Game Without Limits

Takahiro could no longer hold back. His hand moved decisively toward the pistol. The cold steel of the weapon gleamed under the dim light of the room, followed by a thunderous gunshot. The bullet shattered the silence, tearing into Takatsu's leg and forcing a guttural cry of pain from his lips. Blood poured freely from the wound, staining the floor in deep crimson. Despite the searing agony, Takatsu refused to collapse, straightening his back in a final act of defiance.

The family gasped in horror. Their attempts to rush to Takatsu's aid were swiftly quashed—special forces operatives restrained each one without mercy. One of them struck Hiroto across the head with the butt of his rifle, silencing his outraged cry with a sickening thud.

Takahiro, maintaining an eerie calm, approached his brother. There was no trace of compassion in his steps, no hint of regret in his demeanor. He crouched down, his gaze fixed on the floor as if Takatsu's face was no longer worth acknowledging.

"You still don't get it, do you?" Takahiro's voice was cold, cutting like the wind on a frigid winter night. "You always thought this was about the company. Sure, it mattered, but that was just the tip of the iceberg. No… this was never just about the company. It was about her." Takahiro's gaze shifted, landing on Naoko.

Takatsu, despite the hellish pain coursing through his body, struggled to rise. His face contorted in determination, teeth clenched as he growled through ragged breaths:

"Why… why did she choose you? What did you have that I didn't?" His voice, though strained, carried the weight of his fury. "Her and everyone else…"

"Naoko chose me because I was honest with her," Takahiro began, his voice devoid of emotion. "And you? You saw her as a prize. As something to win, to own. You never understood her. Never listened. You thought your presence alone was enough to earn her love. But love doesn't work that way."

Takatsu pushed himself further upright, his trembling hands gripping the floor for support. His eyes burned with rage, eclipsing even the agony in his leg.

"I was first!" Takahiro screamed, his voice breaking into a desperate rasp. "I was there for her when she was at her lowest! I supported her! I was always there! And you? You just showed up and took everything!"

"'Took everything?'" Takatsu arched a brow, bitterness lacing his words. "You still don't see it, do you? She didn't choose me. She rejected you. There's a difference, brother. You never saw her as a person. Naoko didn't pick the strongest or the richest. She chose someone who understood her."

Silence cloaked the room like a suffocating shroud. Somewhere beyond the door, the muffled footsteps of the special forces echoed faintly, but they no longer mattered. Takatsu slumped forward, his complexion ghostly pale from blood loss.

Takahiro stood, his movements steady and assured, but devoid of triumph. He looked down at his brother for a moment longer than necessary and quietly muttered:

"It doesn't matter anymore. She'll be mine now."

Takatsu tried to reply, but his strength was ebbing away. Takahiro raised his weapon again, ready to deliver the final blow.

"Hellooo!"

The cheerful, almost playful voice broke through the tension like a lightning strike. It came from the garden, where the slightly ajar door revealed only the faintest hint of shadowy movement. The entire room froze. The family, the special forces, even Takahiro himself seemed to sense that something deeply wrong had just happened. The perimeter was supposedly secure. Outside, an armed squad stood guard, ensuring that no one could slip past unnoticed.

Takahiro spun toward the special forces commander, a Russian named Nikolai. His face twisted into a mask of fury and disbelief.

"What the hell is this?! Who the hell is that?!" he barked, pointing toward the door.

Nikolai, a man whose steely gaze suggested he'd seen it all, now looked genuinely puzzled. He pressed a finger to his earpiece, trying to make sense of the situation.

"The perimeter is secure," Nikolai responded, his voice tight as he tried to maintain composure. "No reports of breaches."

The voice from the garden came again, closer this time:

"Oh, come on now, no need to be so tense! I'm just here for a little fun. Isn't this exciting?"

From the shadows emerged a figure. A person—or something resembling one—moved with a casual grace, as though strolling through their own backyard. Clad in flowing black robes reminiscent of martial arts masters, they had stark white hair, and their eyes were concealed beneath a dark blindfold. A faint, almost mischievous smile played across their lips.

The special forces immediately trained their weapons on the intruder.

"Stop! Get down on the ground!" one of the soldiers barked.

The stranger waved a hand dismissively, as though swatting away a fly.

"Oh, please, let's not be so cliché," he said, chuckling softly. "It's been a rough morning already."

He turned his attention to Takahiro, then to the armed soldiers.

"Takahiro, can't we talk like civilized people? Without all these…" he gestured vaguely at their weapons, "…toys?"

Takahiro's jaw tightened, the tension in his body growing like a coiled spring.

"I'll ask one more time," he growled, barely containing his rage. "Who the hell are you?"

The figure in the garden tilted his head, studying Takahiro as though he were a curious specimen.

"Call me… a friend. Or maybe just a neighbor who decided to drop by for some entertainment," he said, his smile widening. "Though, you know what, let's make it more formal—call me Keito Shigeru."