Scene Shift: Tokyo, Japan
The scene transitions to the dazzling neon lights of a high-end underground casino nestled in the heart of Tokyo. Amidst the clinking of chips and the muffled hum of excited chatter, a 19-year-old teenager named Ryota Yamadera sat at a game table, exuding an air of casual confidence.
Unlike the others engrossed in poker or blackjack, Ryota had chosen an unusual table—UNO. But this wasn't your friendly living room game. Here, even a lighthearted card game had been twisted into a high-stakes gamble. In front of him lay a bet of 100 TGACS, the equivalent of $18,000 USD—a staggering amount for a single round.
The tension at the table was thick as the final card hit the pile. Ryota leaned back in his chair, a lazy smirk forming on his lips.
He had won.
But his victory wasn't met with cheers. Instead, his opponent—an older man in his late 30s, with sweat glistening at his temples—stood up abruptly, fury in his eyes. He grabbed Ryota by the collar, his voice shaking with accusation.
"You cheated! Don't lie—you were watching me the whole time! You saw my cards, didn't you?!"
Ryota didn't flinch. His calm, analytical gaze bore into the man.
"If I were cheating," he said coolly, "I would've already been caught. What I did was observe. Your facial cues, your expressions—especially the way you acted indifferent at the exact moments you were panicking. That was enough."
The man looked stunned for a moment, trying to process the words. Then he spat back:
"Then why the hell didn't you play poker like everyone else? Why UNO?!"
Ryota slowly stood up, brushing off his jacket.
"Because poker's gotten boring," he said simply. "UNO gives more room for chaos—and I like chaos."
He turned away without another word, walking off as if the entire encounter had been nothing more than a passing thought. But just as he reached the exit, the casino's atmosphere abruptly shifted.
A faint hiss.
The scentless spread of sleeping gas filled the air.
Ryota's expression froze for a brief second before his knees buckled. One by one, gamblers and staff slumped over their tables or fell to the ground—unconscious.
Just like countless others across the globe, Ryota had been caught.
Black-masked figures in pitch-black uniforms entered swiftly and silently. The bodies—now limp—were carried outside and loaded into matte-black, untraceable vans. Ryota was no exception. His arms were bound, a blindfold tightly wrapped around his eyes, noise-canceling earphones pressed to his ears, and his mouth sealed with thick tape.
As the van pulled away into the night, an extra dose of gas was released into the vehicle—ensuring that not even the sharpest mind could regain consciousness.
The organization had struck again.