his little pawn

game over I

003 game over
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THEY SAY a person's eyes are the window to their soul, but it's a lie, isn't it? His eyes are nothing more than a trick, an illusion designed to keep you guessing.

You've spent hours—days—trying to read him. Every flicker of his gaze, every subtle shift of his posture. But did you get it wrong? Were you just too desperate to see what you wanted to see? 

No. It wasn't like that. You know better. You know he's baiting you, feeding you just enough to keep you playing along. He's daring you to decode every glint in his eye, every curl of his lips. He's playing with you, toying with the anticipation that's almost suffocating in this room. And you—fuck—you're still biting the hook, aren't you? 

This isn't some show he's putting on. He's weaving a game, pulling every string and setting every piece. He's the master of the board, shuffling his deck, holding his cards so damn close to his chest you can barely get a glimpse.

There's a thrill in it, something darkly fascinating about the way he maneuvers, always waiting, watching for you to make the next move before he pounces. He's always been like this—discreet, provoking, and utterly unreadable. 

Which makes him all the more intoxicating, doesn't it? 

You keep telling yourself he wants you. That it's not just some figment of your imagination. There's a burn behind those eyes, a heat you can almost feel crackling between the two of you. But even that feels like a trick—a dangerous game you're not entirely sure you're winning. 

Because he's playing with your mind. He's doing it so effortlessly, the way a predator teases its prey before the kill. He hasn't changed. Hell, he's never changed. You were just too wrapped up in your own delusions to notice—until now. Until you're stuck here, the four walls of this suffocating, dark room pressing in on you. There's no daylight, no sense of time. How long has it been? Two weeks? Maybe? But it's all blurred together into an endless stretch of black. 

When's he going to strike next? And how long are you willing to keep dancing around him, pretending you've still got the upper hand? 

You had him, or at least you thought you did. Thought you were on the same level, matching him move for move. But he was never your rival, was he? He was always three steps ahead, his smirk a silent reminder of how easily you fell into his game. Every calculated glance, every shift in his tone—it was never random. You were never just an opponent. 

No, you were his pawn. 

His little pawn.

Kita's words barely registered when he told you about the two-week break. Hell, you didn't even catch the dates until later. What stuck was the promise of triple pay at the end of it. The cash you needed for that new place, those things you couldn't quite reach for just yet. Triple pay—something to tide you over while you bide your time. 

But lately, it's not the break that's occupying your thoughts. It's him.

Ever since that night Kuroo graciously offered to "help" you with your law exam, things have taken on a new rhythm. He's still dropping by the cafe, just like always—that part of his routine never wavered.

But waiting for your shift to end? Right there in the back lot, the glint of his sleek Audi R8 catching your eye even before you'd clock out. Just standing there, leaning against his car, arms crossed over that suit that probably cost more than a month of your rent.