No pause. No adjustment.
The butler, standing stiffly at the side of the private range with a clipboard in hand, blinked. His eyes trailed down the lane to the target at the far end, expecting the paper to be shredded or at least peppered with new holes.
Then Kenji, still holding the pistol, turned it towards him with a casual flick of the wrist.
The butler froze.
"Bang!" Kenji said lightly, a wicked grin curling at the edges of his lips.
"Sir… Please…"
"Relax," Kenji sighed, his tone mock-exasperated. He flicked the safety on with a click and tossed the pistol to the butler, who fumbled to catch it. "It's empty. See? No more bullets. I'm harmless now."
He squinted towards the target. "Oops. Guess I need more practice."
Roman, silent up until now, stepped forward and pressed the retrieval button.
The mechanism whirred quietly as the target zipped towards them, fluttering slightly in the air-conditioned stillness of the range.
Six bullet holes – which he created earlier.
The butler, glancing between the paper and Roman, sighed, as if used to this kind of stunt. "Young Master… these are from Master Zehnder. You missed all of yours."
Kenji gave an exaggerated gasp, then grinned and flung a lazy arm over the butler's shoulders.
"I'm a fragile boy," he said, voice mock-dramatic. "My body's not made for work, only indulgence. I shouldn't be doing any of this. Speaking of which—why don't you fetch me some snacks before I collapse from the weight of my own expectations?"
"Don't bully the help, Kenji," Roman said, finally breaking his silence. His voice was flat, dry – as if he was bored of speaking.
Kenji just smirked but released the butler anyway.
Roman's eyes stayed locked on the target, though. The butler was right – he made those six bullet holes. However, the butler failed to notice the detail.
Each of his original shots had been clean, centered. Precise.
But now… above every one of those six holes, there was something else. A second mark. Subtle. Barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.
Thin, crescent-shaped impressions—evidence of a bullet shaving just the top edge of the same entry wound.
Perfectly layered. Each one.
Roman didn't say anything. He just reached out, tore the target down, and ripped it to shreds with quiet finality.
"This is disgraceful," he said. "You really do need more practice."
Kenji chuckled under his breath. "Mm, harsh but fair."
Roman turned towards the exit. "I'm going to change. I'll see you in your room in a short while."
#####
An hour later,
Roman dismissed the butler with a quiet nod and made his way to Kenji's room. He hadn't set foot in it for years—and yet, stepping inside was like walking into a time capsule. Everything was almost exactly as he remembered it.
The walls were still cluttered with snapshots of childhood: Kenji's toothy grins, Mila's quiet smiles, messy birthday parties, and sun-drenched beach holidays.
Roman's eyes landed on a framed photo near the bookshelf. Him, Kenji, Mila, and Jess—his late wife—smiling beneath a cherry blossom tree.
"Jess…" he murmured, reaching out to touch the glass. The warmth in his voice dulled into something quieter.
He let his gaze drift across the wall. More photos followed—Kenji with Mila and Lance, growing older in each frame. Primary school, then high school, prom night, graduation. Roman's fingers brushed against a photo from their high school graduation. Lance's tie was crooked. Kenji had his arm slung lazily around his shoulders. Mila was in the center, glaring at the camera because Kenji had stepped on her dress.
Roman's expression shifted when he saw Lance's face. He stared at it for a long time, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
Then he turned to the far corner of the room, where a dusty shelf stood untouched. Reaching beneath it, he gripped the spine of an old, faded copy of Ender's Game and pulled.
CLICK.
With a soft click, the bookcase slid open, revealing a hidden room.
The room glowed dimly as the soft overhead lights flickered on. On the far wall were dozens of photographs—clippings from old tournament circuits, scanned player badges, faded newspaper headlines.
At the center of the wall, four portraits loomed: Kazuo Nakamura, Dominic Graves, Hisashi Nakamura, and the last.
Roman's gaze drifted to the left, to the portrait of a man with the same face as Kazuo. Same sharp jawline. Same intense eyes. But softer. Smiling.
"Yazuo…"
Kenji's biological father.
Roman reached out and touched the edge of the photo.
If Yazuo had lived… everything would've been different.
He then looked at a headline clipped from an old newspaper that was pinned under it.
[Rising Poker Legend Yazuo Nakamura Dies in Suspected Hit-and-Run.]
Roman clenched his fist as he thought, Yazuo, Jess, don't worry – your son is alive and well. I won't let anyone touch him.
The accident that took Yazuo's life when Kenji was three had never sat right with him. Not the timing. Not the silence that followed. Not the look Kazuo gave him at the funeral.
He knew it. Kenji knew it. But proving it… had always been impossible. Not until they found the missing piece – Dominic Graves. He looked up at Dominic Graves' portrait. That arrogant slant of the mouth, that effortless menace.
But it was the eyes that unsettled him most. Sharp. Calculating. The kind of eyes that never missed anything.
It's only a matter of time before all hell breaks loose…
"Why are you staring at that photo, Dad?"
Roman turned slowly. Kenji stood by the door, hair damp, towel slung lazily over his shoulders.
"Just wondering who you'd have become... if your parents had lived."
Kenji walked up beside him. Looked up at the photo of his birth father—the face that matched the man on TV every time the Ace of Spades walked into a casino.
"You think I'd be better off if he had lived?" Kenji asked quietly.
Roman didn't answer right away. He watched his son quietly, the silence stretching between them like a held breath. When he finally spoke, he said, "I think you'd have chosen a less painful road to walk."
Kenji looked away, voice colder now. "Well, I started on this path. There's no going back now."
Roman didn't argue.
He didn't have to.
Instead, he reached into his coat and handed over an envelope. Cream paper. A crimson seal. The Nakamura crest pressed deep into the wax.
Kenji stared at it like it might bite him. "You're kidding."
"Your father's 20th memorial is in four days," Roman said evenly. "I suspect the family is calling all direct descendants home."
Kenji snorted. "The same family that held me and Mum hostage when I was six?"
"Well…" Kenji turned the envelope over in his hands, then tossed it carelessly onto a desk. "I'm not interested."
Roman said nothing.
But as he turned to leave, he paused at the door.
"Just remember something," he said, voice like stone. "You're the only living heir of Yazuo Nakamura. Whether you like it or not… you carry that name."
Kenji didn't respond.
Not until the door clicked shut.
Then he whispered to the empty room, "I never asked for any of this."
He looked up at his father's photo again. At the same face he'd seen on televised poker tables—winning bracelets, smiling in victory.
Same face. Different man.
He stared for a long time.
Then he picked up the envelope.
######