They Would Be Best Friends

They would be best friends

Bingo at the match factory - Bandaimon

A/N: Been meaning to write a fic about these silly Billy’s! I adore side games and ten of clubs is def one of my faves so I did this!

The clamor of fireworks cracked like gunshots above the city, but in the cracked-tile silence of the subway bathroom, Sunato Banda didn't flinch.

He had escaped. After rotting in that cell for years, betrayed by the very world he once smiled with—he was free. The laughter slipped out of him like smoke, low and sharp. No guards. No sirens. No one. Just the fizz and pop of distant celebration and the hiss of broken pipes.

He made his way to his old apartment, a crumbling tenement that hadn’t changed. No one had claimed it. The world had tried to erase Sunato Banda, but it had failed.

He swapped out the prison uniform for a soft denim button-up and worn jeans. They smelled like dust and memories. He stood in the half-light, soaking in the feel of freedom when the old television in the corner flickered on. Static danced. Then—an arrow. A word.

"Game."

A smirk tugged at his mouth. The screen blinked again, showing coordinates. Curiosity lured him more than logic ever could.

He followed.

The match factory loomed like a forgotten cathedral, broken windows and brick dusted in moonlight. Inside, cold silence. But he wasn’t alone.

She was there.

Daimon Hinako. Red hair like flame. Blazer sharp enough to draw blood. She still had that loan shark swagger, but her eyes were colder now.

The last time he saw her, she was filing divorce papers after discovering the truth: that her husband had a thing for murder. Four women. Maybe more.

“Daimon,” he whispered.

She didn’t answer.

A third girl—young, too young for this—stood by them. Ten others in total. All strangers. All here for the same reason: the screen had called.

The game explained itself with a robotic monotone that made Banda’s skin tingle.

"Difficulty: 10 of Clubs. Game: Bingo at the Match Factory."

Rules:

Twenty-five rooms in a 5×5 grid.

Each room, except the center, hides a number.

Find numbers. Complete a bingo.

Each player has nine matches.

The factory is in complete darkness.

Run out of matches… Game Over.

"Game Over" meant lasers.

"Game Clear" only occurs when a full row, column, or diagonal is completed by the group.

Banda chuckled again. A death game. Of course. This world always had a twisted sense of humor.

The factory swallowed them in shadow. The first match flared—light like a gasp. A number scratched onto a wall: G-47.

Each step was a gamble. Rooms twisted like labyrinths. Shadows whispered. Two players used all their matches too fast. The scream came first. Then the burn. A flash of red, then silence.

It wasn’t a game for the anxious. Banda moved slow. Precise. He watched others waste flame on nothing. But Daimon—sharp as ever—counted her steps, rationed her fire, memorized the grid like she memorized debts.

Together, with the girl who barely said a word, they worked. Tension thick like oil, but they survived.

Game Clear.

Three remained.

Seven did not.

Outside, the moon hung low. Daimon didn’t look at Banda—just walked past him, her pace sharp, as if standing near him was poison.

“Daimon—” he called, “I kept thinking about you, you know. In that cell.”

She didn’t stop. Just raised her hand in a half-wave, half-warning.

“You’re not the only one who’s obsessed,” he whispered after her.

She thought she could avoid him.

But Banda knew the game wasn’t over. Not even close.

And they’d see each other again— much sooner than she thought.

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