melted into a beanbag chair, arms tucked under her head like a sunbathing cat. Her pastel hoodie swallowed half her body, and her cargo shorts looked one size too big, probably on purpose. Her socks didn’t match. She didn’t have shoes. She didn’t care.
“If anyone needs me,” she said, eyes closed, “I’m g… Zzz.”
Delete casually leaned against a classic racing cabinet, his eyes were glued to the high score list like he knew those three-digit aliases. He wore a light bomber over a Marvel vs. Capcom graphic tee, muted joggers, and those ever-present pair of sunglasses—indoors, always.
“I’m not gonna play,” he muttered.
“You’re gonna play,” Frosty said.
“…I’m probably gonna play,” Delete admitted.
Slimy was posted up in the dining area, chomping on pizza, charming( or scaring) the snack girl with a crooked grin and cryptic claims. He wore a tank top that said “100% Slime” in bold, glitchy font, board shorts, and a beanie with a dollar sign.
“Not saying I own the blockchain,” he said, “but the blockchain knows me.”
The girl blinked slowly, like she was deciding whether to call security or laugh.
Yusuke, composed as ever, stood near the rhythm combat booths, arms crossed, watching the scrolling demo videos. Suspenders sharp, tie straight, crisp slacks, and the kind of calm energy that suggested he’d already mastered every game in the building and was just waiting for some newb to ask.
“These cabinets have latency,” he said, matter-of-fact.
“You haven’t touched one yet,” Frosty said.
“It’s obvious like Obs. ” Yusuke replied.
Mizha returned with two heavy buckets of coins, her cropped black hoodie bouncing slightly as she walked. Her LED mask flickered between [??], [??], and [?], feeling like a pit boss handing out portions. Slimy got one.
“What about that Bitbase promo?” he asked, hopeful.
Her mask blinked: [?]
Then [??]
Frosty pocketed his share with a sigh. The bit-crushed video game music lingered in the background, low and unassuming, like a ghost. What’d they build this place on top of anyway? Anyway, what mattered was that the group was having fun. Frosty smiled himself a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, flipping out a coin and parting from his crew. Being good at Dance Dance Revolution was the lamest, coolest thing you could be good at in an arcade—likewise, here Frosty was flicking said coin into the slot.
The screen lit up in blood-red neon.
-
[SELECT MODE] → Solo
[DIFFICULTY] → Death’s Dance
[TRACK] → “Dagger Poppin’ // ver.HEX”
-
Frosty exhaled. Music started without mercy—aggressive synths distorted the air. He barely had time to center himself before the arrows dropped.
His feet moved on muscle memory. His body didn’t dance so much as snap through the beat—sharp, minimal, like someone who fought demons with footwork. The machine hissed in approval.
Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.
Halfway through the track, someone slid onto the adjacent pad.
Tall. In a bright orange GI with purple skin. Black and purple laces on their shoes. No hesitation.
[NEW CHALLENGER JOINED]
Frosty glanced over mid-step, just enough to clock the silhouette. Confident stance. Tight form. A rhythm demon. Great. Just what he needed: a rando tryna go viral.
The track rebooted into Versus Mode with no warning.
[NEW OPPONENT: PLAYER_20151121]
Frosty didn’t react, but inside, he bristled. 201-51-121? That was a sweat’s name. No profile. No flair. Just a number, or maybe his ssn?
The countdown hit zero.
They launched.
It wasn’t a duel. It was a declaration.
Their opponent had moves like glitch code—jerky, precise, mechanical, but somehow stylish. They danced like they didn’t care if their knees survived. Every arrow was annihilated with the fury of someone who'd lost a bet. Frosty gritted his teeth. This wasn't some stream-friendly warm-up kid. This was a real *****.
He kicked it up.
His left foot ghosted three steps at once. His right pivoted with a slide. Arms loose. His head tilted aloof, like he was barely trying.
…But he was.
The crowd started forming. Tokens rattled. Mizha paused mid-distribution. Joe forgot his duck trivia. Delete looked over his shades.
Sleepy opened one eye.
The song hit the drop.
The machine spat visuals like an arcade seizure. Frosty’s moves turned brutal—controlled stomps, pivots sharp enough to cut glass. He synced perfectly to the breakbeat glitch.
The other dancer didn’t flinch. They matched his flow and started throwing in style points. Spins. Knee dips. Even a goddamn moonwalk.
Frosty scoffed. “So you think you can dance?”
The final wave came. Unrelenting.
Frosty went all in. He hit every step, stacked modifiers mid-pattern, and still threw a shoulder pop on beat like punctuation.
The final chorus hit like a digital thunderclap. Neon arrows blazed up the screen, a crescendo of stomp after stomp, Frosty locked in, frosted beads of effort building at his temple. His movements were tight, practiced—sharp snaps to the beat while the soles of his shoes slapped the metal pad with precision.
His opponent? Smaller, faster—spinning once, maybe twice, riding pure chaos. They laughed mid-combo, arms flailing like it helped with speed. It didn’t, and somehow, they kept hitting perfects.
Frosty grunted and leaned in. He had to focus.
They were keeping up.
The song hit its final drop. A pixelated scream, a wall of notes, then silence.
The machine pulsed.
YOU WIN.
NEW HIGH SCORE: Frosty_ID
SECOND PLACE: TOKU!!!
The crowd of arcade kids around the machine clapped. A few even whistled. Toku—who he now saw was a dread-headed, sunny-eyed, squirrel-tail-sporting menace in a faded orange gi and a blue undershirt—threw both fists in the air like he just landed a backflip off… WAIT A MINUTE!
“WOOOOOO! That was SO FUN!!” He beamed, panting.
Frosty blinked. “Wait… Toku?”
He turned, tongue poking out slightly. “Huh? Yeah! That’s me.”
A cold realization settled over him. The name. The energy. The absurd foot speed.
“You’re... Toku. From the other team. I-in wub.”
Toku hummed and tilted his head. “Huh? OHHH.” He snapped, “From the Wub-War match!!” He pointed both fingers at Frosty, making finger guns. “You were the blue guy! The one who healed a bunch!!”
Frosty winced. “...Attempted, but, yeah.”
“Daaayuummm,” He grinned, “you got moves, dawg.”
Then he extended his fist, completely abandoning the past match and his second-place score.
Frosty begrudgingly obliged, fist bumping this alien with a wry smirk. He exclaimed--quote-- “Boom!” then bounded off into the arcade like a wound-up, cymbal-clanging Charlie.
Frosty went to hold up a hand, but he couldn’t catch his breath.
“…Wa… Sheesh. That guy’s energy is outta here.”
Frosty turned from the DDR machine, sweat still cooling on his skin. The beat was gone, but his pulse wasn’t—Toku had been fast. Faster than anyone he’d danced against in years. His fingers were still curled from the fist bump.
He turned to rejoin the group—and stopped.
Across the arcade, posted like a squad-shaped question mark, was a group of five. Not his people.
But something about them… clicked wrong.
Toku had just bounced back to them, talking a mile a minute with wild hand gestures, pointing at the dance machine like he’d just won a trophy. The rest stood in a loose half-circle near the fighter cabinets—too relaxed. Too composed. As if they owned the floor.
One girl had floppy dog ears and was tugging at another’s sleeve, practically vibrating with excitement. The one she bugged didn’t flinch—cool posture, snow-pale hoodie, with a long tail swaying low behind her. No words, just a slow, narrowed glance in Frosty’s direction. Had she been watching him?
A third sat nearby, hunched slightly over a sketchbook or maybe a tablet—whatever it was, she was working on something. A camera dangled from her neck, a film patch stitched to her sleeve.
Another guy was leaning against the pinball machine, not doing much at all—half-lidded stare, hood pulled low, one leg up against the cabinet. He gnawed on a lollipop with that kind of look. Unbothered.
Frosty’s stomach dropped.
He didn’t know their names, but he knew.
These weren’t randoms. These were the ones.
Toku had called him the “blue guy.” That meant he remembered. And if he remembered...
The others definitely did too.
Frosty slowly stepped back, searching for his crew.
“Yo.”
No response. Just claw machines, churros, and Joe harassing the air hockey AI.
“Yo.” Louder this time.
Mizha looked up first. Her mask blinked to [??], then flickered again: [??]
Yusuke was already turned halfway, scanning the group, snapping their characteristics together like a jigsaw.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Sleepy shifted under her hoodie cocoon. “Mmm. Who’re those guys?”
Frosty nodded in their direction, voice low. “Toku’s crew. I think… they were the ones from ranked.”
Slimy squinted. “Say swear.”
Delete paused mid-swipe on his phone. “Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent,” Frosty muttered. “I just danced against him. Didn’t know until after.”
A long pause. The other crew hadn’t moved. Not yet. But they were watching now.
Mizha’s mask blinked again: [??]
Joe finally turned around, mouth full of churro brown sugar. “What’s happening?”
“We’re about to find out,” Yusuke said.
Cles rolled a coin across his knuckles. “...You thinking what I’m thinking?”
Frosty exhaled slowly. “I think I am.”
The air in Insert Coin shifted.
Rhythm games kept pulsing. Cabinets kept beeping. But between those two clusters of players—Frosty’s crew and the other group—it felt like a glitch had sliced the arcade in half. Like time had noticed them.
Not even a tad tired from the dance battle, Toku perked up again. His voice cut across the tension.
“Hey!! You guys wanna play something?”
Mizha’s mask flickered: [?????] then [??]
Yusuke was already adjusting his tie.
Slimy leaned forward, the grin on his face three seconds from feral. “You mean... like a match-match?”
Toku blinked. “YEAH! Unless you’re scared.”
A snort cracked from somewhere—maybe the girl with the dog ears, the one chewing her lollipop like it owed her money.
Delete straightened his glasses. “Oh, they’re serious-serious.”
Joe perked up. “Wait, wait, wait—hold up. Is this, like, an actual rematch? Are we doing this? Here??”
Sleepy cracked one eye open. “Can I keep the hoodie on?”
“No,” Frosty said.
“Then I’ll consider it,” she muttered, already sitting up.
Across the arcade, Toku threw both fists into the air again. “Arcade-style team battle! Us versus you! Rhythm Combat or Nothing!”
Still behind the camera, the quiet girl gave a thumbs up. The shutter clicked. She didn’t smile.
Frosty looked at his crew.
Mizha handed out fresh coins like weapons.
Yusuke gave a nod. “Let’s set the tempo.”
Clesphere adjusted his hoodie sleeve. “If I die, I die doing what I love.”
“Let’s make this interesting,” Slimy grinned. “Winner gets snack cart rights.”
Frosty’s eyes narrowed. “Snack cart?”
“The girl with the churros,” Slimy whispered.
Delete groaned. “This is the stupidest motivator I’ve ever heard.”
“And yet,” Joe added, gaining a wild grin that stretched ear to ear. “I’m in.”
The opposing crew had already taken spots at the main co-op rhythm cabinet—one of the bigger ones on a central platform, surround sound, equipped with a full motion base. Half dance pad, half freestyle zone.
It ran. Team mode.
Toku bounced in place, he was so hyper... The others took their stations wordlessly. Even the fluffy-tailed one adjusted her stance like a marksman settling into position.
The game’s neon HUD flickered across the screen.
[TEAM MODE: LOCAL CREWS—2 ROUND BATTLE][RHYTHM CORES: PERFORMANCE | STYLE | CROWD HYPE]
The silent girl pulled out her phone to livestream it. The caption typed in:
“#InsertCoin #Crewoff #Runback ??”
Frosty stepped forward. “Alright,” he muttered. “Let’s show ‘em what we’re like in person.”
Yusuke cracked his neck. “No excuses.”
Mizha’s mask flickered [??].
The screen counted down.
3
2
1
The match began.
The cabinet glitched into full-screen mode, announcing its rules in a chiptune voice:
INSERT COIN – RHYTHM WARFARE MODE:
2 TEAMS. 3 ACTIVE. 2 INACTIVE. CROWD DECIDES THE WINNER.
Frontline players carried the spotlight—dance, rhythm hits, freestyle combos. Backline supported from the shadows—buffs, tempo control, crowd influence. Points meant nothing if the crowd didn’t cheer.
TEAMS LOCKED IN!
THE CHILL CREW:
- ACTIVE: Frosty, Mizha, Clesphere
- INACTIVE: Yusuke (Crowd Controller), Sleepy (Tempo Specialist)
THE COFFEE CREW:
- ACTIVE: Toku, Sammie Yami, Icy-Fox
- INACTIVE: 3cho (Style Buff), Babylon (Score Logger/ Crowd Controller)
[ ROUND 1: TRACK LOADED – “STACK ROLL HYPE!!” (138 BPM – Bouncy, Chaotic, Complex) ]
MATCH START!
[0:07]
Clesphere opens with a slide-hop-spin into a perfect… then immediately steps off-beat and throws a “Woo!” at the wrong time.
“I meant to do that,” he mutters.
[0:10]
Frosty comes in cold, literal mist from his movements. He keeps his motions minimal but on point. Every step is solid, and the meter glows light blue as he builds combo streaks. Cool, calculated.
[0:13]
Mizha’s LED mask pulses [??????] as she launches into a pop-lock footwork string that earns a LOUD WHOOP from the arcade crowd. Two combo meters flash [STYLE BONUS] in purple letters.
[0:16]
Toku is already upside down. No one knows how. His tail knocks over a drink. His footwork is chaotic, but it lands.
Wild applause.
The crowd score was tilting.
[0:19]
Sammie is stomping with paws-out energy, half-cute, half-animalistic. Her bounce rhythm stacks flawlessly with Toku’s, making the crowd holler, “AWWWWH YEAHH” in unison.
[0:23]
The arctic wolf chick doesn’t look like she’s trying. Her steps float—barely touching, yet always landing. She tosses in a spin without losing balance. Frosty’s brows knit, and the corner of his lip folds between his teeth. The crowd is hypnotized; the bar shifts.
[0:26]
Sleepy yawns and queues a tempo switch. The beat drops suddenly into half-time mode.
The opposing team misses a few beats.
Yusuke leans into his mic and says,
“Let’s fix this tempo, y’all!”
[0:29]
The crowd cheers. Chill Crew’s bar inches up.
[0:31]
Babylon—still mostly silent—points her camera toward the crowd. A filter overlays the game screen. The crowd EXPLODES with emojis. It’s unclear if she hacked something or just went viral.
Crowd score swings hard left.
[0:34]
Mizha drops low. Her knees don’t make sense. Her mask flashes [???] and then [??].
Clesphere panics, misreads the timing, and does the worm. It gets him a cheer anyway.
“That was intentional!” he yells mid-worm.
[0:38]
Frosty plants himself. Beat drops. He rides it like a train track—steps sharp, shoulders locked, a precision combo chain that lights the floor ice blue.
[CRITICAL CROWD HIT]
[+20 HYPE]
[0:41]
Sammie mirror-mimics Mizha, throwing playful flair at her.
Mizha’s mask flickers [????].
[0:45]
Toku moonwalks sideways while spinning. Clesphere screams. The crowd screams louder.
[0:47]
Yusuke amps the crowd with the loudest scream, doubling the cheering and invoking cultist chanting.
[0:50]
Sleepy taps in, slowing down the field again with a wave of “z’s”. Mizha syncs with it, body language locked, every stomp a thunderclap.
[0:55]
Final chorus begins.
Crowd bar is split 48 / 52—leaning toward the enemy.
[1:00]
Frosty glances at Mizha. She nods once.
Time to lock in.
ROUND 2: FINAL MATCH – “DROP DIVIDE // DANGER MIX” – 162 BPM
The game didn’t wait. The beat slammed down like Y***’s bells. Spastic. Heavy. Off-kilter. The kind of track that punished hesitation.
Score tied. Crowd bar even.
[0:03]
Frosty locked in. Center pad. Focused. He wasn’t here to win glory. He was here to make sure they didn’t fall apart again.
[0:07]
Mizha blitzed the right lane with high-speed footwork. Her mask blinked [??] then [??????].
Clesphere tried to match the tempo and fumbled.
“Okay, hold on HOLD ON—”
Trip.
Flop.
[0:11] [Clesphere – K.O.]
[SUB IN: Delete]
Delete walked in, no intro, just kicked the pad like it owed him rent. His patterns were ugly in a good way.
[0:15]
The enemy team flowed effortlessly.
Sammie pulled hearts from the crowd with her bounce, syncing with Toku’s chaos and wolf girl’s precision. They stacked combos, fan reactions, crowd pop-ups—each arrow perfect, each move boosted.
Babylon’s camera flashed. She wasn’t playing, but she was building hype. Emojis flooded the on-screen overlay.
The crowd bar tilted hard.
48 / 52 — In their favor.
[0:19]
Yusuke Warnned. “We're slipping.”
Sleepy slowed the beat. Mizha leaned in. Delete started improvising from the back, barely holding his pad down with street-style break-moves.
[0:22]
Mizha... staggered.
Her foot hit wrong. One arrow off. She caught herself, but the chain broke.
A flicker of dread cracked across Frosty’s cool demeanor.
The crowd bar dipped again.
[0:27] [Mizha – K.O.]
[SUB IN: Slimey]
Slimey entered hot. Loud. Flashy. Spinning mid-move. But the damage was done. The bar slid to 45 / 55.
They were losing. And the crowd was watching the other team now—laughing with Toku, swooning at Yami’s moves, oohing with every dramatic beat from Icy-chick and 3cho.
Frosty looked up.
He could push harder.
Or—
Maybe he could learn from his friends.
[0:33]
Frosty stepped back half a beat, shifted his position, and intentionally slipped on a combo with a loud, exaggerated spinout that landed in a sideways half-split. He threw his hands up like it was part of the act.
The crowd lost it.
Laughter. Applause. One guy shouted, “YO! DID HE MEAN TO DO THAT?!”
“IDK, THAT WENT KINDA HARD.”
Frosty recovered mid-move, winked, and added a silly clap-step that wasn’t even in the game. A flourish. A break in character, but the crowd flipped.
[+10 HYPE]
It was subtle, not skill but showmanship.
[0:37]
Slimey saw it. Ran with it. Did a ridiculous worm-flip and launched into a copycat move.
Delete groaned but joined—drop-stepping, then ending with a mic-drop gesture that somehow got two Perfects.
The score climbed.
[0:41]
Backline, Sleepy whispered, awe-struck, “They’re eating it up.”
Yusuke didn’t say anything. He just watched. Closely.
[0:43]
The enemy team kept playing perfectly. No mistakes.
But no spark.
They didn’t adjust. They didn’t pivot. They just performed.
[0:47]
Frosty fake-tripped again—catching himself mid-air, rolling back up into a double-tempo finish with a wide grin. It was strange. It was dumb. It was exactly what the crowd wanted.
Crowd bar: 51 / 49 – Chill Crew.
[0:50] FINAL MOVE TRIGGERED
Frosty let his team take the real finish.
Slimey did a spin. Yusuke shouted. Delete hit the stomp-tap power note. Sleepy timed a slow-mo overlay.
Frosty?
He crossed his arms, right on beat.
?? WINNER: THE CHILL CREW – 52 / 48
The cabinet exploded with pixel fireworks. A soundbite yelled, “YOU GOT THE CROWD!”
Cheers. Whistles. Claps.
Frosty exhaled and stepped off the pad. Legs trembling. Face cool.
“Easy,” he whined.
The cabinet’s pixel fireworks fizzled out. The “VICTORY” screen looped on repeat, and the crowd slowly began to break, drifting off to other games, other matches. But a few stayed watching Frosty.
Some clapped.
One kid asked for a selfie.
Someone shouted, “Yo, do the spin again!”
Frosty smiled with half-lidded eyes, still breathless. “Next time,” he said, waving it off and backing away from the pad.
Mizha was the first to reach him, mask flashing [??] and [??], tossing him a cold bottle of soda.
“Not bad,” Sleepy yawned. “Sloppy as hell, but... effective.”
Slimy whooped from behind. “We WON?! Dog—WE’RE TOO NICE!”
Joe jumped up, pretending to cry. “We beat the protagonists!”
Delete muttered, “I didn’t even try,” but his panting betrayed him.
The crew gathered in a loose huddle, laughing, high-fiving, and debriefing in fragments.
Everyone was buzzing.
Everyone but Yusuke.
He stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching Frosty the way a father watches his kid almost get away with something.
Frosty felt the stare before he turned.
“You ain’t celebrating?” he asked.
Yusuke shrugged. “Everyone else already did.”
Pause. Frosty cracked open his soda. “You got a problem with how I played?”
Yusuke didn’t answer right away. He stepped closer and leaned in just enough so only Frosty could hear:
“You threw. Just enough to turn heads. Then baited them with charm. Sacrificed your vibe for the crowd meter.”
Frosty sipped. “...And?”
“I’m just saying,” Yusuke said, a quiet grin tugging at one corner of his mouth, “only two kinds of players do that.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Desperate ones. And leaders.”
Frosty froze for half a beat. Then scoffed.
“Couldn’t just let me have the win, huh?”
Yusuke shrugged again. “I did. I just made sure you know who got it.”
Frosty clinked his soda against Yusuke’s. “Cheers, sensei.”
The moment started to settle. Laughter echoing off retro walls. Joe was doing a victory dance that lacked rhythm. Mizha was passing out leftover coins like badges of honor.
Then, Toku reappeared—bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, grin wide as ever, eyes bright with curiosity.
He was holding something. Waving it like a white flag.
“Hey,” he said, sliding up beside them like he hadn’t just been the opposition five minutes ago.
Yusuke raised an eyebrow. “You lost. What, you want a rematch already?”
Toku laughed. “Nah, not right now. That was fun, though! You guys fight weird. Like... from your heart or something.”
Frosty blinked. “You serious?”
“I’m always serious,” Toku said matter-of-factly, as if it explained everything.
Then he turned to Yusuke.
“You. You’re the one who calls the plays, right? The one who reads the room before anyone else.”
Yusuke tilted his head. “That obvious?”
“Not to them.” Toku pointed at the rest of his crew. “But to me? Super clear. You love this stuff. Strategy. People. Patterns. It’s in your blood.”
“I’m flattered,” Yusuke said. “Still not joining your squad.”
Toku snorted and held out a white envelope with gold trim. On the seal, a small fox mask insignia glinted under the arcade lights.
“I’m not recruiting. Not exactly. Just... read it and tell me what you think.”
Yusuke took it cautiously. “What is it?”
“An invitation,” Toku said. “For the one who made the final call. Whether he meant to or not.”
Frosty looked between them. …One who made th--”
Toku grinned. “Whelp, GG’s fellas.” He started backing away, then spun around and waved both arms like a fanboy. “BYEEEEEE!”
He vanished into the crowd before anyone could ask more questions.
Yusuke looked down at the envelope. Then at Frosty. And wordlessly held it out.
“Take it.” He commanded.
Frosty hesitated. “Didn’t you just say I threw the game?”
“You did.” Yusuke shrugged. “But you threw it perfectly.”
Frosty reluctantly took the envelope. It was heavier than it looked. A strange warmth radiated from the seal, like the moment you walk into a room where someone’s just been talking about you. Not in a good way either.
He pocketed it.
“C’mon. Let’s save that poor girl from Slime.”