Final Fantasy VIII: Rules of War
Martine laid a card on the table and Irvine drew a sharp breath at the result. The lounge they sat in was quiet with the late hour. The creak of Martine's chair as he rocked back was sharp and startling. The smug look on his face made Irvine's pulse race.
"I'm not used to having students that can excel at nothing," Martine said.
Irvine didn't reply.
The cards spread on the table, the pattern spelling out his failure without words. He didn't understand how anyone could be expected to win their first game against the best player in Galbadia Garden.
"You're young, Kinneas—you'll learn." Martine collected his winnings, but Irvine couldn't care about the card taken. He hadn't had the time to get attached and it would be pointless; the cards weren't a game here. Martine left him in the silent room with no farewell, boots sharp on the linoleum.
Cards, he thought, were war.