Chapter 7: Collapsing

After winning the duel, the only thing Seto said was, "Come, Mokuba." He didn't even say anything to Yori or acknowledge when Yuugi congratulated his win, and although Mokuba was glad to be at Seto's side again, he didn't really know if things were back to normal.

Seto had a private room like the other finalists, but he instead led Mokuba to a small control room. A row of computers lined the narrow edge of the room beside the door; the only other area had a small table below a viewing window. Things were still silent between them, and Mokuba had begun to sweat a little. He realized suddenly that Seto might have wanted to move their discussion to the closest private area so he could really let Mokuba have it.

As the door closed behind them, Mokuba felt like he'd walked himself into prison. Seto unstrapped his Duel Disk, setting it beside a computer console. He was facing away from Mokuba, no indication of his mood visible.

"Um, Seto, I—" Mokuba's coward voice couldn't finish.

Seto looked at him, hands poised on the collar of his trench coat. When Mokuba didn't continue, Seto shrugged the coat off, tossing it over the back of a computer chair. He moved to the small round table beneath the viewing window and took a seat in a cushioned chair. He motioned for Mokuba to take the seat across from him, but that one didn't look nearly as comfy. It looked binding. And possibly poisonous.

Maybe Mokuba should have stayed at home after all. He'd probably embarrassed Seto by acting out in front of everyone at the tournament his brother had worked so hard to put together. What if Seto thought he was the most annoying brother ever?

While Mokuba agonized silently, Seto opened a drawer in the table, pulling out a folded, checkered board. He began setting up the wooden pieces of a travel chess set, and Mokuba suddenly felt very dumb.

Seto wasn't going to throw him off the blimp or forbid him from ever helping at KaibaCorp again. Chess was what Seto used to relax or unwind, and he could never play it while mad. Chess meant things were normal. It meant things were okay.

Mokuba dropped into the open chair with a sigh. "Seto, I'm . . . sorry about what I said earlier."

Seto didn't respond to that. He just considered the board with a composed, empty face. But, then, he almost never talked when they played; chess meant he was thinking.

Mokuba had the white pieces, so he made the opening move. It didn't take more than five quick back-and-forths before Seto threatened Mokuba with the first check. Mokuba was never the best at chess but especially not when he couldn't focus.

"Sorry I'm not giving you much of a game," he mumbled. He moved a castle in to guard his king, but doing so left his last knight exposed, which he realized just as Seto moved to take the piece. Mokuba's face burned. Any amateur in a chess club could give Seto more of a challenge than he was currently offering.

It only took another two rounds before he saw his unavoidable death on the horizon. He sighed and waited for the condemnation to come.

Seto reached forward, curled his fingers over his bishop. His eyes remained on the board, and his face was still composed as he spoke, but it was not the condemnation Mokuba had expected.

"I am a dick sometimes," he said. He slid his bishop forward but didn't bother announcing the checkmate.

Mokuba stared in surprise. Seto leaned back in the chair, meeting his eyes for the first time in a while.

"But you ever call me a son of a bitch again," he warned, "and I'll kick your ass in a card game."

Mokuba laughed. All the stress he'd been carrying drained, and he hopped his feet under himself in the chair, leaning forward to reset the board.

"One more," he said. "This time it's my win."

"Not in this century, little brother."

And come what may, Mokuba knew he had his brother back.

Yami could feel Yuugi's worry radiating in his mind, just as it had throughout the duel between Kaiba and the spirit of the ring. He wished he could reassure the boy that Ryou was fine, but he wasn't sure of that himself. He'd confided his concerns to Yori after they left the dueling platform, and she'd told him of her conversations using the bracelet. Yuugi wanted to respect his friend's request for trust as much as Yori did, but that didn't lessen his worry.

Yami worried as well, but his concerns were fairly pointed; the spirit of the ring had lost a shadow game, yet he'd walked from the field with barely a stagger. If he was holding the hunger of the shadows at bay by sheer willpower alone, such resistance wouldn't last forever, and Yami worried the eventual consequences would affect Ryou as well.

"We'll simply have to keep a wary eye out," he said finally.

In the twenty-minute intermission before the next duel, the group separated more readily than before. Anzu headed for the restroom with complaints of a headache. Serenity pulled Joey aside for a heart-to-heart that seemed to be needed. Tristan said he wanted to talk to the staff about rooms for non-finalists, and Mai volunteered to go with him in case he needed "a big bad finalist to convince them."

Marik and his Ghoul had disappeared before the duel had even fully concluded, seeming satisfied that Kaiba's summoning of a god was conclusion enough in itself. And Ishizu, of course, had still not bothered to make an appearance of any kind. Seto, Mokuba, and Duke were all off on their own business as well.

Which left Yami alone with Yori—a state he had preferred almost since their first meeting.

"Only six of us left," Yori said, pausing on their way to the lounge. "My deck's all set, but do you need time to prepare?"

"There is one change I'd like to make." He'd decided on it after seeing Kaiba's god card in action.

"I should probably give you some peace and quiet, then."

Maybe it was his imagination, but she didn't seem fond of the idea. The corner of his lips twitched.

"Nonsense." He tilted his head toward the hallways for finalists' rooms. "Join me?"

"If you insist."

She spun on a dime, taking the lead toward his room. He couldn't help a chuckle.

He scanned his ID card at room six, and the door slid open.

"A window." Yori gasped as if betrayed. "Mine doesn't have a window."

Since Yori was an odd-numbered finalist and Yami was even, their rooms were in separate hallways. It seemed he'd lucked out.

"Well, drop by whenever you like," he said. Though his voice was casual, his heart jittered.

Her smile didn't help the condition. "Don't mind if I do."

There were two seats at the round metal table, so they each took one. If the table and rotating chairs hadn't been bolted to the floor, he'd have moved the ensemble beneath the window, since Yori was still eyeing the view fondly, even if it was mostly darkness.

But then again, she'd said she loved the dark. The thought made his heart jitter again.

Yami carefully set his deck at his elbow before spreading out the spare cards he'd brought. Of the five possible opponents left to him, two held god cards; odds were high he'd face one. Seeing Marik's fake had given him some idea of what to expect, but witnessing Kaiba's Obelisk had rounded out the expectation. Obelisk had 4000 base attack points, to say nothing of any special abilities. One hit, and it would demolish a full-strength opponent. Yami needed to improve his defense without sacrificing the power he would need to take down a high-level monster.

He sifted through his deck until he found Chain Destruction and Card of Sanctity. After setting the two cards aside, he replaced them with a Card Destruction and Disgraceful Charity combination. If he got lucky, he could force his opponent to discard their god before it could even be summoned, especially since gods required three sacrifices.

"You know, this gives me a real advantage," Yori said, watching him work, "seeing the details of your deck like this."

Yami raised an eyebrow in challenge. "If you're so confident, duel me now."

"I don't know if you're ready for another loss after I dominated our karaoke duel."

He couldn't help a chuckle. She'd done just that, but he didn't mind one bit. If given the chance, he could listen to her voice all day.

After debating a second change and deciding against it, he packed his deck into his belt once more.

"Someday, I hope . . ." She hesitated, then shrugged. "I don't know. It's probably dumb to pursue music as a career. It's like asking to be broke and living on the streets for the rest of my life."

"Ah, yes," Yami said seriously. "I hear all famous singers are quite torn up about their penniless street lives."

Yori's eyebrows rose slowly, and it was a long silence before she replied. "Was that sarcasm, Your Majesty? I think that might be the first time I've ever heard you use sarcasm."

"Just because I usually refrain from poor communication choices doesn't mean I'm not a keen observer."

She kicked his foot under the table, and he smiled. There was something so natural about being with her.

"What I mean is a career in music seems perfectly realistic for someone with the proper skills, which you possess."

"What about you?" She folded her arms on the table, leaned forward. "What's your ideal career?"

His good humor fled at the innocent question. Normal people had futures to look forward to, careers to think of. What did he have?

"I can't say I possess one," he finally said.

"Then start." Her dark eyes were piercing. "This isn't setting anything in stone; it's just a 'what if.' If you could do anything in the world, what would it be?"

Yami had never permitted himself to imagine a future even as far ahead as Christmas. Trying to think of an adult career and everything one entailed made his skull ache. He wasn't even living his own life, much less . . .

"You're forehead wrinkling again." Yori rubbed the space between her eyebrows. "Don't think so hard. How about a train conductor?"

Yami snorted. "Exactly what about me makes you think I'm qualified to—"

"Opening your own amusement park?"

"That would be Kaiba. He's one door down."

"Airplane pilot?"

"Similar problems to the train." The back-and-forth somehow eased the ache, and despite himself, his mind began to tease at the possibilities.

"Architect?" Her face lit up. "You could build modern-day pyramids!"

He kicked her shoe, as she'd done to his. Her laughter was delightful.

"I like the theater," he said, surprising himself.

"Really?" Yori leaned closer. "Tell me."

He'd opened the door himself, so there was nothing to do but explore.

After a reluctant deep breath, he said, "Anzu performs regularly in plays, sometimes with one of her dance troupes and sometimes alone. I . . . enjoy them. Musicals or regular, I think the performances are captivating, and I enjoy the feeling that everyone in the theater knows the lie but chooses to buy into it anyway. There's an . . . energy."

It reminded him of dueling, honestly, and he couldn't quite explain why. The stories were always over the top and ludicrous, like Duel Monsters, but they managed to be powerful just the same. Something like that. His face grew hot just thinking about it. In the end, it was pointless.

But Yori smiled at him in a way that made the confession worth it.

"I have this secret dream to write a musical," she said. "But I've never even been to one live. Or a stage play of any kind. Maybe after the tournament, we could go together."

It was a much safer plan for the future than a full career. He nodded his agreement.

But something terrible had awoken inside him, something that looked years into the future with greed, something that said life as a ghost in an artifact wasn't nearly enough. Something that wanted work, school, friends, family—all the things he'd once surrendered to Yuugi's identity that remained as hollows in his own.

Something that smiled back at Yori and wondered if her vision of the future included room for him.

Anzu hid in the girls' bathroom until she felt like she'd given everyone plenty of time to get wherever they were going. Then she tiptoed her way to Marik's room.

She was insane. She knew it.

But she knocked anyway.

When Marik opened up, he didn't seem nearly as surprised as last time. "You again."

Anzu didn't give him a chance to turn her away. She ducked under his arm, entering his room like she owned it, already speaking.

"A world where Ra and Nut had four kids instead of five. Set would be the one missing because he's a jerk, and that way, he would never have murdered Osiris, and Iris would never have had to resurrect him, so he wouldn't have left the mortal realm to rule the dead. Not to mention they would have been able to raise Horus properly. Everything would be completely different."

Marik blinked. He looked at her, then looked at the empty doorway.

"Where to begin," he finally said.

He turned to face her, and to her relief, he never reached for the rod resting in its usual place through his belt.

To her not-relief, he also never closed the door.

"What nonsense are you spouting?"

"That's the world," she said firmly. "The one where we could be friends because you wouldn't kill the pharaoh."

"I see some holes in your theory."

She couldn't tell if he was angry or amused. Maybe it was her wishful thinking, but he'd seemed much easier to read when they were in her mind.

"First, Geb and Nut had five children. Ra was never involved."

"Oh." Her cheeks burned. "Well, there were a lot of names in the crash course."

"It's also 'Isis,' not 'Iris.'"

"My defense stands."

"And perhaps most importantly, without Set, there would have been no one to save Ra from the great serpent Apophis. Apophis would have prevented the rising of the sun, the world would have fallen into perpetual darkness, and all would have ceased to be. So I suppose you're right; I would not have killed the pharaoh in such a world because neither he nor I would have ever existed."

Anzu stuck her lip out in a slight pout. "Okay, that last one seems a little melodramatic."

She thought he almost smiled. Maybe.

"There is, of course, a simpler solution"—his pale eyes were suddenly intense—"if you truly wish for a relationship with me."

His wording sent a little shiver through her spine, but she said, "What's that?"

"Abandon the pharaoh."

She swallowed. "I can't."

"Why not?" He stepped closer. "I've seen your mind. You know he's stolen your best friend's life. You resent him."

Her cheeks burned with anger this time.

"Don't pretend you know me just because you've seen one photo album," she shot back. "I don't hate Yami. I just hate that he and Yuugi are stuck in a terrible situation."

Marik's expression hardened into dangerous lines. His hand reached up to grip the rod. "Then we have nothing more to discuss. Get out."

Her rebellious streak almost said, "Make me," but she recognized the stupidity just before she spoke. He really could force her out if he wanted.

He also could have forced her to walk off a rooftop or stab herself in a way that couldn't be fixed by a few stitches. It wasn't the most encouraging defense, but it was something. She clenched her jaw, forced herself to count to three and think of what Yuugi would do to break through to a stubborn enemy.

"Help me understand," she said quietly, "why you hate him."

He smirked. It was a cold, unfriendly expression.

"You made a wish with Pegasus that you later regretted," he said. The rod began to glow beneath his hand, and a faint eye appeared between his parted bangs. "Wish granted."

Part of Anzu wanted to take it back, but she clamped her mouth shut and waited. Her stomach rose as the floor dropped, and everything swirled into orange. Before she could even catch her bearings in the sand and sun, it was gone as well, darkening into stone passageways lit only by scattered torches.

"Behold, your crash course," Marik said, standing beside her.

As he said it, the information came flooding in, overwhelming Anzu's mind. Facts came and went like leaves carried on a swift river, and she was lucky to gather half. She saw Marik at all ages of childhood, learning to read, learning to write, kept in strict line by the hand of his father, a man who never softened with the years. She saw an older boy, Odion. A servant. No, a brother, just not by blood—one who stood at Marik's side even in the current tournament. She saw Marik's sister, who recited the names of gods and goddesses with absolute precision, who prayed with sincerity even when not required. Anzu had seen that sister in real life: Ishizu.

There were other people in the underground village, other members of the clan. They were allowed above ground to buy and sell, to provide for the others. They were not the pure lineage. Marik was never allowed above ground; all he had was that circle of sunlight he would sneak away to more and more often as the years passed. The days were dark and barely noteworthy. The passage of time felt disjointed, marked by holidays that celebrated religion and deities but not the people living in the underground passageways. Marik's birthday was counted by marks on a wall but never a celebration. A celebration would have been selfish, indulgent, crass. He was meant to be devoted, above such things. He was the heir to the pure line.

There was only one birthday that mattered, the reason for recording all the others counting to it.

"The tombkeeper's initiation," Marik said. The flood of information halted, paused like a movie on a still image of an eleven-year-old Marik counting the fourteen days remaining to his twelfth birthday.

Anzu frowned, slightly dizzy from all the images. "What was it for?"

"I'll show you."

In an instant, Marik's shirt disappeared, exposing his bare chest. Anzu was certain she was blushing, even mentally. He didn't seem to notice. His eyes were dark and his expression darker as he turned to show her his back.

And whatever color had been in Anzu's face drained. She pressed a hand to her mouth.

From his neck to his waist, he looked like one of the stone tablets he'd projected in her mind when talking about Egyptian gods. A winged sun disk stretched from one shoulder point to the other while the rest of his back was covered in stacks of hieroglyphs and the images of three gods, everything centered around the symbol of an ankh.

Although black ink traced every line, it was no standard tattoo; it was a collection of scars. Every symbol had been carved directly into his skin.

"Who did this?" Anzu whispered, barely stopping herself from reaching out to touch the scars.

Marik turned to face her, rolling his shoulders as if to ward off an ache. "Technically speaking, my father, but the same was done to him on his twelfth birthday. Such is the sacred tradition of the tombkeepers, one of the many services required of us by the nameless pharaoh."

She could see it in her mind: his father's exposed back as he crouched before Marik and told the boy to copy the sacred writings stroke for stroke, to commit them perfectly to memory.

Anzu bit her lip. Yami would never . . .

But she didn't know who he'd been as a pharaoh. Even he didn't know—Yuugi had told her as much.

"What does it say?" Unlike other hieroglyphs she'd seen while sharing a mind with Marik, she'd been unable to read the writing on his back.

"It doesn't matter," he said shortly. "It's for the pharaoh, sacred information passed down through the generations until his return, when the head of clan is honor-bound to present it to him, along with the two Millennium Items under our protection."

"That tradition isn't the only reason you hate the pharaoh." Anzu could see it in his eyes, feel it in everything around her.

Her words startled everything into motion again. She saw the ceremonial chamber lit by a flood of candles, saw the aftermath of the tombkeeper's initiation—the discarded knives, the blood smeared across all edges of the stone altar, the pile of wet linen rags turned nearly crimson with the same.

And as much as seeing Marik's scars had hurt her soul, it was nothing compared to what she felt when she saw him as a twelve-year-old boy leaning heavily on the altar, his back bandaged, but the bandages already stained through; his beautiful blond hair matted red above his neck; his once-white trousers soaked at the waist.

But Marik wasn't thinking about his own condition.

His father was slumped against a blood-streaked wall, his own clothes more soaked than Marik's, torn around the repeated stab wounds that had ended his life, his eyes glassy and staring.

Anzu covered her mouth with both hands. Tears leaked from her eyes as they would have in the real world, but her vision didn't blur.

The images passed quickly again. Marik sobbed over his father's body; he was pulled away by Odion and taken above ground for the first time in his life. The sun was unkind. He lived in a haze of pain as his back crawled its way toward healing but his mind never did. Odion carved the side of his face with hieroglyphs in the same style as Marik's back, wore it as a sign of devotion and shared suffering, and though Marik never said anything, that day was the first he felt like he might be able to move forward.

But not without avenging his father. No one had seen what had happened, no one knew who'd wielded the knife. Marik had been unconscious after the initiation ceremony. Whoever had killed his father had walked directly by him and left just the same; the thought ate at him daily, his failure consuming him from the inside. He prayed for guidance with a sincerity he'd never before felt, searched records and prophecies for any hint.

And in the end, he found the prophecy that called for the destruction of the Ishtars, the prophecy that declared in bold language that with the pharaoh's return in the last days, the tombkeepers had served their purpose and would be destroyed one by one until the lineage was dead.

All according to the will of the pharaoh.

And Marik no longer cared who'd wielded the knife. The hand had been just that—an instrument, a servant. He'd found the will behind everything. He'd found the pharaoh's payment for a hundred generations of faithful service.

So he made his vow.

The colors melted, faded. Anzu floated and fell until she touched reality. As soon as her stomach landed, she felt it heave back up again, and she barely made it to the trash can by the bed before losing her dinner.

Her response must have startled Marik because he knelt beside her and hesitantly poked her back with his fingertips.

"You asked for it," he said rather sullenly. Then, after a pause, "Are you alright?"

"No," Anzu whispered. Tears tracked down her face in the real world with all the burn she hadn't felt in his mind, and her throat burned just the same. She felt dizzy, and she wasn't sure if it was from what she'd seen, from being tugged around by the rod, or from the feeling that everything she knew about life had suddenly tilted.

Marik moved away, and Anzu tried to stand, but her mind refused to gather itself. It simply kept playing everything she'd seen. She wiped at her face, woodenly clearing the tears.

"Here," Marik said roughly, offering her a hand.

Unable to look at him, she took it, and he pulled her to her feet, then backed her against the bed, forcing her to sit.

"Here," he said again. He extended a water bottle.

The plastic was cold against her fingers.

The silence was cold as well.

"Odion always gave me water when I was sick," Marik said, hands on his hips. "Is that not the normal response?"

Anzu's father had bought her a big stuffed unicorn for her fifth birthday. She'd slept with it every night for years, and when one of its plastic eyes came off, her older brother calmed her tears by tying a bandana around its head and calling it a fierce pirate unicorn.

Marik's father had taken note of Marik's fifth birthday and moved forward without a single word. His older brother had been beaten for Marik's mistakes, trained to call him "Master" and serve him as the future head of clan. There had been no room for love in those dark tunnels. Only tradition. Only duty.

It was a wonder Marik could feel anything at all.

"How did you stand it?" Anzu whispered. The plastic bottle crackled as she gripped it until her fingers hurt.

"Stand what?"

"Living like that."

He didn't answer.

Anzu finally twisted the lid off the water—a tricky thing with one hand still in a brace. She had to grip the bottle with her elbow and uncap it with her good hand. She took a drink. Unfortunately, the bad taste in her mind refused to be washed away as easily as the one in her mouth.

"I didn't—"

Marik's hesitant voice cut off abruptly as a new figure stepped into the doorway. He grabbed the rod, brandishing it like a sword at the intruder.

"Well, well, well," the newcomer drawled, leaning on the doorframe. "I'd hoped for a moment alone, but it seems you're more popular than anticipated."

Anzu frowned. "Ryou?"

The albino had dark shadows around his eyes, like he'd never slept in his life, and his skin was paler than she'd ever seen it. He looked ready to collapse, but he smirked like nothing was wrong.

"I'm here to claim your rod," Ryou sneered, never taking his eyes from Marik.

"You just lost a shadow game against a god card, and you're still walking?" Marik's expression hardened. "You are a monster."

"Takes one to know one."

Anzu stood, stepping around Marik. "Ryou, are you okay?"

He obviously wasn't feeling himself, at the very least. And it worried her that the last time she'd seen him act hard like this had been in Duelist Kingdom. Yuugi said he'd been possessed by the ring.

Even as she had the thought, the ring began to glow, casting yellow shadows across his striped T-shirt.

Marik grabbed Anzu's wrist, pulling her back just as a wave of force erupted from the ring. The pressure forced the air from her lungs, but Marik took the brunt of it, shielding her.

"I've barely opened my bag of tricks," Ryou panted as the force receded.

"You're barely standing," Marik shot back.

"Then let's see you knock me down, tombkeeper."

Just as Anzu was considering thanking Marik, he shoved her onto the bed behind him, stepping forward to meet Ryou. The room filled with brilliant gold light, blinding her.

She didn't know what the fight was about, and anything with the Millennium Items still turned her stomach, but she wasn't about to just stand back and watch. She rolled to her feet again, squinting against the light, and rushed forward. She could barely make out the two shapes grappling, and she could only hope Ryou would still be the one closest to the door.

With that hope, she grabbed his elbow as he twisted into reach, trying to pull him away. His skin was hot to the touch—not hot like a fever but hot like the metal handle of a pan on a burner. He didn't budge, and her fingers burned too much to hold on.

But with two brothers and Joey and Tristan as friends, Anzu wasn't inexperienced at breaking up a stupid wrestling match, even if this one had stupid supernatural elements.

She uncapped her water bottle again and dumped the whole thing on Ryou's head.

Steam hissed in the air. The blinding light vanished, and Ryou stumbled back enough for Marik to overpower him, knocking him to the floor. Anzu kicked Marik in the hip, making him hiss with pain and pull back, though he still kept a grip on his stupid rod.

"Stop it, both of you," she commanded, "or I will throw you off this blimp."

The order wasn't much use on Ryou—he'd passed out. He looked like a drowned puppy, hair and shirt soaked in water, pale and unconscious. At least he was breathing.

"You kicked me," Marik snarled, glaring up at her. His fingers were still tight on the rod, and the hollow eye was hazy with the threat of a glow. "After I protected you."

Despite herself, she smiled. "I'm protecting you too, idiot."

Marik grumbled something unintelligible as he climbed to his feet, but his grip slackened, and he slid the rod through his belt once more.

"Take your friend and go," he said, kicking Ryou in the leg as he crossed the room.

"How am I supposed to do that, genius? I can't carry him."

"I'd also appreciate it if you'd make up your mind about the state of my intelligence."

Anzu didn't comment. She'd already moved to the door, where there was a little intercom clearly marked "staff service." She pressed the button, and it buzzed faintly.

"Staff service. How may we assist?"

"Do you have a doctor?" Anzu glanced back at Ryou, her heart twisting. "My friend passed out. I'm in finalist room number two."

"We'll have medical staff sent to you right away, ma'am."

"Absolutely not." Marik slammed the mini fridge door closed, fresh water bottle in hand. He pointed at Ryou. "Take him somewhere else."

Anzu ignored him and knelt by Ryou, propping his head up in her lap. Creases marked his forehead, and his breathing was labored, like he was in the middle of a nightmare. He'd told her once that he sometimes had nightmares about the car accident that had killed his mother and sister. The stress from dueling all day had probably caught up with him, or maybe he'd been sick even before the tournament started but had refused to admit it. Ryou was stubborn about things like that, and he kept too much to himself.

"Hey," Marik said, but Anzu still ignored him.

He crossed the room to her. She scowled up at him. "I know he attacked you, and I'm sorry—although, let's be honest, it's no surprise people want to attack you with the way you act—but try to be a little considerate."

"Try to . . ." Marik expelled his breath in a rush, nearly laughing. "Has no one ever told you how strange you are?"

"Please." Anzu rolled her eyes. "I'm the most normal of everyone on this blimp."

"And so humble."

"I never said that."

Two staff members came rushing in. They quickly checked Ryou's breathing and asked Anzu a few questions about what had happened, then strapped him onto an orange stretcher board they could carry between them.

"We have a medical bay near the control rooms with more equipment," one of the men explained. "It seems likely he collapsed of exhaustion, so he may just need rest and fluids, but we'll make sure."

"I'll come," Anzu said, already moving.

She hesitated, glancing back at Marik, but the Egyptian turned away pointedly. She didn't know what to say with the medical staff present, and there were so many things she wanted to talk about—not just Ryou's random, unexplained attack, but Marik's past. Her stomach clenched at the thought.

But the men carried Ryou into the hall, and she followed.

And Marik never said a word.

Note: Next chapter update will be Thursday, September 19th.