The PayPal notification blinked at 2:14 a.m.
+$200.00 USD received from ArenaFort Tournaments.
It was a small number to most people — the cost of a new pair of shoes or a weekend dinner. But for Ayanokoji Kiyotaka, it wasn't money.
It was proof.
Not that he was capable. He had always known that.
No — this was proof that he could survive on his own terms. Outside the White Room. Outside his father's reach. Through skill. Through control. Through anonymity.
The next move had to be careful.
He never withdrew the money directly. Instead, he routed it through a chain of digital wallets — Monero, then converted through a trusted crypto exchange into Bitcoin, and finally into a burner card he'd set up under a false name.
He'd already studied the U.S. financial system before arriving. Bank tracking. Spending thresholds. KYC protocols. He would never spend more than $600 in any one place. Never online with his real IP. Never twice at the same store in the same week.
---
The first purchase was a used gaming laptop — modest, portable, with a high refresh rate and a 3060 GPU. Paid in crypto via a marketplace that specialized in gray-market hardware. It arrived in a plain box with no return address.
He disassembled it before powering it on.
Checked for firmware implants, foreign drivers, hidden scripts. Only then did he wipe it, reinstall the OS with a custom image, and configure his VPN tunnels through Switzerland and Iceland.
The laptop wasn't for comfort.
It was a weapon.
---
The second purchase was more practical: a set of SIM cards and prepaid phones, each loaded with small balances and different area codes. He gave no one the numbers. Each was registered to a different fake identity.
They weren't for talking.
They were for disappearing, in case the need arose.
---
Eric noticed the changes.
"Dude, didn't you just say you were broke? Now you've got, like… gamer tech?" he asked one night as Kiyotaka was installing OBS plugins.
"I sold some old gear," Kiyotaka lied.
Eric didn't press. Americans were nosy, but not thorough. They lost interest when details got boring.
Kiyotaka kept it that way.
---
For two weeks after the tournament, Kiyotaka didn't stream.
He didn't want attention yet — not until he could control every variable: bitrate, IP routing, Twitch latency, audio levels, OBS hotkeys, stream alerts, Twitch chat filters, VOD settings.
This wasn't just a Twitch channel.
It was a system.
He designed everything from scratch. Dark, minimalist overlays. No webcam feed. No voice chat. No donation alerts. Just a smooth, cold interface with gameplay only.
But even that wasn't enough.
---
He used part of his winnings to purchase silence.
He found a freelance hacker — someone with a reputation for wiping digital trails, not asking questions. He paid $90 in Bitcoin for a one-time scan and removal of all metadata connecting his gamer tag to his local machine, IP, and Discord history.
It was a small investment — but vital.
He couldn't afford to leave footprints. Not yet.
---
The third purchase was emotional — the closest thing he allowed himself to a desire.
Noise-canceling headphones. High-end.
Not because he needed better sound.
Because, sometimes, he wanted silence that wasn't chosen for him.
In the White Room, silence was control. It was punishment. It was isolation.
Now, it was his.
---
With $42 left on the burner card, he bought a used wristwatch from a local pawn shop — analog, no smart features. It was cheap, scratched, and probably older than him.
But it ticked.
Steady. Predictable. Mechanical.
And somehow… calming.
---
That night, as the city outside buzzed in half-sleep — cars, sirens, distant voices — Kiyotaka sat at his desk. The new laptop glowed softly. OBS was armed. Twitch was open.
His mouse hovered over the "Start Stream" button.
He paused.
The room was still. Every measure had been taken. Every risk accounted for.
He clicked.
Live.
The screen displayed nothing but gameplay — crisp, calculated, surgical.
One viewer joined. Then two. Then fifteen.
Chat was quiet. Then someone typed:
> "Who is this guy?"
"He's not human."
"This has to be pre-recorded."
"Low-key terrifying."
Kiyotaka read it all with passive eyes.
Not because he cared about the praise — but because it meant they were watching.
And if the world was watching…
Then his father would soon be watching too.
Which was exactly the plan.
---