Warnings: Semi-graphic depictions of violence, Drinking, Smoking


Chapter 8: A new kind of shadow game

Bakura felt the doorbell buzz under his finger as he pressed it. He waited, eyeing the pink letters above him with apprehension. There was no other sound apart from the voices issuing from the open window overhead and, after a minute, those stopped, too.

He rang the doorbell again, tapping his foot impatiently. He needed no further tests of determination - the pink neon sign above the door was daunting enough as it were.

Just as he was about to ring the bell for the third and last time, the door finally opened, revealing a massive man with small, hostile eyes. Despite it being the middle of winter, the man was wearing a plain white t-shirt, pulled tight over bulging muscles. His exposed arms were tattooed down to his knuckles; he folded them across his chest as he eyed Bakura.

"What do you want? We do not open until nine," he barked.

Even though the top of Bakura's white head barely reached the man's shoulders, the yami refused to be daunted by him. He narrowed his eyes in his usual haughty way and said, "I am here to talk to Mr Ishido."

The man lifted an eyebrow and scanned Bakura from head to toes.

"Is he expecting you?"

Bakura hesitated. He considered lying for the sake of getting inside without further ado, but that could lead to more problems than it solved. Lying his way in was probably not the wisest move.

"No," he replied at length.

"Then get lost, pal," the man said and made to get back inside.

Bakura's hand shot out to hold the door open.

The man's look darkened. "I think I did not make myself clear, pal. You have ten seconds to get your ass to the end of this street, turn right and disappear from my sight."

Bakura's nose scrunched up in contempt at the man's attempt to intimidate him.

"I am here to see Mr Ishido," he repeated firmly.

"Nine..." the man started counting down.

"Look, pal," Bakura's lips pulled back into a snarl. "I am here to talk business with this Ishido guy and I'm not leaving until I do so. Got it?"

"What I got is that you'll lose your arm if you don't get lost. This is your last warning."

"I'm here to ask him for a job," Bakura insisted, then raked his brain for the name of the guy who had recommended this place to him. "Joji sent me."

The man frowned; the expression made his eyes look even smaller. He examined Bakura's face intently.

The yami kept at his unwavering, almost stubborn, look. He seemed to pass the test, for the man huffed and growled, "Wait here." The door closed and Bakura was once more left to wait at the threshold.

The buildings around him were too tall to allow the sun rays to reach the bottom of the narrow alley. The cold was sharp down there, so Bakura dug his hands in the pockets of the thin jacket he was wearing. He grit his teeth and wondered - not for the first time - whether he should give up on this whole Ishido affair. He could try his hand at pick-pocketing one more time. Perhaps break into an apartment or something.

The door opened again before he made up his mind. The same man appeared and motioned at Bakura to follow him.

Well, there was no going back now.

He crossed the threshold and found himself in a long, dark hallway. Bakura's first impression was that the whole place had a decrepit feel to it. The walls were paneled with old and unpolished wood, and the plaster at the ceiling had started falling off. The man lead the way, walking across the hallway and past a flight of stairs. A worn red carpet muffled their steps.

At the end of the corridor stood a set of heavy, soundproof doors. The man pushed them open, motioned Bakura inside with a curt nod, and stood to the side to allow him to walk in first.

Bakura stepped into a spacious, high-ceilinged and dimly-lit room. The color of wood and tones of red predominated, muffled and dull in the half-light. He quickly realized he was in some sort of club. Scattered across the room was an abundance of tall, round tables; across the entrance, to the far edge of the room, stood a stage. The same cheap and stained carpet covered every inch of the floor. There were a few tall windows, but their crimson curtains were shut tight. All other lights were off. It was quite warm in there; warm enough for Bakura to take his hands off his pockets and finally stop shivering.

A bar took up the wall to his right. The place was empty but for two figures that were sitting at it, leaning against its long counter. The pair comprised of a man as muscular as the one that was escorting Bakura, and a plump woman that seemed like an explosion of colors amidst all the browns and reds of the place. Both pairs of eyes were already on Bakura, staring at him with curiosity.

The yami glanced around again, his eyes lingering on the stage despite his will.

What had that idiot Joji thought he was talking about when he asked about a job? What kind of job would he land in a place like this? He guessed they did not bring him in to make him a waiter.

A clinking noise echoed in the silent hall. Bakura turned around and spotted the source of the sound: the woman was beckoning to them, causing her numerous gold bracelets to jingle.

"Come on," the man that was escorting him gave him a slight push towards the couple.

The man sitting at the bar seemed quite indifferent, but the woman's eyes gleamed as she gazed at the approaching newcomer. She was sitting cross-legged on a stool, taking long and lazy drags from a cigarette. Her face was so heavily made up that Bakura couldn't really tell her age, but he could see her foundation creasing in the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. She was wrapped in many layers of flowing fabrics in extravagant colors and had topped everything with a turquoise robe that may have looked good on a more attractive woman. Her long red nails gleamed when she flicked the ash from the tip of her cigarette.

When Bakura reached her, she exhaled the puff of smoke she had been holding and gave him something that, in another world, might have been called a smile.

"Well, well... Is this for me, Enki?" she said with a fake laugh.

The man next to Bakura, apparently named Enki, shook his head.

"No, ma'am. He's here to see Mr Ishido."

The woman's face fell into a pout. "Oh, I see," she murmured. Still, she did not take her gaze off Bakura. Her eyes examined him in an almost professional way; he was under the impression that she could see past his baggy and dirty clothes and measure the body underneath. When her eyes came to rest on his face, she sighed with something that could or could not have been regret. "What a shame. What's your name, darling?"

Bakura's throat convulsed upon hearing the term of address. He refused to grace that with an answer. He would never acknowledge someone who had called him darling, even if that led to his being kicked out of that place.

Now that he thought about it, being kicked out did not seem such a bad fate.

"Ouch," the woman said, pressing a hand against her heart. "What a cold look! You break my heart, darling. And you are going to break a lot more hearts with that look of yours, I'm sure. Enki, if Ishido has no use for him, bring him back up to me, please."

"I'm not interested," Bakura said dryly.

"Oh?" the woman lifted a badly-drawn eyebrow; Bakura wondered how she managed to keep her lids from drooping under the weight of all this make-up. "A shame, indeed. I could definitely work with that face. A know a few hearts that would melt at the sight of those cheekbones."

Bakura's mouth twisted and he looked away. One more minute of this and he would walk out of there himself. His stomach might be stuck to his spine, but he was not that desperate.

Thankfully, the woman dismissed them with a flick of her hand and a jingle of her bracelets.

"All right, then, move along. Let Ishido have all the good ones." She huffed and turned back to her companion.

Enki gave her a curt bow and Bakura almost scoffed at his display of respect.

He followed him around the bar to a simple door that looked like it could be leading to some sort of storage room. He was surprised when he went through it and found himself in the middle of another long corridor. Its edges were hidden in deep darkness. Only one light was on, gracing the long space with a cold, white glow; much different from the warm hues of the previous room. He managed to discern a few more doors, but he was not able to make out the end of the corridor, no matter how much he squinted.

Enki led him towards the single light, which hung over what seemed to be a wide trapdoor - the kind that led to basements or cellars. He opened it, revealing a flight of steps, feebly illuminated by small white spotlights. Bakura could not see the bottom of the staircase, but it was clear that it was burrowing deep underground.

He swallowed. Underground meant less chances for a quick and easy escape, should things turn sour.

On the other hand, this seemed a lot more promising than the sleazy bar they had just left. The secrecy and the sheer amount of doors one had to cross to reach this place definitely suggested illegal activities. What kind of illegal activities, Bakura had no idea, but it could be anything from protection to drug dealing. Or even a criminal organization with some kind of half-mad leader that wants to take over the world via playing card games.

He started climbing down the steps and Enki followed suit, pulling the trapdoor shut behind them.

At the bottom awaited yet another corridor, but this one was wide and well lit. It seemed and felt new, especially when compared with the ancient building they had just left. There were no swerves and no detours. It just led straight to a heavy double door with a guard before it; a man of an even more impressive build than Enki, and much better dressed. In the few seconds it took to reach the guarded door, Bakura took in everything around him.

There were two security cameras: one at the bottom of the staircase and one right above the guard's head. Bakura ground his teeth. If this was the only entrance, then it would indeed be impossible for anyone to enter or leave undetected. It made him feel... uncomfortable.

Just what kind of lair was he walking into?

The guard scrutinized him and contempt settled on his face. The handle of a handgun was visible under the jacket of his black suit. Bakura tried his best not to scoff and squared his shoulders proudly. Handguns and security cameras. How banal. If he had his Millennium Ring, none of these things would be a nuisance to him. Their technology was powerless before his shadow magic.

...Of course, he did not have the Ring anymore and there was not an ounce of shadow magic in his body, but he chose not to dwell on it. He would not be intimidated by simple goons with guns.

The guard nodded to Enki and held the door open for them.

Beyond stretched another spacious and subtly-lit room, where everything was in hues of grey. Every light was on, but that did not succeed in making the place bright. On the contrary, it seemed that some corners were deliberately left in the shadows.

Bakura's gaze was immediately drawn to the centre of the room. There, standing on a raised platform, stood an octagon boxing ring, caged in chain-link. The space around the ring was empty for a good thirty-feet radius: no seats, no benches, no tables. Beyond that space the scenery changed. In the left side of the room were rows of blackjack and poker tables, with their green tops striking amidst the grey-scale tones of the place. Next to them stood a couple of roulettes.

A gambling den, then; possibly more.

There was a bar, taking up half of the wall across from Bakura, partly obscured by the boxing ring. A lone barman was standing behind the counter, watching him with apathy. The right side of the room was taken up by small, round, white tables, surrounded by a few chairs each; there were twenty, or twenty-five of them. And, beyond them, on a platform higher that the rest of the room - almost at the same level with the boxing ring - stood a few more tables, each one tucked in its own separate alcove in the wall. The only people in the room, apart from the bored barman, were sitting around one of those elevated tables. Cigarette smoke hovered over their heads, taking a silvery sheen under the white spotlights. The cloud of smoke, coupled with the deliberate half-light, made it hard to discern any faces, but Bakura guessed it didn't really matter. That group seemed to be their destination, so he would probably see them all from up close soon.

His eyes swiped the place hastily. There was a set of double wing doors next to the bar, probably leading to a kitchen or something similar. There was a small, wooden door with no sign; no clue as to where that one led. And a small corridor at the far side of the room, with a small sign above it that read 'Restroom' ; no questions about that one. No security cameras in there. At least, none that Bakura could spot, which was more worrying than reassuring. No emergency exits, either; weren't these modern places required to have one of these?

His eyes moved back to the group of men, who had fallen silent upon his entrance. Enki gave him an imperative push towards them. Bakura grunted his displeasure at the gesture and started walking towards the group of men. Beyond the haze of smoke, he made out six pairs of glinting eyes. He climbed the few steps of the platform, taking extra care in retaining his haughty, almost defiant posture. He did not care whether his attitude would work in his favor or not, but he was not going to act timidly in front of these people.

Once he was three paces away from the table, Enki's hand landed on his shoulder, indicating that he was not allowed to go any further. The yami momentarily glowered at the hand that had clamped him, but complied and stayed put.

Of the six men across from him, two were standing against the wall with their backs held straight and their hands folded in front of them. The other four were sitting on the plush leather couches around the table; two of them to the right, one to the left, and all three of them keeping a respectful distance from the one that was sitting at the head of the table.

Bakura was ready to bet his newly-acquired body that, if any of these men was the infamous Ishido, then it was the one at the centre. He was sitting back leisuredly, his face hidden in shadows, and was smoking a cigar that was responsible for the thickness of the cloud around their heads.

"This is him, Mr Ishido, sir," Enki said.

Sure enough, the man sitting at the head of the table moved. He leaned forward, allowing the glow of a spotlight to reveal the features of his face. Dark eyes and equally dark hair, a straight nose, thin lips. There was nothing remarkable about his appearance; he looked like an average man in his mid-thirties, just better groomed than most.

"Thank you, Enki," he said and waved a dismissive hand.

Enki released Bakura and backed away a few paces, but did not leave the room entirely.

He could feel all gazes in the room piercing him, but Bakura focused only on Ishido. He tried to read the man's face, to get to know what he was dealing with.

The first thing that struck him was that there was no emotion on that face. Well, no real emotion. Nothing could be extracted from his expression. Bakura couldn't tell whether his appearance had elicited surprise, contempt or disgust. Everything, from the amount of interest he showed to the specks of boredom he flavored that interest with, seemed incredibly calculated. The angle of his eyebrows, the shape of his mouth, the slight tilt of his head were under his complete control. Nothing leaked through.

And Bakura did not like it. Before this armor of a man, he felt disproportionately exposed.

Ishido's dark eyes scanned Bakura once and came to rest on his face.

"So... I heard that you wanted to see me, and apparently were very insistent about it." His voice held no annoyance, no threat, neither interest nor disinterest.

Bakura waited for him to go on but, when Ishido didn't, he realized that some kind of answer was expected from him. "Yes, I did," he grunted.

"What's your name, then?"

"Bakura."

Ishido slightly lifted one eyebrow. "First name or last name?"

"First name."

"Hmm. And last name?"

"None. Just Bakura."

"I see." He placed his cigar on the ashtray before him. The rest of the men remained silent, watching. "I understand you found me through Joji. That old codger. I'm surprised he's still out there." There was no surprise in his voice. "So..." He laced his fingers and rested his chin on them. "Why are you here?"

"I am looking for a job," Bakura said, as if that much wasn't obvious. Enki had most probably informed Ishido about that already but, for whatever reason, he wanted to hear it from him.

Whatever. He'd play his game for now.

"Is that the word in the streets these days?" Ishido said, feigning thoughtfulness. "Do people go around saying that I hand out jobs to whomever shows up on my doorstep?" Again there was no annoyance in his voice, just carefully measured incredulity.

"I was told that there might be a job here for someone with my skills," Bakura replied in an equally measured voice.

"And what are those skills?"

"I am a thief," Bakura said simply.

Ishido raised both eyebrows this time.

"Does this look like a den of thieves to you?" he asked, opening his arms to indicate the room before him.

A smirk curved Bakura's lips.

"I'm good in all kinds of stealing. Give me a deck, and I can assure you that no opponent will beat me."

A smile that hinted amusement appeared on Ishido's face; a small thing, rehearsed to perfection.

"Is that so?" he said, drawling deliberately. He sat back; the shadows enveloped him again but the glint of his smile remained visible. "And what makes you think that I steal from my customers?" He shook his head. "Cheating is bad for business. We do honest work here, Mr Bakura."

Bakura had to hold back a sharp laugh. Anything that required this level of secrecy and cover would never suggest 'honest work'.

His expression did not escape Ishido. His smile seemed to widen, but Bakura couldn't tell with certainty. "It seems you have some doubts," he said lightly. "I don't know what they told you about me and my employees, but I have no use for a thief."

Bakura's scowl deepened. Ishido was mocking him; he was sure of it. His hunch told him that the man before him was much more than the owner of an underground gambling den. His behavior was too careful, too... experienced, his acting skills too honed - not to mention he was there in the middle of noon, while his joint was closed for the day, surrounded by bodyguards and fellow 'businessmen'.

"Then what do you have a use for?" Bakura asked. "'Cause I have more skills that could prove useful." He hated that: trying to sell himself like he was some kind of product, but... The cold of the street was too fresh on his skin.

A low laugh drifted across the table.

"I have no use for anything right now, really."

Bakura was getting quite annoyed. And impatient.

"Then why did you allow me to come in?" he growled. "You knew what I wanted."

Ishido's silhouette moved; he brought a thoughtful finger to his lips. "Hmm... I admit I was curious."

Bakura did not buy that. Such men don't interrupt meetings just because they are curious. He wouldn't have consented to see him at all if he really had no use for him. Hell, he wouldn't have let a complete stranger enter his super-secret den just like that. No... He was simply testing him, somehow. He had called him in, expecting to see something in him. Or, perhaps, expecting Bakura to say the right thing.

And Bakura had just about had enough of this. He was done trying to prove his worth to small time criminals. It was pathetic. Zorc would have sent these men scurrying to their mothers' laps, and yet there he was, trying to figure out what was the right thing to say.

He bristled in silence for a few seconds, glancing around. Damn the moment he decided he needed a fucking boss.

Yet, he was very much in need of something. Anything. And if that idiot did not want to hire him for his 'dirtier' jobs, then so be it. He obviously hadn't earned his trust, and he wasn't willing to try more.

As his eyes swept the room, they lingered on the octagon cage for a few seconds. He turned his head back to Ishido.

"Alright, then. Keep your secrets. I don't give a damn. But I really need some money, so..." He pointed to the boxing ring with his thumb. "I take it that you pay whomever puts up a good show in there?"

Ishido's smile widened by half an inch.

"You want to fight for me?"

"I want to fight for money," Bakura corrected him.

"You don't strike me as the fighting type," Ishido said, pointedly examining him again.

"Give me some food and a pair of pants that fits, and I'll give you a show to remember."

Ishido chuckled. "That's... promising. And yet, hardly believable."

"Try me," Bakura shrugged.

Ishido considered him for a moment, his index finger tapping lightly at his lips. "Alright, I'll give you a chance. Tonight is a fight night, after all. I'll let you participate, in exchange for food and clothing."

His empty stomach gave a hopeful lurch, but he showed none of his enthusiasm. "And what about money? How much for a game?"

"Now, now..." Ishido shook his head. "I'm giving you a chance. That's your payment. Take it or leave it."

The edge of Bakura's mouth twisted unhappily, but he said nothing. There was no point in refusing now, was there? Even without a payment in cash, he would get a meal and clothes out of this, and perhaps more. That sounded good enough.

...Sure, walking out of there would also mean walking away from a possibly severe beating. However, if he had to choose between a beating and the streets, he would take the beating. A bit of pain did not scare him. He was the Thief King. He'd learned how to survive in the muddy streets of Egypt, thousands of years ago. His resolve was molded from blood and sand and hardened under the scorching sun. The soft, coddled men of today had nothing on him.

He wasn't wary of entering the ring, he was wary if what might come after it. He was wary of the man before him. The same careful smile still played on Ishido's lips, all thoughts and intentions behind it remaining unreadable. Definitely a sign for Bakura to not trust this man.

But, whatever. Fighting in his underground den and trusting him were two different things.

"Fine," Bakura said.

Ishido clapped his hands together. "We have a deal, then! Excellent! Enki, find Aaron and tell im I've got another fighter for tonight."

"Yes, sir," Enki replied with a bow.

"Stay with our guest until Aaron arrives. And make sure that he receives the agreed-upon payment before tonight's fight."

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

Enki went for the double swing doors next to the bar. Bakura threw one final glance towards Ishido's group, but their attention was back to whatever they were discussing, making it clear that they were done with him for now. He let out a grunt and followed Enki.

It turned out that the double swing doors led, indeed, to a kitchen. After the half-light of the main hall, everything in there seemed too bright. White light was reflected on stainless steel surfaces and numerous appliances with a harshness that made Bakura's eyes hurt.

A single employee was sitting at a table, half-asleep over his unsolved sudoku puzzle. He glanced up when he heard them enter and frowned at Bakura.

"Who is this, Enki?"

"New fighter."

"And what's he doing here? Fight night doesn't start for another eight hours."

"He's here for lunch," Enki said with a derisive scoff. "Boss's orders. Keep an eye on him for five minutes, I've got to call Aaron."

"Fine, fine..."

Enki left through the double swing doors, leaving Bakura and the kitchen employee - cook, perhaps? - alone. The man's eyes flicked back to Bakura, examining his figure - something that had really started getting to the yami's nerves. Then he sighed tiredly and pushed his sudoku aside.

"Okay, then. What do you wanna eat?" he asked Bakura.

"Whatever, as long as there's plenty of it."

The other man sighed again and opened huge refrigerator. "Is chicken alright?"

"Err..."

He realized with a start that he had no idea. He hadn't tasted anything in three millennia. He didn't even remember how tasting food felt. He'd been so preoccupied with finding food that it hadn't even crossed his mind that he'd have to go through the experience of actually tasting it.

Taste was one of the things he could not feel back when he was just a spirit in the Millennium Ring; just like hunger, or pain, and all other physical stimuli. Ryou had scolded him repeatedly - or had tried to, anyway - for the emaciated state he used to leave his body in. Although he had fed Ryou's body a couple of times when he'd been in control, he'd done it out of a realization that his host's body needed sustenance, not out of actual hunger. This detachment from earthly needs had served his purposes back then, but now... it just left him baffled.

He did not know if chicken was alright. Would it taste the same it had back in Egypt?

...Had he even tasted chicken back in Egypt?

"Dude, you alright?" the cook asked him, torn between indifference and concern.

"Err... yeah. Chicken's fine."


Having a body was complicated - he could say that with certainty now.

For one, once that guy started cooking and all kinds of smells filled the kitchen, Bakura's stomach started grumbling worse than before and he had to repeatedly swallow the saliva that filled his mouth. He did not like it. He was under the impression it made him look like starving beggar - which he was, but that did not mean he was content with looking like it.

He'd thought that the presence of food would have calmed his body down, not send it into this kind of frantic want. It was hard to keep his haughty look when his stomach growled so loudly.

When the cook put a plate of chicken and rice in front of him, Bakura felt he might faint with the intensity of his body's need for it. He was ready to wolf everything down, when a warning emerged from the depths of his memory and stilled his hand. Memory, or some long-ago ingrained instinct.

Eat slowly, with measured bites. Eat too fast and you'll regret it.

He frowned at his plate. Did that warning make any sense?

It probably did. He had found himself starving many times in the past... hadn't he? He remembered it... sort of. Of course. Hunger had been unavoidable for a vagrant child in the sun-baked streets of Kemet. If his instincts told him to eat slowly, then he'd trust his past self.

When food touched his tongue for the first time in three thousand years, Bakura decided that yes, chicken was alright. Hell, it was more than alright. Overwhelming, even. He tried not to let too much of his contentment show on his face, though, because Enki was back and watching him closely. If Bakura wanted to keep some sort of upper hand in this situation, he had to keep acting as if everything was below him. He knew that, the moment he'd let a crack show, everybody would be on him like rabid hyenas. And not just in this particular place. That thing was a given, no matter where in the world he was, or with whom.

Was that another ingrained lesson? He guessed so.

By the time he emptied the second plate, he was feeling better. Less faint, less light-headed. There was no painful hollowness in his abdomen anymore, just a feeling of satisfaction. Which was nice.

And feeling nice was unusual.

Instead of making him feel at ease, it set him on edge even more, simply because it felt wrong. Wrong, and dangerous. Feeling nice held the threat of him relaxing, being lulled into a false state of safety and lowering his defenses. And such a thing could prove fatal.

So he declined more food, even though he felt that he needed to eat more. His stupid host must have been taking really bad care of his body.

Idiot yadonushi. After so many years of owning a body, he was supposed to know how to take care of one. As a result of his host's incompetence, Bakura was now stuck with this useless pile of skinny limbs.

But no matter. He would make it work. He was already feeling better.

"So, what's next?" he turned to Enki, who was leaning against a wall, looking bored.

"We are waiting for Aaron."

"Who is Aaron?"

"He's the one in charge of fight nights. Schedule, fighters, pairings and the like. Your 'coach', for lack of a better term. But don't expect actual coaching."

"I see." Bakura pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. "And how long 'till this Aaron guy arrives?"

"Any minute now. I'll take you to the changing room, if you're done here."

"Yeah, I'm done."

"Gee, I could use a 'thank you for the meal'," the cook murmured.

Bakura scoffed and followed Enki out of the kitchen and back in the main hall. Ishido and his group were still talking and ignoring them completely, but Bakura did not mistake their seeming indifference for a lack of awareness for their comings and goings. The only one that openly watched them as they crossed the hall was the barman, who seemed as bored as the cook had been. Apparently, even when this place was closed for the day, they had to be there to serve Ishido and his affiliates.

Enki led Bakura through the simple, wooden door he had spotted before. A small corridor connected a few rooms that seemed like changing rooms or some kind of prep area. Enki turned on the light in one of them, revealing benches, sinks, a couple of showers and a large mirror. One wall was completely taken up by small lockers.

Enki leaned against a wall and crossed his bulky arms across his chest, not letting Bakura off his gaze. Bakura took off his jacket and sat on one of the benches to wait for Aaron, doing his best to ignore Enki and his annoying constant vigilance.

He started picking one of his sweater's many loose threads. The thing was too big on him, and it had definitely seen better - and cleaner - days. If Ishido kept his end of the bargain, he'd have clean and fitting clothes soon. Bakura wondered whether he'd be able to get a shower out of this situation, too. He'd take whatever he could, that was for sure.

The door opened and a man walked in; a short one, apparently in his mid-forties. Whatever hair was left on his head was buzzed, leaving every crook of his skull clearly visible. He was plump, but he had the stature of a man that had been in a good physical condition for years. He retained his well-developed musculature, despite his round belly and heavy gait.

He closed the door behind him and immediately peered at Bakura.

"You are the new one?" he said instead of a greeting. The yami nodded. "Get up," the man ordered briskly.

Bakura complied, even though he was not looking forward to another scrutinizing session.

Sure enough, the man's tiny grey eyes examined Bakura from head to foot. Then he frowned, bringing a pair of bushy eyebrows together in clear dissatisfaction. "Take off your sweater."

Bakura did as he was told, and took the huge and smelly thing off. He felt his hair stand on end from the sudden change of temperature, even though it wasn't really cold in there.

The man shook his head. "What is this joke?" he turned to Enki.

"Boss's orders," was all that Enki said.

The man huffed and reached for his pocket. He took out a pack of cigarettes, picked one and stored the rest back in his pocket. Bakura watched in silence as the man lit the edge of his cigarette and took a very deep drag. Bakura had learned enough about his world to know that smoking was supposed to calm the nerves of the people who indulged in it, so he supposed it was not a good sign that his... coach, or whatever, had felt the need to light one upon seeing him.

Then again, he could be one of those people that smoked all day long, no matter what.

The man started prodding Bakura's sides with his huge hand. Under the sudden contact the yami jolted, but he immediately willed himself to stay still as he underwent his 'coach's' inspection.

"There's just skin an' bones here," the man mumbled, smoke streaming out of his mouth.

He kept prodding Bakura in various places for a while more, muttering curses under his breath. Then he took a step back, took another long drag from his cigarette and puffed out the smoke slowly.

"What's your name?"

"...Bakura."

"What happened to the rest of it?"

"It's just Bakura."

The man took another drag and said, "I'm Aaron. I'm the one responsible for the fights here, and I'm supposed to send your ass to the ring tonight." He shook his head. "The way I see it, that ain't happening."

"I can fight," Bakura said through gritted teeth.

"Don't make me laugh, son. A blow of air could take you down, and I'm not sending you out there to be killed."

"What's it to you?"

Aaron puffed out smoke furiously. "Look, I don't give a rat's ass whether you get your face smashed or not, but it's bad business. We're not some lowly fight club where every airhead who thinks they can fight can come in and try their luck. People place serious bets on our fighters and, let's face it, son: you just ain't good business."

"Try me."

"Try what? Sending you out there to be knocked-out in two seconds?"

"I have a deal with Ishido."

"What the fuck is Ishido thinking?" Aaron exclaimed. He gingerly turned around and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

In the ensuing silence, Bakura scowled at the floor, avoiding Enki's look. It was grating at his nerves that no one seemed to consider him a threat anymore. He, who had once brought Kemet to its knees.

When Aaron walked back in, he looked livid.

"Yeah, Ishido says he wants to see you fight tonight, so that's that." He sighed and rubbed his face with his huge palm. He stared at Bakura, anger dissipating to resignation. "How old are you?"

That was a good question.

His dear ex-host had mentioned that eleven years had passed, so that would make him... Oh, fuck. How old had Ryou been before? He had been with Ryou ever since he was a child, but he never kept track of the years. By the time of his shadow RPG, Ryou had been... what? Seventeen? Eighteen? Twenty-three?

Aaron raised a questioning eyebrow.

"...I'm not sure," Bakura admitted.

"You gotta be kidding me..." he huffed. "Alright. Take off the rest of your clothes so I can weigh you."

He stripped and stepped on the scale that Aaron indicated.

"110 pounds..." Aaron murmured, looking more resigned than ever.

"Keep in mind he just ate two plates of chicken and rice," Enki pointed out.

"Yeah, well, that's the least of my worries." He stared at Bakura, lost in thought. "Alright, look. I have a fighter I could pair you with. You'll still be underweight, but it's the best I can do. He was supposed to fight next week, but... Oh, well."

He took his phone out and walked towards the exit. "Enki, find him something to wear. Something he can actually fight in."


Bakura was in the narrow shower, standing completely still as the blissfully hot water hit his skin. He hadn't been cold for the past few hours, but he hadn't been truly warm, either. Now he could feel the lingering cold seep out of his bones, washing the memory of the previous night from his body.

He placed both palms flat on the tiles that lined the wall and let his head drop with a long sigh. Water kept hitting the back of his head, making uneven white fringes droop in front of his eyes. Muscles he hadn't realized he was clenching started to unwind.

How long until those same muscles ended up sore and aching...?

His fight was scheduled to start soon. He had spent some time with Aaron who, after he found out that Bakura had never had any training in any of the known martial arts, had lit another cigarette, mumbling 'fucking street brawler' under his breath. As Enki had said, no actual coaching came from Aaron. Just an explanation of the basic rules: no eye-gouging, no fish-hooks, what gestures meant that he gives up... And that was it. There would be no referee, nor timed rounds. The fights ended either with a knock-out, or with one of the two fighters surrendering.

They allowed Bakura to spend the day there. They said it was because he had nowhere else to go, but Bakura was under the impression that they just wanted to keep an eye on him. He did not even consider going back to the club upstairs, so he spent his hours in the changing room, lying on a bench and trying to get as much rest as possible. Enki almost never left him out of his sight - which was irritating - but never spoke, either - which was good. The idea of small talk made Bakura cringe, even though he had nothing better to do to pass the time.

He was relieved when they allowed him to take a shower. For one, he would get rid of the awful smell that clung to his skin and, more importantly, a shower meant a few moments of privacy. Enki was standing right outside but, for now, a door separated them and that was enough.

Bakura sighed again and the steam before his mouth swirled. He looked down, at the marks the Millennium Ring had left on his abdomen. All of this still seemed... impossible. Not only did he have a body, but Zorc was gone from his mind, too. For the first time in thousands of years, there was silence in his head.

There'd never been silence before.

There'd always been ninety-nine ghost mouths following him. Always urging him to go on, to not settle, to not stop until he avenged them.

Sometimes their voices had been furious, and it had felt like a storm raging inside his skull. Those had been the times when he could feel their rage burn hot in his own blood, mingling with his own, very-existing resentment. Those had been the times when he clenched his fists and promised to have his revenge on the Pharaoh, out loud, so that the Gods would listen and know that he was not afraid of their pampered son. Those had been the times when he, the bandit child, crowned king by a hundred ghosts, swore that he would pay back blood with blood and turn Kemet to cinders, just to have both Gods and mortals see what it felt like to lose their home.

Those had been the times when the ghosts' cries for vengeance roared like the fires that had once melted their bodies.

Sometimes, though, their voices had been nothing but whispers, like the caress of the wind over sleeping sand. They had consoled him, praised him, him, their champion, their pride, the last of their blood. On and on their whispering would go, until it turned into a drone, never soothing enough to make up for the loneliness and the lost warmth, never real enough to make him feel his home and family was still there with him.

Soft and constant their murmurs had been, like desert breeze upsetting resting ashes.

He could not remember a moment of silence in his life.

It had not been silent in the Ring. Zorc's spirit had been raging and writhing. His whispers had been worse that the ghosts'. His voice had been a dark spell, entrancing him bit by bit. On and on and on, like poison hitting his skull, drop by drop, word by word, until there was no telling where he ended and where the darkness begun.

Hot water was hitting his head now, streaming down his body, dripping, hitting the tiles, swooshing down the drain. And, for the first time in eons, there was silence in his head.

No ghosts. No Zorc. No host.

Just him.

Him... If he subtracted the desire for revenge, the hate, the darkness, the anger... Who was he? What was left?

His self was lost somewhere in time. His soul was riddled with holes, no more than a rag. He was tired.

He curled and uncurled his fingers against the tiles. He watched the drops of water that made his skin glisten. Ryou's skin, pale and scarred. Ryou's body, thin and weak. But not Ryou's mind.

...How had this happened?

How had things come to this?

In a short while, he would have to step in the cage and fight. He would have to make use of this body as best as he could. He glanced at his forearms and his flat biceps. He could understand Aaron's skepticism, even his contempt. His body was laughable. He had insisted that he could fight, because he could, but Ryou couldn't. That much was obvious.

Perhaps he'd been too sure of himself. Perhaps he'd bitten more than he could chew. He wondered what would fail him first: his muscles or his heart.

He shook his head and let it hang a bit lower. No point in thinking like that. He would fight, no matter what. He would not walk away, because that would mean he was giving up. And the King of Thieves never gave up.

He turned off the water and stepped out of the shower.

"You took your time," Enki grunted, handing him a towel.

Bakura did not respond, but accepted the towel and dried his skin and hair. He slipped into a pair of red fight-shorts, remaining sombre and silent.

The other fighters had started arriving; he could hear them talking in the adjacent changing rooms. Music was issuing from the main hall, along with a few muffled voices. Bakura retreated to the most shadowy corner of the room, with his back against the wall, and waited.

As time passed, the noise beyond the door grew louder, suggesting a crowd gathering. Some of the other fighters started walking in and out of the changing room, and Bakura observed them discreetly, trying not to show interest or curiosity. Most of these men were massive and had mastered the glance-at-me-and-you-are-dead look; half of them were heavily tattooed, or scarred, or both, and buzzed heads seemed to be the norm.

Despite his efforts to achieve just that, the yami's presence did not go unnoticed. He became the object of stares and several not-so-furtive remarks. Thankfully, no one tried to start a discussion with him, so he was able to continue doing his best to pretend he was ignoring them.

At some point the door opened and a wave of music and chattering rolled inside the changing room, along with a man with a clipboard. The door closed and all noise became distant and muffled once more.

The newcomer exchanged a few words with each fighter while scribbling at his clipboard until, eventually, he came to stand before Bakura.

"You, the white-haired one."

Bakura gave him a mildly bored look.

"Name?" the man said, pen hovering over a page.

"Bakura."

The man wrote that down and opened his mouth. Before he had the chance to utter his next question, the yami cut across him.

"Just Bakura."

The man frowned and scribbled on his paper. "Your ring nickname?" he asked then.

"What?"

The man looked up from his clipboard and it was his turn to look mildly bored. "How do you want me to introduce you to the audience? Are you going in to fight as Just Bakura or are you going to use a nickname?"

Bakura thought about it for a second. Perhaps keeping his identity a secret from the crowd was not such a bad idea. He had no papers or anything traceable, but he had a former host going by the same name.

Not that he cared if he dragged Ryou into trouble. Because he didn't.

But still.

He considered going out as the Thief King, but such a title seemed too risky for a place like this. Better to lay low, give no information about himself. Attract no attention and then strike from the shadows: that was his way.

"...Diabound," he said at length.

The man wrote it down. "Alright. You're fighting last. You're paired with Kaito." Whoever that was.

He put the clipboard under his arm and left. Barely a minute passed and Aaron walked in. He stood in the middle of the small corridor, to make sure everyone in the changing room area heard him, and shouted, "Show's on in five, boys!"

Bakura soon realized that waiting was the worst part. Watching the other fighters walk past his changing room, hearing the door to the main hall open and the crowd roaring. An announcer's voice was booming through the speakers. The crowd's cheers and shouts were deafening in the confines of the underground hall.

Bakura tried not to listen. He clenched and unclenched his fists, staring at them; thin muscles were pulled tight and then loosened again. They looked so fragile.

The doubts that had crept into his mind while in the shower came back full-force. He tried to fight them away. He tried not to think at all, but his stomach still felt like being tied into a knot.

Stop this, he ordered himself. You know how to fight.

It didn't even matter that he wasn't fit. He hadn't been any fitter when he'd been eight years old and forced survive without a family or a home. He'd been a scrawny kid, armed with nothing but stubbornness and a refusal to give up.

Bakura chuckled deeply. History repeated itself, after all.

When Aaron called him, he stood up and stretched. He extended his hands and allowed Aaron to wrap what seemed to be red cotton tape all the way from his wrist to the base of his fingers. Once he was done, Bakura tried curling and uncurling his fingers. The wrap was tight enough to make his joints feel stable, but not so tight as to cut off circulation. It felt good, actually.

"You gonna do something about the hair?" Aaron asked.

Bakura shrugged. Hair had never been a point of concern for him.

Aaron just sighed and gave him a hairband, and Bakura deigned to pull his white hair back into a ponytail.

"Alright. Ready to go out there?" Aaron asked as he handed him a mouthguard.

Bakura just smirked.

How long since the last time he'd fought? How long since he'd danced between blades, fooled arrows, outran guards? So many years... So many. It had been a long while since the last time he'd used his own bare hands as a weapon. He'd grown too accustomed to solving his problems with shadow magic.

He placed the mouthguard against his teeth and gums. The sensation was unpleasant, but he guessed in was better than having a tooth knocked out. He left the changing room and walked outside.

The main hall was crowded, full of noise and smoke. All spotlights were shining on the ring in the center of the room, leaving the crowd in relative darkness; just a mass of shouting and squirming shadows. Bakura crossed the sea of people, following the path they had left open for him. Both cheering and booing was loud in his ears, comments that did not really mean anything to him, whistles, pats on the back. Cigarette smoke was creating mesmerizing shapes under the white lights.

He fixed his eyes on the ring that awaited him. He climbed the steps and one sound rose above all the rest. A name, called through the speakers: Diabound.

He stepped in the ring slowly, glancing at the link fence that surrounded him before his eyes returned to the floor. He walked the perimeter of the ring, sizing it up with his steps, familiarizing himself with its dimensions.

For the next minutes, these few square feet would be all he had. No way in or out, until either he or his opponent was down.

Just like a shadow game. Perhaps a bit different from the kind he was used to, but a shadow game nonetheless.

And he was good at games.

Another man stepped in the ring under loud cheering. He looked young, no more than nineteen years old. His lean body was toned and tattooed and his eyes were sparkling with the promise of violence. Bakura was vaguely aware of the announcer shouting something like 'Kaito The Shark' through the speakers.

The door of the ring closed, caging them in.

The sharp sound of a bell sliced the air.

His opponent was fast. He moved without hesitation, lunging at Bakura like a starved animal going for easy prey. Eager to attack - and easy to dodge.

The ring's floorboards vibrated under Bakura's feet as he moved. It was a supple surface, not as unforgiving as the sand had been. He danced around, relishing the speed of unobstructed steps.

A blow came, inevitably, right at Bakura's naked ribs. Pain registered, dully, distantly. He noticed the blur of a fist coming towards his jaw just in time to step out of the way. He back-stepped and swerved to avoid blows, his heart beating madly. He could hearing nothing past his blood rushing and his own harsh exhales.

Eventually his back hit one of the walls of the cage. His opponent rushed to corner him, his eyes wild and taunting, with a hint of triumph at their edges. Bakura managed to slither under the arms that tried to grapple him and jumped away. He made out shouts; tens of rough voices swelling to fill the air of the underground hall. They were probably shouting at him to stop fooling around and fight back. Or, perhaps, they were just cheering for his opponent. Either was equally unimportant to him.

He kept dancing around the ring and the first boos reached his ears. If the way he fought was annoying, all the better. It might even set his opponent on edge, and a frustrated opponent meant a less focused one.

The problem was that breathing was getting harder with each second that passed. It was becoming more and more obvious to him that his body was unfamiliar with such overexertion. His heart was was racing, trying frantically to keep up. He started panting, and the mouthguard only made things worse.

His opponent was not even slightly out of breath.

Bakura cursed inwardly and tried to focus on the fists that darted towards him. Damn him, this Kaito guy was fast. Bakura's eyes flicked from fist to fist as he dodged, hoping that at least his reflexes would not fail him.

He never saw the knee that came for his stomach. His breath was knocked out of him violently. His body doubled over of its own accord and he staggered, vision momentarily darkened. His feet lost their lightness.

He blinked and the darkness acquired colors again.

Knuckles collided with his right cheekbone. The world tilted.

Bleary eyes searched for his opponent's limbs, spotted a fist coming for his jaw. His brain screamed at him to dodge, but his legs did not respond. He lifted his arms to protect his head and earned a kick in the ribs that threw him against the link fence of the cage.

Boos and jeers and his own grunts filled his ears. Kaito 'The Shark', now nothing more than a flesh-colored blur, closed in to finish him off.

Quick and acute like lightning, a memory flashed through his mind.

For barely a second, the crowd's noise was muffled. The glow of the spotlights turned into that of gold sun rays. Kaito 'The Shark' disappeared and a different man took his place: a guard, strong and tall, a lot taller than Bakura, holding a curved blade in his hands.

And Bakura was still almost doubled over, only his hands were smaller and drenched in something slick and hot. He was clutching at the right side of his face, which was nothing but darkness and shattering pain.

The blade gleamed in the sunlight, inviting whatever had remained of his eyesight to follow its movement. Bakura did not allow it to. He fixed his left eye on the guard's chest and willed his hands to let go of his bleeding face. He ducked to avoid the whizzing blade, left eye always at the center of the guard's torso. That little spot was his target: the small patch of flesh that hid his opponent's most important vital organ. He was determined not to let it off his gaze.

His hands flew to the hilt of his small knife. The guard's blade kept glinting in his peripheral vision and the instinct to look at it was strong. Too strong. Still, Bakura didn't. His target was the chest.

The next dodge came easily - so easily that his small heart filled with elation despite the stinging pain in his face. In the next second, the knife was out of its makeshift sheath and plunged to its hilt in its target. In his head, a choir of ghosts was chanting triumphantly.

Bakura blinked, with both eyes this time, and the vision of Egypt's sun was replaced by cold spotlights. What was flying towards him was not a blade, but a fist.

His eyes found his opponent's chest, and the next dodge came easily.

Of course. Eyes always on the chest, to keep all limbs withing sight. How could he have forgotten? He'd almost payed with his right eye to learn this lesson.

Magic had made him soft.

His opponent's chest was glistening with sweat, inked skin pulled taut over lean muscles. Limbs moved in the corners of Bakura's eyes, but this time he resisted the urge to glance at them. There was a dull burning in the places he's already been hit. Good. Let that act as a reminder and maybe help him stop acting like an amateur.

Bakura's feet were a tad too late to respond to his commands, but his opponent's movements were easier to trace. He still had a chance.

He clenched both his fists and his jaw and aimed for his opponent's less guarded spot. For the first time that night, he felt the satisfaction of knuckles hitting flesh. His other fist rose to meet the man's jaw but, before he was able to land the hit, another blow intensified the burning in his stomach.

Focus, you idiot, his brain hissed at himself.

He could see blows coming. He dodged one, two, three, and took the fourth squarely in the face. His skull rang. He recognized the taste of blood the moment it hit his tongue.

Keep moving.

It was move or die; it'd always been move or die. His lungs were on fire. With his next step, the world swam dangerously.

No. He couldn't stop. He couldn't stop moving.

Every muscle on his body was screaming. He'd never known that breathing could get so hard. No, that was not true; he must have known, once. Before the demon, before the magic, back when he'd just been Bakura. He must have known.

His limbs were heavy, slow. The limbs of someone else, a body he had no control on. A body that was not his own.

But... He could feel the pain, spreading through his torso with each breath. This pain was his. He took a blow, felt the blood running from his nose to his mouth, tasted it. The blood that was pumping his heart. His own heart. His own brain. He moved in the way only he knew, in the way he'd learned when he'd prowled around Kemet. Before he learned how to be a demon, he'd learned how to be a jackal, a cat, a snake.

His legs felt sluggish, but they'd always been like that when immersed in the sands of the desert. Dehydration and hunger had made his body unresponsive more than once, but he'd always pulled through, somehow.

He kept his elbows close to his ribs to guard them from an oncoming kick, and the impact sent a ripple through his bones. With his peripheral vision he saw the opening he'd been looking for and urged his arm to move. He crunched bruised abs, relaxed his protesting shoulder and twisted his body. He drove his fist at his opponent's right side, right under the dip of his ribs. Somehow, through the thundering of his pulse and the roars of the crowd and the ringing in his own skull, he made out a grunt.

The opponent's chest moved away. His blurry body curled in on itself. A moment's stillness.

The movement resumed, but the blows that came this time lacked their usual nerve. The other man's feet dragged.

Bakura dared lift his eyes. The fog in his vision was thick, the world was just shapes and fire, but he saw the other man blink. Stagger. Blink again, probably dazed.

Bakura gritted his teeth, lifted his arm. Brought his elbow down. He hit something solid and the blurry figure that was Kaito 'The Shark' hit the floor of the ring with a thud that traveled to Bakura's feet.

There was noise. So much noise.

Bakura kept looking at the prone figure, breathing through his mouth, breathing past his blood. His body was tense, ready to deliver another blow at the first hint of movement. The figure before him remained still.

He heard a familiar word. Diabound.

He looked around just in time to see the door of the cage opening. A man stepped in. Pushed Bakura aside. Knelt over the fallen man, said something indistinct.

The man stood up, caught Bakura's wrist. Shouted something and lifted Bakura's arm. Noise.

Hands led him off the ring, through the crowd, through a door. Then the noise was less, and the ringing in his ears was louder. He recognized the changing room he had spent his afternoon in. He spotted a bench. He walked to it and sat down; carefully, slowly, because everything was moving.

Fingers caught his shoulders, steadied him, and started prodding his face. They tilted his head back.

"Not broken," said a voice somewhere above his head.

Then there was a clap on his back that sent pain shooting through him.

"Easy," he croaked; the tiny sound scratched his throat.

Nobody seemed to have heard him. The voice above his head went on loudly.

"What a fight, son! You didn't look like you had it in you!"

Bakura closed his eyes because the light was too much for them and let his head drop forward. The movement made his stomach lurch and nausea hit him. He spat the mouthguard and took deep breaths.

Something fluffy and soft was pressed against his nose and mouth and another stream of words rattled around his skull. He reached for what he realized was a ball of cotton and held it in place with numb fingers. Pain hit him in waves, intensifying with each throb.

"...and then Ishido says he wants to talk to you."

He blinked and turned around. Aaron's face came into focus.

"Well, hello there," he chuckled when Bakura's eyes found him. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

It took Bakura half an hour to regain full control of his senses and be able to walk without sending the world into mad spinning. He took a shower, wincing as the water hit bruised muscles and cuts he hadn't realized were there. When he got out of the shower, he found a pile of clothes waiting for him: a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, a black hoodie, a pair of underwear, warm socks. All clean; brand new, apparently. Everything fitting perfectly.

Once dressed, he walked to the large mirror to evaluate the bruising. When his eyes found their reflection, he froze. This was the first time he got a proper look at himself ever since his... rebirth. His eerily white skin was red and puffy in places, and his nose was gradually turning a shade of purple that looked as bad as it felt. He pushed his wet fringes out of the way and kept staring. Something was wrong, and he couldn't tell what.

He couldn't stop looking. He wished he could be able to say that this was Ryou looking at him so blankly, but it wasn't. There was no Ryou in this reflection. There was no Zorc, either. He couldn't recognize the person in the mirror.

The irises weren't brown like Ryou's. They were a deep, dirty red. Perhaps that was what was wrong; just the color of his eyes being a bit off. He kept staring, and suddenly it hit him.

This was him. Just him.

He was looking at himself for the first time in forever. The eyes that were blinking back at him were his eyes, and they had the color of earth mingled with blood. Just like his whole life.

He let the white fringes fall back into place and watched his mouth twist into a grimace. Yeah, this was definitely him.

"Oh, come on, it could be worse," Aaron's voice made him jump. He had forgotten he was watching him.

Bakura swallowed and tore his gaze away from the mirror. "Yeah..." he said. His voice was still hoarse.

"Come on, then, Ishido's waiting."

With the fights over for the night, the atmosphere in the main hall had changed. The crowd that had surrounded the ring had dispersed and had either gathered around the poker tables or sat on the small, plain ones to enjoy a drink and talk. The music was back on, just loud enough to cover most of the constant chatter.

Ishido was once more sitting at his private table, but the group around him was different. For the second time that day, Bakura climbed the few wide steps that brought him to Ishido's level, and waited.

The moment he spotted him, Ishido clapped his hands and flashed him a smile full of teeth.

"There he is!" he exclaimed. "And still walking! That's a lot more than I expected, really. You impressed me."

Bakura looked into those cool and definitely unimpressed eyes. He pressed his lips into a thin line to refrain from doing another, possibly disrespectful grimace, and immediately regretted it because his jaw hurt.

"Oh, don't be so sulky. Smile a bit. You won, after all!" Ishido said. For some reason, the two women that were sitting next to him giggled, even though he had not said something particularly funny.

"I did win," Bakura said. "What's next?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do I get paid for my next fight or what? And how much?"

Ishido's black eyes flashed. The pleasant smile did not leave his face. "Talking about business already? Rest a bit. Here, come have a drink."

"I'd prefer to make everything clear first, thanks," Bakura replied coldly.

He could not make out Ishido's low chuckles over the general din, but he saw his chest move.

"Alright, then. If you want to talk business, let's talk business." He straightened up, placed his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his intertwined fingers. "You fought... interestingly. Certainly brought a much needed breath of fresh air. Things had started getting... stagnant at fight nights. Your presence should liven things up a bit."

"That's good to hear."

"Still... Tonight's fight was a close call for you. Or, at least, that's what it looked like to those of us watching."

"...It was," Bakura admitted begrudgingly.

"Now, I can't guarantee you longevity at our fight nights. I mean, who knows how long until things get boring again and I'm forced to replace you?" He shrugged with exaggerated theatricality. "However, if you want to last more than a week, I'd suggest you train a bit."

That went without saying. It was one of Bakura's top priorities, anyway.

"So, how do things work with payment? Do I get payed after every fight?" the yami asked.

"Normally, yes. Aaron will explain the details."

"How much?"

Ishido's eyes narrowed by a fraction. "Thirty thousand yen a fight."

Bakura scoffed. "You expect me to get my lights repeatedly knocked out for thirty thousand?"

"That's the standard reward per fight. Nothing I can do about it."

Yeah, sure, Bakura sneered inwardly. Nothing he can do in his own business. Still, it might not be so bad an arrangement if he managed to hit two birds with one stone.

"I'm gonna need a place to stay, too," he said, closely watching Ishido for any indication that he'd just pushed his luck too far.

Surprisingly, Ishido grinned widely.

"Yes, I supposed so. I'm willing to help you with this issue. All the buildings in the block belong to me, and house both my businesses and my employees. I'm sure we can spare a room for you."

Bakura narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Sure, that was exactly what he'd been after, so he shouldn't complain, but... That'd been too easy.

The way he saw it, Ishido wasn't going to earn his trust anytime soon. Probably never.

"Alright," was all the yami said. "I guess it's settled, then."

"I guess it is."

Ishido lifted an arm and beckoned to someone who was standing out of sight. Sure enough, Enki approached; he had substituted the white t-shirt for a black and quite mournful button-up one.

"Oh, there you are. I wondered where you'd gone," Bakura said and rolled his eyes.

Enki did not reply at this blatantly sarcastic remark. He just stood before Ishido's table and bowed.

"Mr Bakura will stay with us," his boss informed him. "Please, help accommodate him upstairs."

"Yes, sir," Enki bowed again. He turned on his heel and murmured, "Let's go," to Bakura.

"Get some rest, Mr Bakura! You deserve it!" Ishido called, lifting his glass in a toast. Bakura simply let out an indistinct grunt and followed Enki.

They left the gambling den, crossed the underground corridor and climbed the stairs. This time, there was one more guard next to the trapdoor, and he greeted Enki with a nod. There was the muffled sound of loud music reverberating through the walls. Enki opened the door they had walked through earlier in the day - the door that led to the Golden Egg club - and deafening music echoed in the corridor. To Bakura's horror, Enki motioned him inside.

The place that had been silent and eerily decadent during the day was completely different during the night. The shades of wood and crimson remained, intensified under the glow of red and golden lights. A much bigger crowd than the one downstairs was drinking, laughing, chattering, or simply watching the show: on the stage, a group of dancers were in the middle of a routine, wearing something that resembled half of a policeman's uniform. Scantily clad waiters and waitresses flashed charming smiles to the patrons as they handed out drinks. The music was so loud it made Bakura's bones rattle.

He stood on the threshold, overwhelmed by the noise and the multicolored lights that hit his retinas. He hadn't liked that place before, but it was even worse now. At least, he was glad the 'job' he had managed to land was quite different. Still... He watched a waitress sway her hips as she carried her tray around and he wondered whether this was actually worse than getting the living crap beaten out of him.

Enki leaned closer to Bakura's ear and spoke up to be heard over the commotion.

"Five minutes' break. I want a drink."

Bakura shrugged and followed him to the bar. "Are you supposed to drink while working?" he asked as he perched on a high stool.

"Depends on the night. Come on, have a drink, too." When Bakura raised an eyebrow, Enki went on, "It's on the house. You fought well."

"Whatever."

Enki ordered a vodka and Bakura asked for the same, if only because he had no idea what else to ask for. There were so many bottles lined up on the shelves, bearing liquids of so many different colors, that he wondered why the hell mortals had felt the need to create so many different types of alcohol.

The barman placed a short glass with a clear liquid in front of him. Bakura sniffed at its contents and immediately recoiled; his sore nose stung at the inhale.

Enki watched him, sipping from his own glass with a small, amused smirk. Bakura decidedly brought his glass to his lips, simply because he did not like being made fun of, drank, and felt the fiery trail the alcohol left down his throat. Unlike the burning pain in his bruised body, this one was mostly warming. Kinda pleasant.

Enki took out a bag of tobacco, placed a filter tip on his lips and started rolling a cigarette. Bakura watched the movement of his fingers with curiosity.

"Do you smoke?" Enki asked him, moving his lips as little as possible to retain his hold on the filter tip.

"Err..." Bakura hesitated for the umpteenth time that day.

They did not have tobacco back in Egypt and he seriously doubted that Ryou had taken up the habit of smoking; the brat had always been such an uptight, rule-abiding goody two-shoes.

Enki finished rolling his cigarette and lit its tip. "Wanna try?" he asked.

Bakura blinked. Enki wasn't being exactly friendly - he had a casual and almost bored tone - but it was still a big difference from the silent sentinel he'd been all day. He held out the lit cigarette.

What the hell, Bakura thought. Apparently, this was the day of new experiences, so he might as well add one more to the list. So far, the food and the vodka had been nice.

He took the cigarette and held it between this thumb and index finger. He was probably holding it in a ridiculous way, because Enki chuckled.

Bakura frowned. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Well, take a drag, then inhale deeply to send the smoke to your lungs. Although, I must warn you... Since it's your first time, you're probably not gonna like it."

"That's encouraging," Bakura said and placed the cigarette between his lips. He followed Enki's instructions, watched the tip of the cigarette glow red, and felt something hot and almost coarse hit the back of his throat. He inhaled and felt the burning reach his chest.

And then the world swam. All of his muscles, pained or not, sighed in relief. A shiver of pleasure ran down his spine, all the way to his toes, which curled of their own accord.

He exhaled, and realized he had closed his eyes.

Enki was chuckling. "I thought you didn't smoke."

"I thought so, too," Bakura replied gruffly.

He tried it again, just to make sure. The smoke felt like hot coals grazing his throat, but the numbness that spread to his limbs was blissful. He puffed out the smoke slowly, contemplating his body's surprisingly positive response. "Really, Ryou?" he murmured.

"Who?"

"Never mind," Bakura said and extended the cigarette back to Enki.

"Nah, keep it. You look like you could use it," he said and took out his tobacco bag to roll a new one for himself.

Bakura stayed silent for a while, and then mumbled an uncertain, "Thanks."

Enki shrugged. Bakura watched him roll a cigarette, more attentively this time. They did not speak again. They smoked and finished their drinks in silence, every now and then glancing at the dancers on the stage. Once they were done, Enki stood up and said, "Let's get going."

Bakura climbed down from his stool. He expected the alcohol to have affected his body to a considerable degree, but he found he was quite steady on his feet.

Really, Ryou? he thought again, frowning at his body.

They walked out of The Golden Egg, leaving the headache-inducing noise behind them, and took a turn to a narrow wooden staircase that creaked ominously with each step.

"So, do you all live here?" Bakura asked.

"More or less. Not just here. Mr Ishido owns all the surrounding buildings."

"Does he live here, too?"

Enki scoffed. "Of course not."

Of course. How convenient. Keep them all in one place where he can watch them and have them at his beck and call at all times.

"What does Ishido really do?" Bakura ventured to ask.

Enki let out a short laugh. "Everything."

That wasn't a very specific answer, but it was enough.

They climbed three floors and landed on a corridor lined with doors at both sides. It looked a lot like a hotel; a low budget one. As they walked the length of the corridor, one of the doors opened. A man walked out, hastily putting on his coat. A reasonably pretty girl appeared behind him, wrapped in a silk robe. She leaned against the frame of the door, thanked him and bid him goodnight in a sing-song voice. The man left, and the door closed.

"Are they allowed to do that?" Bakura asked, more unnerved than he would like to admit.

"They are allowed to do whatever they want in their free time, as long as they share part of their profits," Enki said impassively.

"...Lovely."

"Alright, here we are." Enki stopped in front of a door bearing the number 308 on a rusty brass sign. He handed Bakura a small key. "All yours."

Bakura unlocked the door. The inside proved to be something like a very small flat. Nothing more than a bed, a narrow table, a small fridge and a sink. Just like the whole building, the place had not seem a renovation for at least fifty years. But it would do.

"Here," Enki said. He threw Bakura the bag of tobacco, the packet of filter tips, rolling paper and a cheap plastic lighter. When Bakura frowned at him, Enki made a nonchalant grimace. "There's not much left in it, anyway," he pointed at the tobacco bag. He turned around and took his leave without further farewells or wishes for a good night.

Bakura closed the door and looked at his flat. Well... 'Room' would be a more appropriate word for it. There was a single small window, which he opened to get rid of the faint smell of mould that lingered in the air. The late December's cold rushed in and he welcomed it. After being underground for so many hours, the outside air felt refreshing, no matter how cold.

He sat on his bed and tried to roll another cigarette, imitating Enki's gestures as best as he could. He completely messed up his first attempt, but he was quite pleased with the second one. He put it on his lips and went to light it, then paused. A brilliant idea crossed his mind.

He stood up, pocketed his lighter and his key and walked out of the room. He went back to the staircase and started climbing until he ended up on the roof.

Up there the cold was biting. Gushes of air ruffled his hair and crept under his hoodie; he made a mental note to 'obtain' a coat tomorrow. There were still pools of rainwater from last night's downpour, but he managed to find a relatively dry spot. He sat down cross-legged, wincing a bit at the sudden jolts of pain that traveled through his body.

The clouds had dispersed. Light-pollution obscured most of the stars, but he could still make out a few of the brighter ones. He let his head fall back, feeling his fringes dance in the breeze, and watched the small twinkling spots. He lit his cigarette, took a drag and felt the same relaxing numbness spread through him. He puffed out smoke and watched the shapes it created before being swept away by the wind.

His situation might not be ideal, but he certainly was much better off than he had been 24 hours ago. The fact remained that he had no clue as to how or why any of this had happened, but he couldn't bring himself to bother right now.

Right now he just smoked, his eyes flicking between the few visible stars and the city of Domino that spread before his feet. He smoked slowly, savoring the burning sensation, and listened: beyond the distant beat of music, beyond the honks of cars and the bustle from the streets below, beyond the hiss of the wind and the light sizzling of his cigarette, he could hear it.

Silence.

.

.

.

Disclaimer: Smoking is bad for your health. Never mind Bakura. D:

And a dedication! This chapter is dedicated to my best friend, Stamatis, who helped me come up with a few plot points by patiently listening to me rant for about an hour or so, and then just said, "How about cage-fighting?" And then epiphany struck me. And then this chapter was born.

And it was quite a big chapter, wasn't it? I considered splitting it in two chapters, to keep their size more or less consistent, but then (to quote Bakura) I thought 'What the hell' and just posted it. For future reference, tell me what you prefer: a consistent size throughout all chapters, or the bigger-the better?

And another disclaimer, regarding Bakura's fight in the ring: I know that a non-physically-fit 29-year-old would never be able to compete with a fit 19-year-old but... Bakura managed to nail a punch to the liver, and that's a nasty punch. It's almost impossible to stay standing after that. Plus, he has a writer that loves him. So that's that. XD

HUGE THANK YOU's to everyone who has commented so far! You guys make writing this fic an amazing experience! ^^

As always, feedback is much, MUCH appreciated! How about we spread a bit more Yu-Gi-Oh love?
Review? :D