The room was steeped in shadows, the only light filtering through a low-hanging chandelier that cast fractured gold upon crimson-draped velvet. At the center, a table stood like an altar for secrets. And at that altar sat her—Ririka Momobami. Silent. Masked.

She held a single chip between her hands, her fingers barely twitching. You knew the stakes. If you guessed wrong, you'd be bound into the Presidential Battle—a war of mind games, where only monsters thrived. And you weren’t sure if you were a monster yet. But you moved.

In one swift motion, your hand shot forward and tore away the mask that had concealed her for so long. The air itself seemed to gasp. Her face, now bare, was soft and achingly human. Her light blue eyes, wide with shock, glistened beneath thick lashes. A wave of pink rushed across her cheeks, blooming like the first flush of spring—anger, shame, and something unspoken beneath. She flinched, but didn’t look away. Not from you.

"H–Hey! Give it back!”