Warcross (Warcross #1)(55)

My blood freezes. Still, I remind myself to be calm—so I narrow my eyes at him and put my hands on my hips. “Heard you skipped to make music,” I reply.

He shrugs. “I have a contract with my studio to fulfill, Warcross or no. The others told me to come up here and get you. They’re starting a round of games downstairs, if you want to join.” He nods toward the stairs.

What were you doing in the Dark World, Ren? I think to myself as I study his face. What does your connection to Zero mean? What are you planning?

“Not tonight,” I lie, nodding toward my bed. “I have an appointment to get a license for my new board.”

Ren looks at me for a beat that’s just a hint too long. Then he pushes away from my door and turns toward the stairs. “Busy little wild card,” he says in French, his words translating in my view.

Busy little wild card. I wonder, for a moment, whether he suspects me of following him. As he heads down the stairs and disappears from view, I close my door and place a quiet call to Hideo. When he picks up, a virtual version of him appears in my view.

“Emika,” he says. It sends a thrill through me of both excitement and urgency.

“Hey,” I whisper. “Can we meet?”

? ? ? ? ?

BY THE TIME I emerge from my room, Asher, Roshan, and Hammie are gathered on the couches, shoving pizza into their mouths while they play Mario Kart. Ren lounges nearby in a soft chair, watching them play. Their karts zoom along a rainbow-colored road that tunnels through the center of a galaxy.

“Oh yeah!” Hammie shouts as her kart edges into first place. “This one’s mine, boys.”

“Calling it too soon, Hams,” Roshan shoots back. “That’s your final warning.”

“Don’t go this easy on me, then.”

“I don’t throw games.”

My gaze darts to Ren. He looks calm and unfazed, his gold-winged headphones looped around his neck. He notices me now and gives me a lazy smile, as if he’d always been here, instead of gambling in the Dark World just an hour ago.

Hammie shrieks. “No!” A blue shell comes whizzing out of nowhere and hits her kart right as she’s about to cross the finish line. As she struggles to get her kart moving again, the other karts zoom past her. Her rank goes from first to eighth as she finally drags herself across the line.

Asher bursts out laughing as Hammie shoots up from her seat and throws her hands up. She glares at Roshan, who gives her his gentle smile. “Sorry, love. Like I said, I don’t throw games.”

“Sorry, my ass!” she exclaims. “I want revenge.”

“Man, Roshan,” Asher replies, clapping him on the back. “Angel in real life, demon in a kart.”

Ren glances at me. “Hey, Emika,” he says. “You want in? I’m joining the next round.”

Why were you in the Pirate’s Den, Ren? What were you doing with Zero? Are you a danger to everyone in this room? But outwardly, I smile and hoist my electric board on my shoulder. “I was going to go try my new board in the city.”

Beside Ren, Hammie groans. “Come on, Em,” she says.

“I just want some fresh air tonight,” I reply. I give her an apologetic look. “Like I said. Tomorrow, I promise.”

As I turn to leave, Asher calls out to me. “Hey, wild card.” I turn back around to see him giving me a serious look. “Last time you get to skip out on your team. Got it?”

I nod without saying a word. Asher then turns away, but before I can head out, I see Ren giving me a brief smile. “Have fun,” he calls out to me before turning away, too.

I steal away down the back hall, step out the door, then tug my shoes on and head toward a black sedan that is idling in the driveway. I’ll have to switch up how often I see Hideo at night like this. These are the sedans used by team players for transportation around the city—but still, best not to arouse suspicions. Asher will expect me to hang around for team-bonding time, especially in the weeks leading up to the first official game.

By the time I reach the Henka Games headquarters, night has completely fallen, and the heart of Tokyo has turned back into a wonderland of neon lights. The headquarters themselves even look different, and with my lenses on, the walls are covered in swirls of color and artistic renditions of the company’s logo. As the car pulls up to the front of the building, I’m greeted by two of Hideo’s bodyguards, both dressed in dark suits. They bow their heads at me in unison.

“This way, Miss Chen,” one says.

I give them an awkward bow in return, then follow them into the building. We walk in silence until we reach Hideo’s office.

Hideo is leaning over a table, his head down in concentration, his dark hair tussled. He’s dressed in his usual collar shirt and dark trousers, although the shirt is black this time, with pencil-thin gray stripes. My eyes go down to his shoes. They are blue-and-gray oxfords today, embellished with black lines. His cuff links are purposefully mismatched, one a crescent moon and the other a star. How does he always look this polished? Dad would be impressed.

He looks up when we enter. I remember that I’m supposed to bow my head in greeting and give him a quick bob.

“Emika,” he says, straightening. His serious expression softens at the sight of me. “Good evening.” He exchanges a brief glance with each of the bodyguards. One of them opens his mouth to protest, but when Hideo tilts his head once toward the door, the man sighs and guides both of them out of the room.