Malachi, their third teammate, simply nodded his silent approval, his dark eyes never leaving the board. I still couldn't tell if he was deeply invested in their aggressive strategy or contemplating the existential emptiness of board games as a metaphor for the futility of human ambition. With him, it could genuinely go either way.

Team Queens was perhaps the most fascinating to observe, and not just because of the sheer aesthetic contrast they presented.

Isabelle managed to make sitting cross-legged on a floor cushion look like she was holding court on a throne. Everything about her posture screamed royalty—the straight back, the lifted chin, the way she held their property cards like they were royal decrees. Each acquisition and decision was made with the kind of regal certainty usually reserved for monarchs declaring war or choosing their heirs.

"The Railroads provide consistent, if modest, returns," she commented, her voice carrying the weight of ancient wisdom, as if she were sharing profound truths about the nature of commerce and power. "Unlike the utilities, which are subject to the fickle whims of dice probability and therefore beneath our concern."

Skylar lounged beside her in a sprawl that looked deliberately designed to be the opposite of Isabelle's perfect posture. She was draped across her cushion like a cat that had claimed the warmest spot in the house, her indigo hair falling across her face as she inspected her nails with the bored attention of someone watching paint dry.

"Can we just fast-forward to the part where we crush everyone's dreams and count their tears as our victory tokens?" she drawled, her voice dripping with theatrical boredom. "All this property acquisition is tedious."

"Patience is a virtue," Isabelle replied without missing a beat.

"Patience is boring," Skylar countered.

Soomin, their third member, looked like she wanted to disappear into her oversized fox-print pajamas entirely, or possibly into another dimension where board games didn't exist and strangers didn't expect her to speak. She squeaked something completely inaudible whenever it was her turn to roll, her hands trembling as if the dice might suddenly develop teeth and bite her for daring to touch them.

Every time she had to make a decision, her face colored to match her pink hair, and she looked around the table like she was searching for permission to exist.

"You're allowed to breathe, you know," Skylar told her, finally looking up from her nails with something that might have been concern on someone who actually expressed conventional emotions. "The dice don't smell fear." A pause. "The players do, but the dice are neutral."

That didn't seem to help. If anything, Soomin hunched smaller, her shoulders rising toward her ears.

And then there was Team Disaster: Emi, Raphael, and Marco. Watching them attempt to cooperate was like watching a train crash in slow motion—you knew it was coming, you knew it would be horrible, and you couldn't look away.

Their strategy meetings resembled hostage negotiations conducted by people who'd never actually seen a hostage negotiation and were just guessing based on action movies.

"We need to buy properties to make money," Raphael insisted, pounding his fist on the floor hard enough to make the entire board jump. Several houses fell over. "It's simple. More properties equals more money equals we win."

"Yes, but we need to be strategic about which ones we acquire," Emi countered, her voice taking on that patient tone people used when explaining things to small children or golden retrievers. "We can't just buy everything we land on. We need to focus on completing sets so we can build houses and—"

"BORING!" Raphael interrupted. "Strategy is just a fancy word for being scared to go all in!"

"Guys, guys," Marco intervened, his massive hands spread in a placating gesture that somehow made him look like he was trying to calm two wild animals. His expression was earnest, almost pleading. "It's just a game! We're here to have fun! To bond as a team!"

Both Raphael and Emi turned to look at him with expressions that suggested "fun" was not only the least of their priorities but possibly a completely foreign concept they'd never encountered before.

"Fun is for people who don't care about winning," Raphael growled.

"Winning is fun," Emi added, and for a moment, they were in perfect agreement before immediately going back to glaring at each other about property acquisition strategy.

Marco sighed, the sound of a man who'd made a terrible mistake and was only now realizing how terrible.

As the game progressed through its brutal turns and increasingly tense property negotiations, Carmen shifted her position, ostensibly to get a better view of the board. This maneuver resulted in her essentially draping herself across my lap, her weight warm and substantial against my thighs, soft curves pressing against places that made thinking about Monopoly strategy significantly more difficult.

Her head lolled against my shoulder, and her breath tickled my ear with each soft exhale—warm puffs of air that smelled like sake and something sweeter. One of her arms wrapped around my torso with the casual possessiveness of someone who'd completely forgotten that personal space was supposed to exist.

"We should buy Park Place," she murmured, her voice husky and half-asleep, her one visible eye barely open. "Blue is pretty."

"Blue is statistically the least landed-on property group due to its position after Jail," Juan corrected without even opening his eyes, somehow simultaneously playing the game and napping.

"But it's pretty," Carmen insisted with the stubborn logic of the thoroughly drunk. She reached across me to point at the board, her finger wavering as she tried to focus on which square was actually Park Place.

This motion caused her already precariously buttoned shirt to gape open even further, providing me with a direct, unobstructed view down into black lace and generous curves that would have made a less composed man choke on his own spit, or possibly his own tongue.

This is fine, I thought with the desperate calm of someone lying to themselves. This is a normal teacher-student bonding exercise. In the Yakuza, we'd all be naked in a hot spring by now, so really, this is downright professional by comparison. I'm being remarkably restrained.

I should get a medal.

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