The laptop screen was the only source of light in the room. A cold, artificial blue that colored Ren Takahashi's face and made the shadows seem deeper than they truly were. Outside, everything was quiet. Tokyo was asleep—or at least pretending to be.
The clock in the corner of the screen read 02:47.
Ren didn't blink.
The opponent's cursor trembled slightly. Not much. Just enough to be noticeable to someone who knew where to look.
He's hesitating.
Ren's hand wasn't good. Mediocre, at best. The kind of hand that, under normal circumstances, would force you to play defensively or give up entirely. But poker had never been about cards.
Not for him.
It was about people.
About fear. About pride. About the exact moment someone decides to take a risk… or to run.
The opponent had raised the bet too quickly. An aggressive move, poorly built, rushed. He wasn't confident. He was trying to look confident.
He's bluffing.
Ren rested his elbow on the desk and let his chin fall into the back of his hand. His eyes drifted over the small details: reaction time, bet size, the history of previous rounds. They all told the same story.
A player who wanted to end things quickly.
A player who couldn't stand being forced to think.
Ren raised the bet.
Not by much. Just enough to press on the wound.
The seconds passed. One. Two. Three.
Come on…
The opponent's cursor stopped. Then disappeared.
Fold.
The screen displayed the result. Victory. The numbers updated almost casually.
+12,000 yen.
Ren didn't move.
"Ah… yeah. I won."
His voice was flat. Devoid of even a trace of excitement.
On other nights, that amount would have meant something. A better meal. One more day without obsessively checking his balance. A small sense of control.
Tonight, it was just a number.
He closed the laptop.
The room instantly became darker—more real. Bare walls, an almost empty shelf, an unmade bed. Everything looked exactly like his life: functional, but hollow.
Ren leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.
School tomorrow…
A sigh escaped him involuntarily.
"I don't want to go…"
It wasn't exhaustion. It was disgust. Meaningless classes, teachers talking about the future as if it were guaranteed, classmates laughing at trivial things. Everyone seemed to have time.
He didn't.
I have to find a job tomorrow.
The thought tightened his stomach.
"But I'm not good at anything…"
He said it quietly, as an observation rather than a complaint. He didn't know how to fix things. He didn't know how to sell. He didn't know how to fake a smile. The only thing he was good at was reading people who lied.
But no one hired that.
The money left by his father was running out. Every withdrawal was a reminder that the reserve wasn't infinite. That time was slipping away.
And above all—
Mom…
The image of medical machines surfaced in his mind uninvited. The constant, mechanical sound. Breathing that no longer belonged to a person, but to a machine.
I have to pay for her treatment again tomorrow.
Ren closed his eyes.
For the first time that night, his emotions caught up to him. Not like a violent wave, but like a slow, constant pressure pressing down on his chest.
He didn't know what to do.
Morning came too quickly.
Gray light slipped through the curtains as Ren opened the laptop again. The coffee was bitter, nearly cold. He didn't even remember when he'd made it.
Searches. Listings. Page after page.
Laundry…
— Too little money.
Restaurant…
— I don't want to be a waiter.
Warehouse…
— Hours are too long. I wouldn't make it to the hospital.
Every time he scrolled, he hoped to see something different. Every time, it was the same list of compromises.
"I can't find anything I like…"
Not that he had the luxury of choosing. But every job felt like a promise of exhaustion without reward. Hours lost for sums that would barely cover part of the treatment.
The clock suddenly rang.
Ren flinched.
"Ah… right. I have to go to the hospital."
He closed the laptop and stood up. He opened the closet. On the top shelf, inside a plain box, was the money.
He took it out and counted it mechanically.
Approximately 1,600,000 yen.
There wasn't much left.
"There's not much anymore…"
He said it almost in a whisper. As if speaking louder might make the number shrink even faster.
That money didn't represent security. It represented time. And Ren's time was running out.
He put on his jacket, grabbed his bag, and left.
The air outside was cold. Tokyo was already in motion. Rushing people, focused faces, lives that seemed to have direction.
Ren walked toward the hospital with steady steps, but his mind was far away.
If I could win more…
If I played higher stakes…
The thought was dangerous. He knew it. Poker could offer salvation—or ruin—without warning.
But for a moment, Ren felt something different.
Not hope.
A vague premonition.
He didn't pay attention to it. Ren tightened his grip on the bag and continued on his way to the hospital.