The cell adjacent to his laboratory cage was meant for storage—until they moved two new prisoners in. Through the thin gap between the wall and his restraints, Nogare could hear them day and night: one man muttering about fields of golden flowers and rivers that sang, his voice soft and distant even when he spoke aloud. The other snapped and snarled, fiercely guarding every scrap of bread or cup of water they were given, hiding crumbs in the cracks of his stone floor.
Nogare focused his sight through the wall, and for the first time in years, he saw auras that weren't uniform gray or seething black. The dreamer—Masaboru, he'd heard the guards call him—wore an aura of shifting purple and silver, swirling like mist around his head. The hoarder, Zentake, burned with a fierce orange and red that flared whenever someone came near his cell.
He watched their afterimages unfold, and something new emerged: not just single, fixed endings, but branching paths—dozens of ways they might die within the guild's walls. Masaboru could starve, or be driven mad by experiments. Zentake could be killed in a fight over food, or executed for attacking a guard. But woven through all the grim possibilities was one faint, tangled thread—where all three of them survived.
It was not a good path. It was still steeped in pain, risk, and loss. But it was better than the alternatives.
For days, Nogare sat in silence, running the numbers in his head. He compared every variable—guard rotations, supply routes, weak points in the facility's structure. He calculated probabilities for every choice, every reaction, every possible twist of fate. When he finally had it mapped out, the number he arrived at was 31%.
Thirty-one percent chance of survival. It was the highest "hope" he had ever been able to quantify.
That night, when the guards had left and silence settled over the facility, he pressed his face to the crack in the wall and whispered. His voice was hoarse from disuse, but clear and precise.
"Zentake. I know you can hear me."
The snarling stopped. A moment later, footsteps shuffled close to the wall. "Who's there? Another rat the guild's locked up?"
"My name is Nogare. I'm in the lab next door. I've been watching. Your chance of survival alone is below 8%. With the dreamer—Masaboru—it rises to 19%. With me, following my instructions exactly, it reaches 31%."
There was a long pause. Then Zentake spoke, his voice lower, sharper. "Instructions? What kind of instructions?"
"Calculations. I know how this place works. I know where the guards are weakest, when the supply carts arrive, which corridors lead to the outer walls. I can tell you exactly when to move, where to hide, what to avoid. But it requires absolute compliance. No deviations. No emotions clouding your judgment."
It was not an offer of friendship. It was not a plea for help. It was a risk-mitigation proposal—cold, logical, and built on the only language he could trust anymore.
Zentake was quiet for another moment. Then Nogare heard the sound of him shifting, likely looking at Masaboru in the dark. "And the dreamer? What's in it for him?"
"Same as us. A 31% chance to live. That's more than he has now."
A rustle of fabric. A soft murmur from Masaboru about stars falling like rain. Then Zentake's voice came back, rough but steady.
"31%. I've taken worse odds for a half-full bowl of rice. We accept your terms."