Rahul remembered it like it had just happened—because, for him, it had.
The smoky air of the Kokubuncho den, deep in Sendai's underbelly. The low buzz of voices, the clack of shuffled cards, and somewhere in the background, Eminem's gritty voice echoing off stained walls—"You better lose yourself in the music, the moment…"—blaring from a pirated speaker setup near the makeshift bar.
He and Anay had been gaijin ryuugakusei—foreign students. Young enough to break the rules without serious consequence, old enough to believe they were untouchable. The Japanese locals overlooked things with a sort of exasperated amusement. Until they didn't.
They had been raking in small wins, Anay grinning like a devil, coaching Rahul through poker tells and deck rhythms, until someone noticed their pattern.
The men in suits didn't smile.
Anay tried to run. But his flat feet clipped the step outside the back door. They didn't make it far.
It wasn't the Yakuza that scared Rahul most—it was the cops who picked them up moments later. Lucky for them, the officers were young, tired, and thankfully not interested in ruining two international students' lives. They were let off with a sharp warning, released only because neither had yet turned twenty—not yet hatachi, still minors by Japanese law.
But the real punishment came days later, when the university administration called home.
His mother's voice over the phone—cracked, trembling, equal parts fear and disappointment.
"There are already so many problems, Rahul… Why this?"
That was the day he promised her. No more gambling.
But he hadn't made that promise yet. Not in this life.
—
"So, poker?"
Rahul's voice was calm, but Anay's eyes had already narrowed.
Something in his posture stiffened.
"Hey… are you…" Anay tilted his head, glancing around. "You !? Some undercover khaki boy?"
Rahul blinked. "What?"
"CID? ACP Pradhyuman?" Anay snapped back, lowering his voice. "You one of those uptight paisa agents trying to bust games?"
Rahul raised both hands. "Relax. I'm just a student."
Anay stepped back. "Yeah? You look half firang, talk smooth, know Eminem word for word, and ask about poker with that look in your eye? Nah. You're a setup."
Before Rahul could respond, Anay chucked his paper cup into the street and bolted.
He made it about five steps before his foot clipped the base of the coffee cart, sending the entire thing crashing down in a glorious metallic symphony—steel tumblers, kettles, milk sachets, and scalding liquid flying in every direction.
The stall owner—a pot-bellied man with a paan-stained frown—looked ready to murder someone.
Rahul sighed.
"Sorry, Anna," he muttered in Kannada, digging into his pocket. He pulled out ₹1,200—nearly half his stipend—and handed it over without flinching.
The owner grunted, took the cash, and turned to kick Anay, who was now rubbing his shin with a scowl.
"Goobe nan magane!" he growled, pointing a greasy finger. "Next time you run, run far."
Rahul walked over to Anay, who was still nursing his pride. He offered a hand.
Anay hesitated. Then took it.
"Still got flat feet," Rahul muttered.
Anay blinked, suspicious again. "You sure you're not a cop?"
"I just paid off your mess. That look like police work to you?"
Anay studied him for a long moment. Then nodded slowly.
"Alright," he said. "There's a game. Not hostel nonsense. Big money. Real cards. Real danger."
Rahul smiled. "That's the kind I'm looking for."