#celina coded

“And that,” you declared, pointing vaguely across the room as if addressing an invisible opponent, “is why I would have won that duel if the universe wasn’t fundamentally biased against brilliance.”

Across from you, your twin brother Jaden didn’t even bother looking up, casually chewing as if your theatrics were background noise he had long since accepted as part of his life. “Or,” he said, far too calmly, “you misplayed your last turn.”

You turned to him slowly, narrowing your eyes with exaggerated betrayal. “Traitor.”

“I’m literally your brother.”

“Exactly,” you shot back without hesitation, hopping down from the table with far more grace than your performance suggested. “You should be on my side.”

Chazz had watched just long enough to decide you were insufferable.

Loud, dramatic, completely lacking discipline—everything he associated with Slifer Reds, wrapped up in one person who seemed to enjoy being exactly that.

So he turned away, dismissing you as nothing more than another distraction.

The second time he noticed you, however, you were standing in the duel arena, and there was nothing dismissible about you at all.

The Obelisk Blue student across from you had started the duel with the usual confidence that came from status alone, but that confidence didn’t last long, because you dismantled it piece by piece with a kind of ease that didn’t look forced or lucky—it looked intentional. Every move you made was clean, aggressive without being reckless, and, most frustratingly, you looked like you were enjoying every second of it.

Chazz had been watching from a distance, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression carefully neutral even as something sharper settled beneath it.

Because you weren’t supposed to be this good.

You were supposed to be chaotic, sure, maybe even clever in an unpredictable way, but not precise, not controlled, not capable of reading the field three steps ahead and acting like it was second nature.

And yet—

there you were.

When the duel ended, you didn’t celebrate in any grand way; you simply stretched your arms above your head as if you had just finished a light workout instead of taking down an Obelisk Blue, and then you flashed a grin at your opponent.

“Next time,” you said lightly, almost teasing, “try thinking three turns ahead. It helps.”

The Obelisk student left without a word, pride clearly wounded, and that’s when you turned—and your eyes landed on Chazz.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then your lips curved, sharp and knowing.

“Oh,” you said, tilting your head slightly, “Princeton.”

Something in his posture stiffened immediately. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” you asked, all innocence that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Like you’re about to insult me.”

You smiled wider. “I am about to insult you.”

After that, it became almost impossible to avoid you, not because you were actively following him—though he was starting to suspect you might be—but because you had a way of appearing exactly where he didn’t want you to be, inserting yourself into moments with that same infuriating confidence, as if titles and ranks meant absolutely nothing to you.

You leaned casually against the railing one afternoon while he was going through his deck, your gaze flicking between the cards and his expression as if you were studying both at once. “Careful,” you murmured, tone light but edged with something sharper, “wouldn’t want you to lose your reputation.”

“I don’t lose,” he replied instantly, not even looking up.

“Everyone loses.”

“Not to Slifer Reds.”

That made you push off the railing, stepping a little closer, your presence suddenly more deliberate as your eyes met his. “Wanna test that theory?”

He shouldn’t have accepted.

He knew that, even as the word fine left his mouth, sharp and immediate, because something about the way you looked at him—like he wasn’t above you, like he wasn’t untouchable, like he was simply another challenge waiting to be taken apart—got under his skin in a way he didn’t quite understand.

“One duel,” he said firmly.

Your grin returned, bright and unapologetic. “Try not to cry when you lose, Princeton.”

“I won’t lose.”

“You might.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

“Would you just—” he exhaled sharply, irritation snapping through him, “duel.”

From the very first turn, it became clear that this wasn’t going to go the way he expected.

You weren’t just skilled—you were unpredictable in a way that made it difficult to anticipate your next move, because while he relied on structure and calculation, you moved like the duel itself was something fluid, something you could reshape in real time. You adapted constantly, shifting strategies mid-turn, turning situations that should have cornered you into opportunities instead.

And you talked.

Constantly.

“Oh, bold move,” you mused at one point, watching his field with clear interest. “Risky though.”

When he didn’t respond, you continued anyway. “That card again? Really? We’re repeating strategies now? I thought you were supposed to be impressive.”

“Would you stop talking?” he snapped, finally looking up.

You smiled sweetly. “No.”

By the time the duel reached its final stretch, the tension had shifted into something heavier, something sharper, because despite himself, Chazz had started to realize that this wasn’t just a match he could dominate through skill alone.

It came down to your turn.

You glanced at your hand, then at the field, then back at him, and there was something in your expression—something calm, almost assured—that made something tighten in his chest.

Not fear.

Never fear.

But anticipation.

“You know,” you said casually, as if you weren’t holding the final move in your hand, “you’re better than I thought.”

“I know,” he replied automatically.

You tilted your head slightly. “Still losing though.”

“I’m not—”

“Relax,” you cut in smoothly, your tone soft but firm in a way that didn’t invite interruption. “It’s not a personality flaw. Happens to everyone.”

Then you made your move.

And just like that—

it was over.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Your Life Points were barely holding on, a thin line between victory and defeat, while his had dropped cleanly to zero.

You looked at the field, then back at him, as if confirming it yourself.

“…huh,” you murmured. “That worked.”

Chazz stared at the result, at the cards, at you, trying to reconcile what had just happened with what should have happened.

“You—”

“Won?” you offered lightly.

“You got lucky.”

That made you laugh, not harshly, not mockingly—just genuinely, like the idea itself amused you. “Sure, Princeton.”

“I’m serious.”

“And I’m not?” you asked, your tone shifting slightly, something more grounded slipping in. “You miscalculated. Third turn. You committed too early.”

His jaw tightened.

Because he knew you were right.

The change wasn’t immediate, and it wasn’t something either of you acknowledged out loud, but it was there nonetheless, settling quietly into the space between you.

Respect.

Reluctant, unwelcome—but undeniable.

“You’re staring again.”

Chazz blinked, pulling himself out of his thoughts. “I’m not.”

“You are,” you insisted, arms loosely crossed as you leaned back against the wall, watching him with that same knowing look. “It’s getting weird.”

“I’m observing.”

“Creepy.”

“Strategic.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh. “Sure.”

There was a pause, softer this time, less charged.

Then, after a moment—

“Rematch?” he asked.

Your eyebrow lifted, interest flickering instantly. “Already addicted to losing?”

“I don’t lose twice.”

You studied him for a second longer, as if weighing something, before your lips curved again. “Alright.”

You stepped closer, closing the space between you just enough to make the shift noticeable.

“Try to keep up this time.”

Somewhere in the distance, Jaden’s voice cut through the moment. “LOSER BUYS LUNCH!”

You groaned immediately, throwing your head back in exasperation. “Stay out of this!”

“I’m invested!”

“You’re annoying!”

“I’m your brother!”

“UNFORTUNATELY!”

Chazz exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly despite himself, because as frustrating as you were, as unpredictable and chaotic and entirely outside of anything he was used to—

he didn’t look away this time.

“…you’re smiling,” you said suddenly, catching it before he could stop it.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You like this.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

He hesitated for just a fraction of a second.

“…shut up.”

You didn’t, of course.

But you did take your position, your movements smoother now, more focused, the playful edge still there but layered with something sharper underneath.

Your cards were ready, your gaze steady, bright with that same challenge he had come to recognize.

“Come on, Princeton,” you said, your voice softer now, but no less certain. “Let’s see what you’ve got this time.”

And this time - he was ready.

Or at least, he wanted to be.

Because somewhere along the way, this had stopped being about proving you wrong.

And started being about proving that he could stand on the same field as you.