Morning came too fast.
Ren didn't remember falling asleep.
One moment he had been staring at the ceiling, the Invitation Token turning between his fingers like a silent compass. The next, pale gray light was seeping through the curtains, flattening the shadows in his room.
His body moved before his thoughts did.
He sat up abruptly.
His heart was already beating faster than normal.
Not from fear.
From anticipation.
Today.
It's really today.
For a few seconds he simply remained there, sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees. The room felt smaller in daylight. Less dramatic. Less cinematic. Just cracked paint. Cheap furniture. A desk with an aging laptop.
Nothing about it suggested the beginning of something important.
And yet—
He could feel it.
Under his ribs.
A steady hum.
Ren stood.
He dressed quickly, pulling on the first clean clothes he found. A plain black shirt. Faded jeans. Sneakers that had seen better days.
Nothing flashy.
Nothing expensive.
He didn't want to stand out.
Or rather—
He didn't know yet if standing out was dangerous or advantageous.
In the bathroom, he splashed cold water onto his face.
The shock helped.
He looked up.
His reflection stared back.
Same messy hair.
Same thin frame.
Same face.
But his eyes—
They looked different.
Wider.
Sharper.
Alert in a way they hadn't been yesterday.
"You look ridiculous," he muttered through a mouthful of toothpaste. "Like you actually think something amazing's about to happen."
The reflection didn't argue.
Ren leaned closer to the mirror, studying himself the way he would study an opponent.
Micro-tremors in his jaw.
Breathing slightly elevated.
Calm down, he told himself. Don't get carried away.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth anyway.
"…Still," he said quietly, foam sliding down his chin, "today's gonna be insane."
He brushed faster than usual.
Rinsed.
Wiped his face with a towel.
His movements were efficient—but not rushed.
He didn't want to feel rushed.
Breakfast barely registered. He chewed automatically, eyes drifting toward the small table where the white token rested.
Cold.
Unassuming.
Dangerous.
He picked it up and slid it into his pocket.
The weight felt disproportionate to its size.
As soon as he stepped outside, the city greeted him with its usual indifference.
Cars.
Voices.
Footsteps.
Nothing in Tokyo suggested that something significant was about to unfold.
Ren raised his hand and flagged the first taxi he saw.
The door opened with a soft mechanical click.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
"Imperial Hotel Tokyo," Ren replied, attempting casualness.
He failed.
The driver gave him a brief glance through the mirror.
No comment.
The car pulled into traffic.
Ren leaned back into the seat.
His fingers slipped into his pocket.
The token rotated between them.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Every time his thumb traced the engraved surface, his chest tightened slightly.
Poker, he thought.
Real poker.
Not avatars.
Not usernames.
Not artificial delay bars.
Real faces.
Real pressure.
Real consequences.
The taxi weaved through traffic.
Glass buildings reflected the sky.
Billboards flickered.
Pedestrians moved in orderly streams.
Ren's thoughts drifted to last night.
Fujiro.
The gun.
The card slicing through air.
Yoshi.
"Tell them you're coming from Yoshi."
What did that even mean?
Was it a password?
A warning?
Protection?
The taxi slowed.
Then stopped.
"We're here," the driver said.
Ren blinked and looked up.
And froze.
The building loomed above him.
Massive.
Elegant.
Symmetrical.
Glass and steel rising into the morning sky.
The entrance was framed by polished stone. Uniformed staff moved smoothly near the doors. The glass reflected the world with indifferent perfection.
It didn't belong in his life.
"So… this is it," he murmured.
He stepped out of the taxi.
The door closed behind him.
He stood there for a moment, just staring upward.
This wasn't underground.
This wasn't hidden.
This was deliberate.
He instinctively checked his clothes.
I look normal.
Too normal.
He approached the entrance.
Half-expecting—
A guard.
A receptionist.
Someone to stop him and say, "You don't belong here."
No one did.
The doors opened automatically.
"…Huh," Ren muttered. "That's weird."
He stepped inside.
And nearly collided with the crowd.
People.
Too many.
The lobby had transformed.
Men in tailored suits stood beside others dressed casually—jeans, hoodies, designer sneakers.
Women in elegant dresses brushed past women who seemed intentionally underdressed, their confidence sharper than their heels.
Laughter.
Chatter.
Perfume mixing with faint cigarette residue clinging to clothes.
The air felt expensive.
Ren's eyes darted from face to face.
Some nervous.
Some arrogant.
Some bored.
"What is this… a convention?" he whispered.
No one paid him attention.
That was almost worse.
He was invisible here.
Just another body in motion.
He slipped a hand into his pocket and touched the token again.
White.
Around him—
Black.
He noticed it now.
Subtle.
But present.
Small circular tokens being held between fingers.
Most of them black.
Very few white.
A faint ripple of unease traveled through him.
Then—
The lights dimmed.
Not dramatically.
Not completely.
Just enough to pull focus.
A massive screen at the front of the hall flickered to life.
The chatter softened.
A figure appeared.
Crow mask.
Black feathers.
Sharp beak.
Reflective, empty eye lenses.
The crowd reacted instantly.
"What the hell is this?"
"A joke?"
"Let's get out of here."
"Who's the idiot with the crow head, hahaha!"
Ren frowned.
Crow mask…?
The voice came through the speakers.
Distorted.
Smooth.
Controlled.
"Alright. Let's make this clear."
More laughter.
"Shut up, loser!"
"Show your face, anime nerd!"
Ren shifted uneasily.
This could go bad fast.
Then—
Click.
A metallic sound.
Ren turned instinctively.
Guards.
Dozens.
Previously indistinguishable among the crowd.
Black suits.
Earpieces.
Guns raised.
Not pointed randomly.
Positioned precisely.
Calm.
Professional.
The laughter died instantly.
The room froze.
Ren felt his breath stall.
So this isn't a joke.
"Thank you," the masked man continued smoothly. "That helped. Now let me speak."
No interruptions.
No defiance.
Authority had been established.
"As I was saying, I am the organizer of this poker tournament."
Ren felt a chill crawl up his spine.
Not because of the mask.
Because of the control.
"If you're here for casual fun, curiosity, or because someone dragged you along," the voice said coldly, "leave. Now. We don't need you."
Whispers erupted.
"The hell…?"
"Is he serious?"
"I want the next Tsugunari Toma," the organizer continued.
"Or perhaps… the next Masashi Oya."
The names rippled through the crowd.
Even Ren recognized them.
Legends.
Japan's greatest professional poker players.
"I am not interested in amateurs who want a story to tell," the voice continued. "I am interested in talent."
Ren swallowed.
The weight of that word pressed against him.
Talent.
Was he talented?
Or just observant?
"Rules are simple," the masked man said. "Before you ask about the prize—no. You will not hear it today."
Groans echoed.
"But trust me," he added, "you'll love it."
"There will be thirty-two tables running simultaneously, across more than forty rooms in this hotel. Eight players per table."
Ren's mind began calculating automatically.
Thirty-two tables.
Eight per table.
"Two hundred fifty-six players in total."
"Too much math!" someone shouted. "Just let us play!"
The masked man chuckled.
"I like your enthusiasm."
Then—
"As you may have noticed, some of you are carrying white invitation tokens."
Ren's fingers tightened in his pocket.
White.
He looked around more carefully.
Yes.
Most people held black tokens.
Only a few white.
He counted roughly.
Less than ten percent.
So that's what this means…
"Those with white tokens will begin today," the organizer said. "Qualification rounds."
A wave of noise erupted.
"The rest of you may leave. Return tomorrow at the same time. Be prepared. Tomorrow, everyone plays."
People began moving immediately.
Some laughing.
Some annoyed.
Some excited.
"This guy's insane!"
"Yeah, but did you see those women?"
"I don't care how crazy he is—I'm coming back tomorrow."
"How much money do you think this is about…?"
The hall slowly emptied.
The energy shifted.
The space felt larger.
Quieter.
More focused.
Ren remained where he stood.
His pulse thundered in his ears.
Now it begins.
"Now," the masked man said, "for those remaining with white tokens—qualification rules are simple."
Silence.
"Tables of four. Only one advances."
Ren's mouth went dry.
One.
That meant—
Three eliminated immediately.
No safety.
No warm-up.
"I will now announce the first table."
A name flashed on the screen.
"Hiroki Sakamoto."
A blond young man near the front scoffed, spinning a silver ring on his finger.
"So I've gotta play with losers?" he said loudly. "Guess someone's gotta clean up the trash."
Confidence radiated off him.
Not loud confidence.
Controlled arrogance.
Another name appeared.
"Yamamoto Kazuo."
A sharply dressed young man laughed loudly.
"Yeah! Let's go, garbage. I'll buy you all and make you my servants."
Ren winced.
Loud money.
The kind that wanted to be seen.
Then—
"Haruto Kuroda."
Ren froze.
The name struck him harder than the guns had earlier.
Haruto.
Blond.
Athletic.
Calm.
The boy from high school who had always been surrounded by laughter.
So he's here.
Haven't heard about him in a while.
Why is he here?
And then—
"And the final seat—Ren Takahashi."
For a split second, the room blurred.
His name.
Up there.
Displayed.
Public.
Ren swallowed.
…Of course.
His heart pounded harder now.
I'm really playing against Haruto.
Destiny had a twisted sense of humor.
Or maybe—
It was deliberate.
"Guards," the organizer said calmly, "escort them to the waiting rooms until all tables are prepared."
Hands touched Ren's shoulder.
Firm.
Not aggressive.
He exhaled slowly.
Alright.
No more thinking.
No more speculation.
No more analyzing the mask.
Time to play.
As he began walking, flanked by guards, one final thought surfaced.
This isn't underground chaos.
This is structured.
Organized.
Designed.
And I'm already inside it.
The white token felt heavier than ever in his pocket.
But Ren's steps didn't falter.
Because beneath the nerves—
Beneath the uncertainty—
There was something else.
Excitement.
Sharp.
Electric.
Alive.
The real game had begun.