The sun is going down, sending the sky blood-red, turning the world orange-gold, a richer,
more vibrant shade than desert sands. They sit in an office, richer and more luxurious than
any pharaoh ever had; the light comes through glass so big and clear that it's like there's
no wall there at all.
Except for the air, constantly, evenly cool. No night chill touches this place, no summer heat pulls you down.
"It's not like it was," says the thief, looking out over the city.
"If you say so," says Kaiba. It's not like he'd know.