"Back to you, at the studio!"
CLICK.
The TV screen faded to black, the final image lingering Ethan Albarado lifting the game ball to the sky under the golden lights of Midtown Arena.
In a sleek high-rise office above the city, surrounded by polished marble floors and enormous windows revealing the neon pulse of downtown, a White-haired teenager leaned back in a leather chair. A subtle grin curved across his lips. His sharp blue eyes reflected the screen's last flicker.
He looked no older than 15. His hair was swept back in a loose, practiced mess — effortlessly noble. His sports jacket hung off one shoulder, and a gold ring glittered on his finger, marked with a strange emblem: Ω.
"You really did it, huh… Ethan Albarado."
He sounded amused. But it wasn't mockery.
It was acknowledgment.
A king recognizing another piece rising on the board.
A quiet knock.
"Sir," said a voice behind him.
