Game Without Limits

Gunfire erupted — one shot, then another, followed by several in quick succession. The sound was so sharp it felt as if the walls of the mansion themselves might shatter. For a brief moment, everything froze — even the air seemed to hang still. But the silence was broken in an instant.

"What was that?" Sayoōji Naoko's voice cut through the tense air. Her tone was even, yet a trace of unease slipped through. She turned to her husband, her piercing gaze demanding an answer.

Fujihara Takatsu rose to his feet, his movements swift and deliberate. He was not the kind of man who panicked, yet even his face, usually composed and resolute, now bore a subtle tension.

"This isn't a random act," he said, his voice cold and detached. "This isn't just a robbery."

The sharp crackle of a radio interrupted his thoughts.

"Sir, we're under attack. Special forces. The guards can't hold them off. We don't know who they are, but they're armed and have already breached the perimeter!"

Takatsu's shoulders tightened. He had many enemies, but who would dare launch such a bold assault? Whoever it was, they had been driven to desperation, and now everything he had built was at risk.

"Whoever they are," he said, his voice hardening further, "they've made a grave mistake." He turned to the radio again. "Alert all external units. Reinforcements must be dispatched immediately."

Hiroto, seated across the room, raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. His calm demeanor was unnerving, too calm for the situation. His empty gaze betrayed nothing, but there was something different in his eyes now. Ayanā noticed as he rose unhurriedly, moving toward the door with an unsettling fluidity.

"This is too... obvious," he murmured, turning back briefly. "Someone's playing a much larger game. And we have only one chance to find out who."

Takatsu didn't respond, his attention fixed on the radio as he awaited further updates. His expression was weary, as though he already knew that his family's world had just been drawn into a new and dangerous game. And now, he had no choice but to play.

"We won't sit idly by," he said at last, his voice a grim command. "This moment defines everything. We must act."

Sayoōji Naoko, silent until now, finally stood. Her face mirrored the same unyielding coldness as her husband's. She was ready for what lay ahead, and her words carried an unexpected weight.

"What's our move?" she asked, her voice low but authoritative, like an unspoken order.

Takatsu gave a measured nod, his gaze sweeping over the room, assessing everyone like pieces on a chessboard, their moves already calculated.

"We find out who's behind this," he declared. "And we respond in kind." With that, he turned toward the exit. "Let's move."

As the room remained tense with anticipation, a deafening explosion suddenly shattered the moment. The doors blew apart with a thunderous crash, sending splinters flying as men in black tactical gear stormed through the breach. Their movements were swift and coordinated, like predators descending on prey. Each carried an assault rifle, their presence exuding an aura of relentless aggression.

"Down! On your knees!" one of them barked, his voice sharp and commanding. He wore a mask, but his accent betrayed him. Americans. The ruthlessness in their actions hinted at something far beyond a standard operation.

Ayanā's eyes darted to the guards stationed near the door. They barely had time to react before one of the operatives raised his weapon and, with a cruel smirk, shot one of the men inside the hall. As if for sport.

The guard collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony, his suffering cut short by a second shot to the head. His face twisted in torment, blood pooling beneath him like a dark, spreading river on the pristine marble floor.

Ayanā fought to suppress a shudder, but the fear creeping into her expression was almost impossible to hide. She wanted to run, to let panic take over, but she held herself back, trembling.

Her father, Fujihara Takatsu, stood unmoving, like a stone monument. Only his eyes betrayed his alertness, alive with tension. Every word, every gesture was deliberate, measured. This moment was a prelude to action, and he knew there wasn't a second to waste.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Takatsu demanded, his voice as cold as steel. This wasn't a plea. It was a command, spoken by a man accustomed to getting answers.

The lead operative stepped forward, his movements deliberate. The sneer visible beneath his mask suggested he found the question amusing. He pulled off the mask, revealing a face that was unfamiliar yet radiated danger. His eyes carried the weight of someone who had lived through storms and emerged unbroken.

"Who are we?" he echoed mockingly, his tone dripping with disdain. "You really don't know?" He studied the man before him, his gaze sharp. "We're just here to take what's ours. Simple as that, Fujihara."

There was a precision in his words, a clarity that suggested he was far more than just another soldier. Ayanā could sense it — this man was dangerous, and he wasn't acting alone. Her mind raced, desperately trying to piece together the puzzle of who might have orchestrated this attack.

"It was me, brother," a voice broke through the chaos, familiar yet chilling in its foreignness. Everyone froze. The operatives stepped aside, forming a semicircle as their focus shifted to the figure striding forward with cold confidence.

The man who entered was older, his thick, silver-streaked hair combed neatly back. Though his frame was heavy and ungainly, his presence was suffocating, a weight that pressed down on the room. His face, marked by deep wrinkles and the sag of time, carried a sense of unrelenting purpose. But it was his eyes that spoke the loudest — devoid of pity, devoid of regret. They burned with the singular resolve of a man who had devoted himself to a cause, no matter the cost