Chapter 11: A simple question

Bakura was not happy.

He was lying on his back on the filthy carpet of his room, breathing heavily through his teeth. His next fight was scheduled for the 23rd of December, and that was less than two weeks away. He had no time to waste, so he had tried working out a bit—emphasis on tried.

He had decided to start with a few push ups, for no other reason than it was one of the few exercises he knew how to do. Kind of. Well, he remembered the basics. His knowledge of physical exercise consisted of half-faded memories from Ryou's gym classes, and push ups had been a teacher-favorite back then.

He'd started off confidently enough but, by the end of his third rep, his muscles were trembling desperately. He had managed two more before collapsing. After that his body had refused to keep going, no matter how much he'd pushed it. So he was currently lying on his back, panting from over-exertion and cursing his ex-host in every language he had ever known.

He had known training was going to be hard, but he hadn't expected it to be this hard. Two weeks would be nowhere near enough to train a body this uncooperative.

Sure, he'd managed to win last time, but only barely. Thinking back, Bakura attributed his victory to his opponent's inexperience rather than his own fighting prowess. In short: he got lucky once. He could not count on being lucky twice.

He had to keep training. Perseverance was all he needed.

He rolled on his belly with a huff and got ready for attempt number two. He planted his palms on the floor, dug his toes in the carpet and lifted his body. So far, so good. He was trembling a bit, but okay. He took a sharp breath, bent his elbows and tried to lower his chest to the floor. He could feel his back curving and his pelvis drooping and that could not be right, but whatever.

He braced himself and tried to push his body back up; his arms started shaking. He grit his teeth, as if that would stabilize him, and kept trying to push the floor away. After a few more seconds of struggling, his arms collapsed under his weight and he fell face-first on the carpet. He groaned and punched the floor in frustration.

He remained panting for breath where he lay, inhaling the dust of the carpet. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. Should he stop and allow his body to recover, or keep pushing until he got it right?

He probably had to take a break, but he could not really afford to. He'd spent the three previous days doing just that.

After his fight in the ring, three days ago, he'd gone to sleep with a very simple and efficient plan in mind: get some rest and start training first thing in the morning. However, come morning, he had been forced to admit that his genius plan was out of the window. He'd been in so much pain he could barely move. The light bruises of the previous day had turned dark and aching. His right eye had been swollen shut, his limbs had been spectacularly stiff and his abs had hurt every time he'd tried taking too deep an inhale.

He had allowed himself a few more hours of rest, hoping it would be enough but, the more time that passed, the worst he had felt. His muscles had pulled painfully at even the simplest movements, every part of him had hurt to the touch and, more importantly, he had suspected he had taken sick: his head had felt heavy and his nose had been either clogged or running. All in all, he had been a wreck.

That had been on Wednesday. Now it was Saturday and, to his displeasure, it had taken him three whole days to start feeling a little better. His body still ached and he had to blow his nose every now and then, but he simply could not waste any more time.

He glared at the ceiling. He really had no clue what to do. He had never been in such a situation before. Back in Egypt, he hadn't tried to strengthen his body; it had sort of happened. Surviving had meant toughening up, whether he'd wanted to or not.

He wiped the moisture from his forehead. He should have paid more attention during Ryou's gym classes. If he had, maybe he wouldn't be at such a loss now.

He groaned and pushed himself to a sitting position. Perhaps he should make peace with the idea that, come his next fight, he would take the beating of his life and lose the match. It wouldn't be such a tragedy, anyway. He'd still get paid. The rest would be just pain.

He huffed in disdain. Losing was not an idea he could easily make his peace with. Hell, he'd once sold his soul to secure his victory over the Pharaoh, he couldn't just shrug now and-

A rapping at the door startled him out of his thoughts.

He blinked, taken by surprise. So far, he'd had no visitors in his humble little room. That had been one of the good things about this place: hardly anyone ever bothered him.

The rapping sounded again, curt and impatient.

"Coming!" Bakura growled and clambered to his feet. He opened the door and found Enki standing outside, his intimidating mass taking up all of the space on the threshold. "Oh. It's you," Bakura murmured.

Enki looked down in that way of his that made his eyes look way too small. "Boss-man wants to see you."

Bakura frowned. "Ishido? What for?"

"Go see for yourself." Enki turned around and made to leave, but paused. He looked back at Bakura. His small eyes travelled from the yami's rumpled t-shirt to his hair. "Make yourself presentable," he suggested, indifferently enough for it not to sound like an order.

"Sure," Bakura shrugged.

"Don't take your time," Enki added, a bit more sternly, and left.

Bakura rolled his eyes and closed the door. He retrieved his black hoodie from among his messy bed covers and put it on, noticing that it had started smelling a bit. He really needed more clothes. He made a mental note to go out and obtain some later.

He checked his reflection in the small, stained mirror that hung on the wall. His hair was wild, tufts falling messily over his eyes or sticking out defiantly. Perfect.

The rest of him did not look so good. The large bruise on his nose had started fading in sickly green and yellow hues. Same thing around his right eye, all the way to his cheekbone. He looked gruesome. He brought a finger to his cheek and hissed in pain when he touched his skin.

Well. There was not much he could do to make himself more presentable—not unless he knocked on the doors of the rooms next to his and asked the girls for some make-up. Which he was not going to do.

He footed his shoes on, grabbed his key and stepped out of his room.

It was Saturday morning. Both the club and the gambling den were closed so early in the day, so the building was relatively quiet. The old floorboards creaked under his feet as he climbed down three floors. He crossed paths with a couple of girls who bid him good morning in silky voices—which Bakura ignored—and a few men in black suits who said nothing and stared at him from behind their black glasses—something which Bakura also ignored. Once he reached the ground floor, he found Enki sitting at his post next to the entrance. Bakura headed the opposite way, to the huge double doors that led to the main hall of the Golden Egg.

He pushed the door open and hues of red assaulted his eyes.

"Ah! Mister Bakura!" a voice chimed pleasantly.

Ishido was sitting at the bar, beckoning at him. Next to him sat that weird, color-encrusted woman he had met there on his first day. Bakura scowled at the sight of her, but approached nonetheless. Two of Ishido's bodyguards were standing a few feet away, staring him down in a way that suggested they'd break his spine if he so much as blinked the wrong way. Ishido's smile, however, was sufficiently relaxed and pleasant.

"Please, come closer," he called once he saw Bakura keeping a wary distance. "I suppose you have met Madam Nana?"

Bakura did not look at her. He could tell that she was practically eating him with her eyes.

"Yes, I've had the pleasure," he said acidly.

She clicked her tongue and re-arranged her shawl with a flourish. "Ishido, you should take better care of such treasures," she said, all but scolding him. She turned to Bakura with a worried, motherly tone. "Who marred your face like this, darling?"

Bakura felt his mouth twist at the term of endearment. He did not deign to answer.

Ishido chuckled lowly: a rehearsed, light sound, designed to ease the conversation on. "Mr Bakura here is one of my fighters."

Madam Nana gasped loudly and brought a hand to her heart.

"Surely you must be joking, Ishido! You put a face like that in the ring? Such a waste!"

"Now, now, Nana," Ishido shook his head with a smile that could oh-so-easily be mistaken for an affectionate one. "If I let you, you'd keep everyone up here."

She let out an indignant laugh. She fixed her shawl again with a rattle of her bracelets. "You always take the best ones, Ishido. You know that. Don't rub it in my face." She looked back at Bakura and sighed longingly. "Such a face... With a bit of coaching, you'd easily become my star attraction."

Bakura shivered in disgust. "I prefer the ring, thanks."

She burst out in high-pitched giggles. "And that bite on him! Oh, you've got to let me have him once you're done with him, Ishido!"

"We'll see, Nana," Ishido replied with calculated nonchalance. He brought his glass to his lips and took a sip from an amber liquid.

"You asked to see me?" Bakura growled with little effort to hide his impatience.

"Ah, yes, yes," Ishido said with a small jolt, as if he had only just remembered the reason for Bakura's visit. He motioned one of his bodyguards to approach and kept an arm outstretched. The bodyguard placed a small flat box on Ishido's open palm.

"Mr Bakura, you are now officially my employee. A part of the team, if you will. And that comes with certain... privileges," he smiled around the word sweetly. "You get a safe place to stay and food whenever you want it. You get to have a satisfactory income-" Bakura had to keep his eyes from rolling at that, "and you get to have my support in all your endeavors."

Bakura was not tempted to roll his eyes this time. Ishido's smile wasn't fooling him; it wasn't made to.

"You have the privilege to have me and my men back you up and protect you, should the need arise. If you need us, you just call and we'll be there. You'll find that I'm a very considerate boss. I am very protective of my employees. No harm will come to you—as long as you are part of the team, of course." Ishido's smile widened enough to reveal teeth. Bakura's body locked up by instinct, like a cat tensing before a potential threat. "However, it is only fair that our employees honor the team spirit back. Which means thatshould you be given the chance toyou should be ready to defend your teammates, or even me."

Bakura's look darkened. Despite the fancy language, the meaning behind Ishido's words was clear: you do what we say, when we say it. As long as you abide by our rules, we won't harm you.

Ishido extended the box towards him. Bakura reached out to take it, very careful not to touch the other man's fingertips in the process; some part of him hated the idea of making contact with Ishido's skin. He weighed the box in his hands, eyeing it suspiciously as Ishido spoke again.

"This, Mr Bakura, is another extension of your privileges. With this, you'll be able to reach either me or my colleagues at all times."

The box turned out to be a small case. Inside was a smooth rectangular... surface of some sort. It looked like a small screen. Bakura lifted it from the case and inspected it, turning it around a few times.

When he glanced up again he saw Ishido watching him, saccharin smile still in place. Bakura raised a questioning eyebrow.

"It's a phone," Ishido explained.

Bakura stared in bemusement for a few seconds. A phone? Was this what phones looked like in this age?

He swallowed his confusion as fast as he could and replied with an arrogant, "I know," because he hated looking ignorant but, oh Ra, he did not know. He looked at the sleek black screen again. How was he supposed to turn it on?

"Do you know how to use it?" Ishido asked, politely enough but with obvious mocking undertones.

"Of course I do," Bakura scoffed. He slipped the 'phone' in the back pocket of his jeans as casually as if he had always owned one.

"You'll find my number in the contacts. Please, feel free to call me whenever you need me. In return, I will feel free to call you in the instance that I need your help. In case of emergencies I should be able to reach you. So please, keep this phone on your person at all times." Ishido's eyes glinted. It was a warning.

This phone wasn't meant for Bakura's convenience, but for Ishido's. It was a means to locate him and keep the leash nice and short.

Privileges, my ass, Bakura thought.

It could have a tracker in it. It probably did.

He hated the damn thing already.

Ishido's eyes were still glinting in a way that made Bakura's instincts scream at him to be alert. "I think you understand, Mr Bakura, how much it will sadden me if I try to contact you and find that I am unable to."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," Bakura grit out.

"Good. Then we have an understanding." He clapped his hands once and turned to the woman next to him. "Madam Nana, is there anything you would like to add?"

Madam Nana, who had been silent and still throughout their exchange, shook her head. "You have been thorough and eloquent as ever, dear. Although I do think you are a little too... strict. I think Mr Bakura should know that I am a much more lenient boss." She flashed a parody of a smile to Bakura. "My proposition still stands, in case you change your mind, darling."

"Yeah, great, thanks."

"Excellent," Ishido said brightly. "Mr Bakura, you may spend your time as you please until your next fight. Please, feel free to entertain yourself in our facilities, should you wish to." He indicated the club around him with a small wave of his hand.

"Sure. Thanks."

"Dismissed."

Bakura turned on the spot and left as fast as he could, without a backwards glance or a goodbye.

Once he was alone in the corridor, he took the phone out and examined it more closely. How in the name of Bastet's gilded sandbox was he supposed to use this thing?

He huffed in annoyance and walked down the corridor. When he reached the staircase that led to the upper floors, he paused.

Enki was still on guard duty. Bakura quickly changed his mind and made his way towards him.

"Hey."

Enki lifted his eyes from the newspaper he was reading.

Bakura held out his new phone. "Can you show me how to use this?"

Enki looked at the phone. Then back at Bakura.

"It's just a phone."

"Yeah, I know," Bakura bristled. "Can you show me how to use it or not?"

"You don't know how to use a phone?"

"Well, I do, but this one has no buttons!"

Enki lifted his eyebrows. He considered Bakura for a moment. In the end he set his newspaper down.

"Alright. Let me see it." He extended his hand. Bakura gave him the phone and stood close, ready to record his every move.

It took him the better part of an hour to get the hang of this new device—which turned out to be, indeed, a phone. After the tech lesson was done, he pocketed the thing and murmured his thanks to Enki, who just shrugged and said "I was bored, anyway."

Bakura returned to his room on the third floor, ignoring everyone he met on his way. Once he was behind his door, he took out the phone again and fumbled with it. He managed to open its case after a few tries and set to look for anything that seemed like a tracker. He found nothing, which was to be expected since he had no idea what a tracker looked like. He definitely had lots of research to do, especially if he planned to start stealing again.

He paused his fumbling. An unpleasant thought crossed his mind.

Would he have trouble with Ishido if he started stealing again? Or was it against the rules?

He scowled the moment he thought that. He had never cared whether he would be allowed to do something or not. The King of Thieves had never needed permission for anything.

He let out a sharp laugh that hovered in the stale air of his room.

Ishido could not forbid him a thing. His rules were a joke. He gave him a room and a phone, and he thought the King of Thieves was his? Childish illusions. Bakura would only play his game for as long as it served him to do so. He wasn't Ishido's pawn; it was the other way around. He would use this inexperienced criminal for shelter and food and cash, and that's that. He had no care to lick Ishido's shoes for a place in his goon squad.

After all, he was planning to get out of there first chance he got. Until then, he guessed he could pretend to play by the rules and let Ishido believe he's the boss. It might be even fun to do so.

So, according to his dear 'boss', he was free to spend his time however he pleased. No limitations. And what Bakura really wanted right now was to shake some rust off his fingers.

Training would have to wait for a bit. He had a point to prove.

He got to his feet with a smug grin and stretched his back. It was time for the Thief King to go hunting.


Domino was vast, full of color and noise. Mazes of alleys were crammed between the main streets, and the city's many lights cast many shadows.

Bakura liked Domino quite a lot. Even in the past, he'd found it pleasant to slither across its deep alleys or perch on the high rooftops. It was a place where hiding in plain sight was easy; a city with more secrets than it would care to admit.

He prowled the streets with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and the cold of December ruffling his hair. A fat wallet was in his jeans' pocket, resting against his phone.

Stealing had been delightfully easy this time around. He had tucked his hair in his hood and lurked in the shadows for a while, unnoticeable and discreet, like a snake blending in its surroundings. His victim had not not even noticed that something had gone amiss; Bakura had relieved him from his wallet, quick and swift like the wind, and then he'd left before the man had realized he was not alone in that alley.

Now Bakura's hair whipped freely around his face as he strutted down Domino's main commercial street. He held his shoulders square with renewed confidence, grinning to himself like a satisfied fox. The wallet he'd stolen held a remarkable amount of cash. There were also credit cards, but these were far too traceable for his liking—he'd probably get rid of those later.

He peered at the numerous store-fronts, trying to decide what best use to put his loot in. He definitely needed a coat, but he had to find the right one. He kinda liked Ryou's old trench-coat: it had billowed in a nice and dramatic way, ideal to create an intimidating image-

He paused in his tracks, gaze glued to a shop window. He ignored the various articles of clothing on display and focused on the one item that stood out: a leather jacket, placed with careful casualness on the shoulders of a mannequin.

Bakura ruled out trench coats in an instant. He gazed at the black leather with yearning, already picturing himself in it. Oh, he'd look good in that. And he didn't even have to steal it. He had more than enough money. He proudly flicked a few tufts off his face and walked in the store.

He left half an hour later, laden with bags full of new hoodies and pants. He was already wearing his new leather jacket and yeah, he looked damn good in it. He admired his reflection against the shop windows, adjusting the jacket and ruffling his hair a bit more. Even with the bruises prominent on his face, he was proud of the image he had managed to create so far. He was feeling more and more like himself.

His next stop was a shoe store for a pair of black combat boots, which he also put on immediately. Socks followed and, lastly, underwear. By the time he was done with shopping, it was late in the afternoon. The sun was sinking and a sharp cold had started settling over the streets. Bakura decided to treat himself to a late lunch before heading back to the Golden Egg.

All of this is quite mundane, he pondered around a mouthful of sandwich.

He was walking along the crowded sidewalk as he ate, causing the reproachful glances of the passers-by, but he paid them no heed. In any other given minute, he would have felt the familiar pinch of twisted satisfaction that came whenever he managed to provoke somebody, but this time he was too troubled by his thoughts to care.

His shopping bags knocked against each other as he walked, heavy with possessions he had acquired almost legitimately. He'd never gone shopping before; such normalcy had never had a place in any of his lives.

This had been a peaceful sort of afternoon. Pleasant, even. And it disturbed him. Surely he hadn't been resurrected just to have a good time.

Around him people were bustling along their ways, most of them carrying bags and talking to each other cheerfully. Bakura watched them with something akin to suspicion. If there was something that was expected of him, someone should pop up any minute now and give him a clue. It was about time. He munched a bit of ham, half-expecting someone—or something—to stop him.

Nothing did. Bakura kept strolling along the sidewalk, and everything kept being normal.

This wasn't right.

At least, the phone Ishido had given him hadn't rang yet. He took that as a good sign. Everything else about his situation was plain frustrating. He hated that he had no idea what was going on.

He stuffed the remainder of his sandwich in his mouth and chewed at it thoughtfully.

He guessed he shouldn't be so bummed out that nothing ominous had happened yet. Perhaps he should take that as a clue to enjoy himself and stop stressing about it. But he did not want to. He hadn't really signed up for this 'rebirth' thing. He couldn't just brush it aside and fall into a routine and a normal life, with a job, a home and shopping sprees on Saturdays. He wasn't supposed to; he was supposed to be dead.

What he really had to do was find out more clues about his situation. At the very least, he had to figure out the answer to one of his main questions: was he the only one back? Or had more yamis returned? Say... the Pharaoh?

This question had been circling his mind for days, drifting in an out of focus. To him, it seemed highly unlikely that he'd be the only one to return. At least the Pharaoh had to be back, too. It would be an awfully tasteless joke on the Gods' part if they had not allowed their beloved son to be reborn, especially after giving a body and a second life to a hated miscreant such as himself. Not to mention that Bakura's existence had always been interconnected with the Pharaoh's, so...

No. That was not true. Their lives had been connected with the Millennium Items and Zorc and, subsequently, with each other. And so far Bakura had not caught so much as a whiff of Zorc. He was gone, beaten, banished. He knew it in his bones.

He huffed. He was getting nowhere just thinking about it. He had to take action.

Next step: find out whether His Majesty's pompous ass was resurrected, too. If yes, demand answers. If not... figure something out.

If the Pharaoh was back, it should not be too hard to find him. Chances were he'd be with that Mutou boy, and how hard would locating the runt be? The Mutous used to live at that funky game shop. Even if the shop was not there anymore, it should only take Bakura a couple of innocent questions to work his way to Mutou.

He could remember where the game shop was, more or less. The city might have changed and expanded like a spider's web, but he he was confident he could still make his way around. And, if his navigating instincts were right, to get to the game shop he should turn left and-

His tracks slowly came to a halt. He made no attempt to turn to the game shop's direction.

He looked at his left hand. He was clutching the handles of three bags, palms balled around them. The skin on the back of his hand was tightly drawn, dry flesh ready to crack at the cold. The scar at its center gleamed like silver in the dying light of the afternoon.

Finding Mutou might be the logical thing to do. It could be considered wise, even. But it did not feel right. His instinct told him that this was not the correct course of action—and Bakura had always been a man to rely on his instincts.

Making for the Pharaoh's vessel felt like moving away from the key to all his questions, not towards it. Instead, he felt that what he had to do was to find... Ryou. And he did not like that.

He clenched his left fist even more tightly. His nails sunk in his palm. He kept looking at the scar, lost in deep thought.

Perhaps there was some kind of logic behind this hunch. Perhaps it wasn't entirely unjustified. After all, no matter which way he looked at it, everything pointed to Ryou.

He was reborn within one-minute walking distance from him. He could have woken up in any place in the world, or even any random spot in Domino, and yet he was thrown face-first on the pavement before Ryou's home. Bakura definitely wasn't naive enough to believe this had been a coincidence.

Then came the very real and pesky case of his body. If he was was ever told he would be reborn, he would expect to be brought back in his own body. Alright, maybe asking for his original form would be too much; after all, the Thief King's skin had been left to dissolve in the sands of Egypt more than three thousand years ago. Even so, it was evident that he wasn't reborn just as any person. He was not granted a clean slate to restart his life. He was brought back as Ryou's yami, specifically to fulfill this role, as it seemed.

Everything led back to Ryou. Frustratingly so.

So, whatever the reason for his return, it definitely had something to do with his former host. Ryou might not have actively played a part in bringing him back, but he was the key to this. There was no other explanation. And Bakura would be damned if he didn't figure this out.

However, this posed a problem of its own. Ryou had not seemed inclined to listen or talk to him. Bakura seriously doubted his host would be willing to cooperate and figure out the answer to this riddle, no matter how politely he asked.

Of course, he could always submit him into cooperating. He could intimidate him, threaten him, or even entice him to work with him. He was his yami after all; he had known Ryou ever since he was a child. He knew his deepest fears and desires, knew the way his mind worked. Manipulating him should be a piece of cake.

Bakura scowled to himself. He did not want to admit it, but this plan did not seem all that appealing. He had no particular care to bully Ryou into working with him. Hell, if he could, he wouldn't bother at all; not just with Ryou, but with any of this. He'd just be in the afterlife, doing afterlife stuff and being fucking peaceful for once.

Plus, Bakura's power had always relied on knowing Ryou inside-out and knowing exactly how to pull his strings. However, the Ryou he had met a few nights ago was not the Ryou he remembered. His host had seemed... changed, somehow.

Their first encounter had been too brief for a well-rounded evaluation, but Bakura was not counting on first impressions alone. A big clue of the change was the skin he was currently wearing. The Ryou he knew would never allow his body to reach such levels of neglect. That being said, there was no denying the malnutrition, the lack of exercise and the profound exhaustion that was embedded in his limbs. Ryou had never been a gym freak or anything, but he had been keen on keeping himself healthy, even with a yami messing with his schedule and habits. Not to mention that a couple of cigarettes had been more than enough for Bakura to realize that this body was no first-timer when it came to smoking. Or drinking, for that matter.

It both intrigued and troubled Bakura. He could not help but wonder what could have intervened for his host to expose his not-so-gracious side. He had to find out. Not only out of curiosity, but out of necessity: if Bakura's return had anything to do with his host, it was only logical to find out as much as possible before working out an explanation.

But he would still have to act stealthily. He couldn't just up and chat with Ryou or ask him for information. His coward of a yadonushi would probably call the cops the moment he spotted him. Or he would try to throttle him again, or something.

Either way, it would be simpler for Bakura to just observe from the shadows. Keep his distance and reach to the bottom of this himself.

It made sense even when looked from the practical side of things: if Ryou still hung out with his old friends, he could lead him to the Pharaoh just as efficiently as the Mutou boy. All Bakura would have to do was watch his old host for a while and he would inevitably get all the answers he needed. Two birds with one stone.

He smiled to himself, satisfied, and broke to a determined trot. With a bit of luck, he'd locate Ryou within the hour.


Unfortunately for him, it took him longer that he expected to find Ryou's place. He was certain he'd recognize the place once he saw it, but there were so many streets he was bound to make a wrong turn. Or twenty.

It was dark when he finally found the right street. He spotted Ryou's apartment block, the door he had banged on, as well as the piece of pavement he had lied upon on his first minutes. He'd expected a twinge of triumph, but all he felt was relief; he'd been wandering around Domino for at least two hours.

He squinted at the building before him. Amidst the confusion of his resurrection he hadn't noticed, but this was not the building Ryou used to live in when he had the Ring. This one looked definitely older and somewhat ran-down. The whole neighborhood was drab and a bit dreary: there was no green, nor any of the modern buildings that adorned downtown Domino. There were a few shop signs blinking shyly, but half of the stores on the street seemed indefinitely closed, with their fronts graffitied over their metal shutters.

Bakura's nose scrunched in mild disdain as he glanced around. His host's taste had definitely deteriorated over the past years.

He tucked his hair safely in his hood and kept his head low as he approached Ryou's apartment building. Once he reached the main entrance, he peered at the little tags on the doorbells. He found the one that read Bakura Ryou, 5th floor and smirked at it.

Now what? Should he ring to see if his beloved landlord was in? That did not go down very well the last time.

He looked again at the street around him. He noticed there was a narrow alley not far from where he was standing: it looked more as an accidental gap between two buildings than a street, and it was barely illuminated by the streetlamps. Bakura had to squint to make out the graffiti on the alley's walls and the trash bags that were strewn across it.

He quickly made his way towards it and inspected it from up close. The air stank of decaying garbage and other, worse things, but that was just a minor inconvenience. The important thing was that it seemed dark enough to conceal a person, and that the mouth of the alley had an unobstructed view of Ryou's apartment building. It was perfect.

Bakura slipped into the shadows and felt the dark slide on him like a second skin. He leaned against the wall of the alley, standing right beyond the line of light cast by the streetlamps, and stared at his target.

The smell of decay was sickly sweet and clung on his nostrils as he breathed. He thought he'd much rather inhale some smoke, so he took out his tobacco bag. He looped his shopping bags around his elbows and set to roll a cigarette, his gaze never leaving the entrance of the building for more than a couple of seconds.

If anyone entered or left the apartment block, Bakura would see it. Now all he had to do was wait. His yadonushi was bound to make an appearance soon.


Soon had been quite optimistic.

Bakura groaned and checked his phone for what felt like the hundredth time. Six hours had passed and Ryou had yet to appear. Midnight had rolled by quite some time ago and Bakura was growing sick of waiting.

He threw his cigarette on the ground, put it out with the toe of his boot and prepared to leave. He would go back to his room, get some rest and return early in the morning.

He had nearly slid out of the safety of his hiding spot when a familiar white head popped up at the far end of the street. The yami withdrew hastily, cursing under his breath. He flattened against the wall and made sure he was as concealed as possible by a heap of trash bags.

Ryou came into view a minute later. He was walking along the pavement, eyes downcast and hands in his pockets. Every now and then he lifted his head and glanced around and over his shoulder. When he walked by the alley, his eyes lingered on it for a moment; Bakura held his breath until Ryou finished his inspection and moved along. He saw him unlock the building's entrance and get in as fast as he could.

A minute later, one of the dark windows on the fifth floor bathed in light.

Bakura waited until the window went dark again before leaving. He returned to the Golden Egg tired, hungry, cold, and more satisfied with himself than he ought to have been.

After a few short hours of sleep he was back on his feet. He wrapped himself in the warmest clothes he owned, stepped out and managed to be outside Ryou's place before the clock showed 7 a.m.

This time he'd come fully prepared for an entire day's stake-out: he had half a dozen energy bars in his pockets and a bag full of tobacco, courtesy of a poorly guarded 24-hour convenience store. He found a finely shaded spot in the alley and set to stare at Ryou's apartment building like a watchful hawk.

Ryou showed his face approximately two hours later: he opened the door a bit, stuck his head out and scanned the street with eyes still puffy from sleep. Then he took off hastily, casting nervous glances around.

Bakura's lip curled. His host seemed alert, but not enough to notice him. He guessed some things didn't change: older or not, the brat remained as useless as ever. Still, Bakura let the distance between them grow for good measure before shooting out of his hiding spot and trailing behind Ryou.

He soon noticed that he was headed downtown; more specifically, he seemed to be moving towards the shopping district. Bakura glanced from Ryou to his surroundings, perplexed. It was still too early for shopping. Most of the stores were closed, their shutters still rolled down. What business did he have there this early in the day?

His question was answered when Ryou walked up to one of the major clothing stores, not far from where Bakura himself had been shopping the previous day. The shutter was rolled down only halfway and lights glinted beyond; apparently, the morning shift was getting everything ready for the day. Ryou slipped under the shutter and entered the store.

Bakura stood outside, a few feet away, and narrowed his eyes at the store front.

Was this where the brat worked? He had expected something... fancier. An office at some company, perhaps.

Heh... Figures, he thought as he smirked malignantly. Ryou Bakura, one of his school's top students, working at a store. Oh, his asshole of a father must be really proud.

The downside was that, if Ryou indeed worked here, Bakura was in for several hours of waiting. He had no means to know exactly how long Ryou's shift would be, but he was not willing to stand outside for, say, eight hours. That would be ridiculous.

He memorized the street and the name of the store and left. He hurried back to the Golden Egg for an ever-frustrating training session that stripped him of whatever confidence he had managed to build, took a quick shower and an even quicker lunch, and left again. When Bakura returned to the shopping district, it was already early in the afternoon. The streets had grown busy and too noisy, but this served the yami just fine.

He slipped into the crowd outside Ryou's workplace and tried to peek through the glass front as discreetly as possible. A glimpse of his host's white hair was enough to affirm that he hadn't clocked off yet, so he moved away to find a new hiding spot. Once he found an appropriate corner, he made himself comfortable and waited.

Hours ticked by slowly and tediously. The sun had just dipped below the horizon when Ryou emerged from the store, looking exhausted and grumpy. He walked straight back to his apartment, unaware of the shadow that followed him, and did not leave again for the rest of the day.

Even though that first day of stalking had brought no significant results, Bakura kept at it for the rest of the week with commendable determination. Every day without fail he walked Ryou to work, then ran to the Golden Egg to cram a few hours of training and made sure to be back in time to catch Ryou finishing his shift.

He quickly realized that his former host led an immensely boring and repetitive life. He'd go from home to work and back, sometimes stopping for groceries, and that was it. He did not meet with friends, not did anything remotely interesting. It was both baffling and irritating. Bakura could not fathom how someone could tolerate such blandness, neither could he see how this could in any way be related to his return from the dead. He could see no ties, no matter how hard he tried to.

The only intriguing instance had been on Wednesday morning.

Instead of going to work, Ryou had headed off to the other side of town and walked into a huge building that had looked like a school, or university, or something. Bakura had braced himself for a few more hours of waiting, but there'd been no need for it: Ryou had walked out again unexpectedly fast. He had looked equal measures aggravated and upset and had nearly stomped his feet all the way back home. When he left to go to work that afternoon, he had been too distressed to glance behind his shoulder as often as he used to.

And that had been the highlight of the week.

When Friday evening came around, Bakura had to admit that he had few things to show for six days of stalking. All he'd learned was that his former host worked at a store at least eight hours a day and that he was probably some kind of student.

No more clues. No leads to anything significant. Not even a tiny hint as to how Bakura's resurrection related to this—unless he was supposed to act as an intermission in Ryou's stupendously dull life.

He grumbled at himself as he was sitting huddled up on his watch-spot across from Ryou's workplace. He glared at the figures moving in the store and tightened his hold on the hot paper cup in his hands. He had discovered the merits of take-out coffee, so he was currently emptying a cup of the most extravagant beverage he'd managed to find: a concoction of coffee, whipped cream, various syrups, marshmallows and colorful sprinkles. It certainly looked scary, but it tasted pretty damn good.

He bit into a pink, spongy marshmallow as he checked his phone for what he hoped would be the last time that day. Thankfully, it was past 9 pm, which meant the working day was coming to its close. All along the street, lights were being turned off, trash bags dragged outside, shutters rolled down. The shopping crowd had dissipated a while ago; the only people around were tired employees on their way home.

With the stores closed, the street sunk in the feeble half-light of the shop signs. Clouds started gathering in the dark sky overhead, and Bakura distantly wondered if he'd need to steal an umbrella for the walk home.

He finished his beverage and set his paper cup down. His back was aching from sitting curled up for so many hours, but Ryou was bound to show up any minute now. The shutters were already halfway down and his co-workers were leaving one by one, so this shouldn't take much longer.

As if on cue, the last of the store's lights went out. Only the ones on the shop windows remained on, casting their soft illumination on the faceless mannequins.

A couple of employees slipped outside, shouted their good-nights to each other, and left.

The street remained empty and silent. No sign of Ryou.

Bakura fiddled with his paper cup, keeping his gaze decidedly fixed at the store across from him. Surely the brat wasn't planning to spend the night there? Or had he realized he was being watched and left through a back door? No way—Ryou was probably still inside.

Perhaps something was wrong. Perhaps he should go check.

Bakura got to his feet, but did not leave his spot just yet. He noticed that a single light was still on somewhere in the depths of the store, so he took that to mean that Ryou had not finished work just yet. He groaned out loud and ran a hand over his face, but he had no other choice than to remain hidden and wait some more.

His patience was tested for another twenty minutes until, finally, there was a bit of shuffling and the sudden slam of a door.

Ryou walked outside, looking distinctly more bad-tempered than usual. He grabbed the shutter and pulled it all the way down; it slid into place with a loud rumbling noise and a bang. Ryou stooped to lock it but, once he crouched, he remained there, elbows on his knees and head hanging low. He let out a huff deep enough to be audible across the street.

The yami wrapped himself more securely in the shadows and watched.

Ryou made no move to leave. Instead, he turned around and sat down where he was, at the front steps of the closed store. He leaned back against the shutter and brushed his hair off his face, revealing drawn and bony-white characteristics. Bakura had less than a second to take in his host's tired face before his bangs fell back in front of his eyes.

Ryou's fingers moved towards his jacket pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and picked one. The click of the lighter echoed faintly across the street; the small orange flame it conjured was tremulous in his hands. He lit his cigarette and inhaled.

Bakura had become so accustomed to the sensation that he almost felt the smoke drifting down his own throat. Still, he scowled at the sight. He had suspected that Ryou smoked, but seeing it did not make him particularly happy. If anything, it felt wrong... somehow. He compared the picture of the Ryou he had in his head with the Ryou before him, but his old host and the smoke that hovered like a halo around his head were two things that did not really mix.

Bakura grumbled again and leaned heavily against the wall, tapping his foot. His yadonushi must be nuts, sitting like that in the cold to smoke instead of going back home.

The sight irked Bakura, but he couldn't take his eyes off of it. The smoke swirled around Ryou's hair, blurring the edges of his face. Against that mundane backdrop, he seemed like a spectral apparition: a fleck of ethereal white clad in grey.

The yami scoffed and shook his head. He wasn't there to gaze at Ryou as if he were sight-seeing. It was stupid and he was growing sick of it.

In fact, there didn't seem like there was much more to learn about Ryou and his boring life. The guy was a sad wreck, just like he'd always been, only... older and with different habits. Bakura still couldn't see what any of this had to do with his return.

He huffed and folded his arms across his chest.

Across from him, Ryou's form visibly relaxed. He let it rest against the shutter, and closed his eyes. The aggravated lines on his face smoothed out as smoke slipped slowly from between his lips, danced over the tip of his nose, and dissolved.

Bakura glowered at the sight for a while longer. Then it dawned on him.

This was the first time Ryou was actually sitting still in a place where Bakura could approach him; the first time he'd let his ever-existing guard down. Hell, he wasn't even scanning his surroundings in that obsessive manner of his.

It might be Bakura's chance to finally make some progress. He could walk up and confront Ryou, see if anything would come out of it. He could draw some answers out. If not, who knew how much longer he would have to sneak around before finally coming across a useful clue?

Besides, it could be fun. He could see this as an experiment: a chance to see what would take for this new, older Ryou to crack.

Yes. That sounded like it was worth a shot. Judging by what he'd seen that week, it wouldn't be too difficult. Ryou was likely to fight back a bit, of course, but that wouldn't be surprising: he had always fought back, one way or the other, but his alleged boldness had never been more than childish rebellions.

...Sure, last week Bakura had found himself at the wrong end of a chokehold, but that didn't worry him. It had been a one-time incident, caused by his own momentary weakness and confusion. There was nothing Bakura would not be able to handle now.

He pushed himself away from the wall, ran a hand through his messy hair to mess them up even more and put on his good smirk.

Showtime.

He slipped out of his hiding spot and crossed the street.

Ryou did not notice him approaching. He still had his eyes closed, breathing smoke out as peacefully as if he were sleeping.

Bakura stood a few feet away and made sure his stance was as casual as it got before speaking.

"That's bad for you, you know."

He could probably have come up with a better opening line, but even so the effect was instantaneous: Ryou jolted as if hit by electricity and jumped to his feet.

Bakura wouldn't have been surprised if Ryou simply turned around and ran away as fast as he could. Hell, he'd half-expected him to do so. He kinda wanted to see the old, familiar fear bloom in Ryou's eyes; it would be proof that he hadn't lost his touch.

Ryou scrambled away from him in panic, but he did not run. Once he put enough distance between them to be out of reach, he paused and stood there; his cigarette had dropped to the ground, rolled away and remained smoldering on the pavement.

All previous peacefulness had disappeared. The lines in Ryou's face had changed; his white bangs framed eyes narrowed into slits.

He didn't look afraid. If anything, he looked angry.

The clouds overhead were growing more dense; the air carried the faint smell of rain. Bakura breathed in deep and smiled.

"Fine night, isn't it?" he said pleasantly.

Ryou's face twitched.

"I was wondering when I would see you," he replied. He did not look the least intimidated; he looked straight at his yami, his fists clenched at his sides.

Bakura straightened his body in an even more confident stance.

"Aw. You've been thinking of me, yadonushi?"

At least the rage that contorted Ryou's face was satisfying.

"I was simply wondering what you've been up to," he shot back.

"That's so thoughtful."

"Cut the crap."

Bakura pretended to blink in surprise. "Language, yadonushi. What happened to your manners?"

Ryou ignored the sneering remark. "Did you follow me?" he asked.

He still didn't seem to contemplate making a run for it. That was... interesting. Bakura wondered for how long he could keep him there.

"Maybe," he said with a smirk.

Apparently, Ryou took that as a definite yes.

"For how long have you been following me?" he demanded, the shadows in his face sharpening.

Bakura's smile widened into a poisonous grimace. "Long enough to realize that you remain as oblivious as ever, yadonushi."

For the first time, something like genuine alarm flickered across Ryou's features. Bakura relished his momentary panic, almost feeling it on his tongue.

Ryou's face changed quickly, crumpling back into a mask of hate, and Bakura faltered despite his will.

He'd always known Ryou's face better than Ryou himself. He had spent years studying it, to the point where he could read the meaning behind the slightest shift in its expressions. He'd taken pride in that. And yet, now that he was standing this close, he could spot alien characteristics on what should have been a familiar sight.

On Ryou's face, tired lines mixed with the deeper, angry ones. Shadows nestled up against the deep hollows in his cheeks, contrasting with his pale skin with disconcerting intensity. The softness Bakura remembered was gone; harsh angles had replaced it.

The yami's eyes travelled over the rest of the details he hadn't noticed up until then. Scuffed sneakers. Weathered jacket. Ryou looked haggard, worn, and too thin for his clothes. He'd look like a dead man walking if it weren't for the hatred that had set his eyes ablaze.

"Why are you following me?" Ryou snapped once the silence stretched on for too long. "What do you want?"

"I have a few questions."

Ryou didn't speak. His face was so firmly set his muscles had to hurt. He waited for his yami to go on.

For some reason, this bothered Bakura. He hadn't expected this to be this easy. This was almost a conversation. So far, he hadn't even needed to threaten him.

"You are surprisingly cooperative, landlord," he remarked. "I could almost believe that you missed me."

"You follow me around and I wanna know why. So spit it out."

Something in Ryou's voice reminded Bakura of himself. He brushed the impression away.

"I wanna know what is going on," he said.

Ryou raised an eyebrow. It was a cold expression, taunting. "What do you mean?"

"I mean this," Bakura opened his arms wide to indicate both himself and his surroundings. "Why am I here? What happened? And who else is back?"

Ryou's mouth twisted into a smirk. "Why don't you ask your good ol' dark pal?"

Bakura tried to ignore how out of place that smile looked on Ryou's face—and how maddening Ryou's derision was. "If you mean Zorc, he's gone."

Ryou considered this for a second. Then his cold smirk widened. "Sure."

Bakura had to swallow down a twinge of annoyance. "He is gone. I'm just by myself in here."

"Whatever you say..." Ryou murmured.

"Alright, look, I don't care if you believe me," Bakura snapped. "Just answer my question already."

Ryou stared at him. "Is that all?"

"Yes."

"Hm." Ryou stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Sorry. Can't help you with that."

He turned his back on his yami and made to leave.

Bakura's blood surged to his head. Without thinking it twice, he reached out and grabbed Ryou's arm before he had the chance to take more than one step away.

The second his yami's fingers made contact with him, Ryou whirled around with surprising readiness. His hand shot out of his pocket and Bakura caught the gleam of something metallic in the blur of the motion; he back-stepped on instinct and froze about two feet away, staring.

Ryou's knuckles were stark white as they gripped the hilt of a pocket knife. The blade glinted in the half-light, its tip pointing steadily towards Bakura.

If Ryou had been angry a while ago, he was damn furious now: his face was so contorted it was unrecognizable. He glared at his yami and growled in a voice that did not belong to him.

"Don't touch me."

Bakura's mind went numb. His muscles locked, leaving his body stuck in time for one long, still moment. All he did was glance from the small blade to Ryou's face, trying to process the image of a world turned upside down.

Then the second ticked away, and anger followed.

"What is that, yadonushi?" he murmured, menace lurking under his soft tone. "Are you going to kill me?"

"Touch me again and I might," Ryou spat.

The yami smiled and he felt his face twist, muscles pulling into a grimace meant for demons.

"Don't make me laugh. You cannot hurt me." He nodded towards the knife and his smirk turned savage. "You're not even holding it right."

Ryou's glower hardened. He clenched the handle of his pocket knife with renewed ferocity and looked his yami straight in the eyes. "Stay. Away. From me," he warned, stressing each word.

"Answer my questions and I will."

"You have some nerve, thinking I will help you."

Bakura huffed. "I'll ask one more time, yadon-"

"Fuck off."

Bakura's hand shot out and grabbed Ryou's outstretched arm right at the base of the wrist that was holding the knife. Ryou let out a startled gasp and tried to recoil, but Bakura kept him in place, clenching his hand in a grip he knew had to be painful.

For a second, Bakura saw in Ryou's eyes the fear he'd been waiting for; he saw his young host again, terrified, lost, alone, just the way he'd seen him a million times before.

The silence in his head stirred uncomfortably.

Zorc would do it. Zorc would pry that knife from his hand; he'd make Ryou cry out in pain and embarrassment. He'd make him feel like an idiot for going against him. He would stomp his backbone back into dust and show him that he was as weak as ever.

Bakura wasn't Zorc anymore.

He was gripping Ryou's wrist so hard it was sure to bruise.

Ryou's eyes were wide and staring straight at him. He saw it all flicker in their depths: despair, recognition, resignation. There was no pang of triumph at that. No satisfaction. There was just a scared boy in front of him, with wide brown eyes and a bony-white face. Ryou wasn't even fighting his grip.

It crossed Bakura's mind that he did not need to clutch at him so hard. Zorc would, Zorc would force the answers out, but he did not need to, he-

Ryou's eyes changed. He kept them on Bakura, but their focus shifted. It was almost as if he looked through the yami, out to something farther away.

Then, out of all things, Ryou smiled. It wasn't an actual smile; it was a ghastly upwards curve of lips, softening the edges of his features into something akin to relief.

"Fine," he said in a murmur that sounded abnormally soft; detached. His fingers opened and let the small knife drop. It hit the pavement with a small rattle that echoed dully between them. "There," he said in that same tone that sounded like he was miles away. "Do what you will."

Bakura felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

He let go of Ryou's arm. The knife glinted in the edge of his vision, but he did not so much as glance at it.

Numbness started spreading from the pit of his gut to his limbs. He looked at the figure of the boy—no, the man before him, the man with the white hair and the frozen gaze, and felt his brows draw together involuntarily.

What the fuck was Ryou doing?

Bakura could take the knife and threaten him into submission. Knives were like the extension of his hand; armed with one, he was unstoppable. He knew it, and Ryou knew it.

Ryou knew it, but he didn't care.

...Could it be that Ryou really meant that? Or was he bluffing?

He must have been bluffing.

"What the hell are you doing?" Bakura said, trying to hide his apprehension.

"What?" Ryou asked piously. He nodded towards the knife; the motion was so small his hair barely moved. "Use it. Don't pretend you don't want to."

This wasn't the plan.

This wasn't right.

Ryou had never given up arms; even when he'd known it was hopeless, he had kicked and screamed and that had been why Bakura had been forced to either imprison him in his own mind or threaten him into cooperating.

Now Ryou stood there, waiting patiently and carrying the most disturbing of expressions. Bakura almost wished his host would go back to looking hateful, or even sneering; anything, as long as he stopped smiling like that.

He took a step backwards, away from Ryou and the knife that lay at his feet. "Are you an idiot?" he hissed. "Pick it up."

Ryou didn't move. He arched both his eyebrows at Bakura, his gaze shifting back into focus. When he spoke, his voice was low and strangely calm.

"You shouldn't go to such lengths to intimidate me if you don't really mean it."

Bakura frowned. What the hell—was Ryou disappointed or something? Would he really prefer it if Bakura reached for the knife and-?

"Pick up your damn knife," he repeated.

Ryou's eyes narrowed. He breathed out a chuckle that was like a shard of ice.

"You could at least have the guts to finish what you started," he said.

With a repulsed twist of his nose and a scoff, Ryou moved; he walked past Bakura, making sure to knock hard against his shoulder as he did so, and walked away without looking back.

The impact made Bakura take a step backwards, but he did not react in any other way. He simply stared at him, unblinking.

Neon colors bounced off Ryou's white tufts as he walked away with slow strides. Deliberately slow ones. If Bakura wanted to, he would be able to catch up easily. He could take the knife and respond to his host's open invitation to inflict pain and suffering. Ryou did not even look back once to see whether his yami was indeed ready to pounce on him or not; he kept his head low and his shoulders hunched, just the way he always did, and traced the same steps as every night.

"What the fuck?" Bakura breathed between his teeth.

He curled and uncurled his fingers in the night's chill, hardly feeling how cold they had gone. He did not dare blink. He watched Ryou's figure slowly grow distant and small, weaving through shadows and brightly colored lights.

Ryou didn't glance back. When he didn't bother to lift his gaze to check the road before crossing it, Bakura let out a deep, throat-grazing growl.

Did that idiot really have a death wish? If he kept his head hanging like this and that dejected slouch in his shoulders, he would get himself killed, that was for sure. He made himself a tantalizingly easy target for every kind of scoundrel roaming these streets.

Bakura let out an annoyed grunt and rubbed a hand over his face.

Well, if Ryou got himself mugged, he wouldn't be entirely undeserving it. And, if was so indifferent towards his life and his safety, why should Bakura care? What was it to him?

He grit his teeth and scowled at the white head at the far end of the street.

If the brat was so keen to throw away his life, Bakura would let him. It was none of his damn business.

None. At. All.

He peeled his gaze off Ryou with vicious determination. It was high time this joke ended. This whole affair had been a fiasco from day one.

He could hear the sound of thunders rolling in the distance. He turned his head towards the sky and took a deep inhale of the heavy, humid air. If he wanted to get back to his room dry, he'd better hurry.

He made sure to pick up Ryou's little knife and pocket it before he left.


Ryou closed the door of his apartment with a slam that reverberated through the walls. He locked it hastily and proceeded to turn on all lights and check every corner, even the cupboards. Once he finished his inspection, he went to the window.

While walking back home, he had glanced behind his shoulder only once. That one time he had glanced back he hadn't seen his yami following him, but that meant nothing. Ryou had learned his lesson.

He gazed out of the window, scanning the view for any undesirable presences. There was nothing beyond flashes of lightning, but he would not let the apparent emptiness of the street fool him. Not seeing Bakura did not necessarily mean that he wasn't around. For all Ryou knew, his yami could already be in the building.

The moment that thought crossed his mind, he rushed to the door, unlocked it and pulled it open abruptly. The threshold was clear. Still, he did not relax. He held his breath and tried to listen, expecting to hear harried footsteps on the stairs or the clattering of the elevator.

There was nothing. The silence was absolute, except for the sound of the television from a nearby apartment and the buzzing in his own ears.

Of course. His yami was just full of empty threats. That much had become clear.

He had probably thought that it would be really fucking funny to just mess with Ryou and make his day even worse. What a nice pastime.

He could at least have had the guts to put Ryou out of his misery. But no. Not brave enough for something so straightforward, apparently.

Ryou closed the door, locked it, and then kicked it just for the sake of venting; he heard the pathetic thing rattle in its hinges. He slammed the bolt furiously, wondering if a lock would be enough to keep his asshole of a yami outside in the case that he showed up to have a bit more fun.

Perhaps he'd have to install more bolts. A dozen should do the trick. And then perhaps he should bolt the windows, too. Or board them shut.

He rushed to the little kitchen with an infuriated huff. A headache had started blooming in his skull, making the buzz in his ears throb in sync with it. He did not pause to think it twice before reaching for the vodka bottle. He wiped some of the dust on his sleeve, unscrewed the cap and grabbed a short glass. Normally he'd get some ice, too, but at the moment he was beyond making the effort. He poured as much of the clear liquid as his patience allowed him and downed it all in one big gulp. He didn't even taste it.

He poured himself a second glass, emptied it again, and finally stood still for a second. A slight burning embraced his core. He placed both fists on the kitchen counter and let his head hang.

...That bastard. That fucking bastard. For how long had he been waiting for the chance to sneak up on him like that? For how long had he been lurking in the shadows, waiting for Ryou to drop his guard?

And how could Ryou have been stupid enough to allow such a thing to happen?

That was the worst part: he couldn't really put all of the blame on his yami. Bakura was an asshole, but that was nothing new. He had just acted the way an asshole like him would. But Ryou himself... That was an entirely different matter. He was way too easy to blindside. Even his yami had said so when Ryou had asked him for how long he'd been following him.

Long enough to realize you are as oblivious as ever, yadonushi.

His words echoed in Ryou's ears as clearly as if his yami were standing next to him. Or, even worse, as if he were in his head.

He groaned, annoyed with himself and his goddamn naivety. Nice work, Ryou, he thought scathingly.

He really needed to get a grip. He had told everyone he could handle Bakura—that he could handle this—but he was proving himself wrong with every passing minute. He had to calm down.

He poured another glass of vodka, grabbed it and moved back to the window. He checked the street again.

"Show yourself, you fucker," he hissed.

He jumped when his phone rang. It took him much longer than normal to realize where the sound was coming from, as well as that it wasn't some kind of threat.

He reached for it with shaking hands. Malik.

He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. He took a big, hopefully calming breath. Then another.

His first thought was, Don't tell Malik a thing. Not a thing.

What would he say, anyway? That he met his yami and provided him with the means to kill him without batting an eye? He could imagine Malik's reaction and it wasn't something that he could deal with. He couldn't deal with any sort of reaction right now, actually.

He took another deep breath and answered the phone.

"Hey, Malik," he said in as casual a tone as he could muster. It still came out sounding clipped, but it was good enough.

"Hey, Ryou. You okay?"

Ryou held the phone a few inches away and huffed. Nothing escaped Malik's notice. But no matter. Ryou had years of experience in pretending.

He softened his voice and said, "I had the worst day at work. I'm exhausted. What's up with you?"

"Well, I've got news."

"What kind of news?" He managed to sound sufficiently interested.

"About the Spellbook."

"Any progress?"

"Oooh, yes. We know who's behind the whole operation. We have a name and an address."

Ryou remained silent. His first, impulsive thought was that he really did not give a damn right now, but he had a change of heart in a matter of seconds.

Perhaps that book was the only efficient way to fight his yami. Knives wouldn't cut it, nor locks or threats, but this...? A step closer to the reason why Bakura was back meant a step closer to finding a way to get rid of him once and for all.

He gripped the phone hard enough to hear his nails scrap the plastic case.

"I'm all ears."

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Author's note

OMG IT'S DONE FINALLY DONE *dies*

Seriously, that was harder than I thought. I thought Bakura's first proper meeting with Ryou would be a piece of cake buuuut... guess what. It wasn't. I tweaked that scene again and again until I decided that was as good as it'd get without me taking a month-long break to let my brain clear and relax. Sooooo here it is~

And... *clears throat anxiously* In the previous chapters I had mentioned that these events took place in late December. Well, I actually sat down to write a detailed timeline and realized that my calculations were a bit off. In short: the story starts in December, but not *late* December. For those of you who are interested enough for the actual dates, the spirits' return takes place in Monday, December 6, the meeting took place in Tuesday the 7th, Bakura went out for shopping the same day Ryou met Malik at 'The Crow' (Saturday the 11th) aaaand lastly, the confrontation of this chapter is on Friday the 17th.
(...and yes, Malik's birthday in on the 23rd!)
At some point, I'll go back and fix the "late December" part in the previous chapters. Sorry for the confusion! (please put down the pitchforks!)

Thanks to everyone for the amazing feedback! I still can't believe how many people enjoy this story! You guys make my day with your comments and your support! *hugs all around*
Also TENDERSHIPPERS, THINGS ARE IN MOTION, REJOICE

I'd love to know what you think about this chapter! Please, drop by, hit that beautiful review button and let me know!

Until next time, take care everyone! :D