Shibuya Crossing was a living chaos, an explosion of human pixels in an ultra-high-resolution open world.
Hundreds of people, long shadows stretched under the neon lights, packed together waiting for the red light, forming a solid wall that completely hid the asphalt beneath.
I was right in the middle of it, black hoodie pulled up to blend in, feeling like an NPC in that endless sea of anonymous faces.
Despite my Pantera Grigia nickname, here I was invisible—just another tourist swept up in the current.
The light turned green, an electronic beep rang out, and the crowd surged forward in perfect unison, like a synchronized wave, quick precise steps brushing past one another without ever colliding.
Tokyo had some invisible internal rhythm that all the locals seemed to follow instinctively, as if it were hard-coded into their urban DNA. I, on the other hand, fumbled along, dodging elbows and bags with clumsy moves.
The air was cool for summer, thick with the smell of wet asphalt from a storm that had passed hours before I arrived, mixed with the tempting aroma of soy sauce drifting from some nearby restaurant and a faint trace of smog.
The neon lights—red, blue, purple—reflected off the leftover puddles, creating a glowing carpet that turned the street into a full-on cyberpunk scene.
Giant billboards advertised idols with perfect smiles, colorful packs of instant ramen, and new anime whose kanji titles I could only recognize from the artwork.
As I walked, my stomach growled loudly, a constant rumble that had been with me since the airport.
"I'm starving," I thought, realizing the jet lag had completely messed up my sense of time.
I had left the energy bars in my backpack back at the hotel, and honestly, I didn't even want them—I wanted to try some real Japanese food.
I wandered through Shibuya's side streets. Konbini like FamilyMart and Lawson, karaoke bars leaking off-key voices belting out J-pop hits, internet cafés—everything was still open, a sharp contrast to Trento, where the city shuts down after midnight.
The hunger built with every step. I scanned around for the best spot to eat well without spending a fortune, steering clear of the tourist traps with their jacked-up prices.
Two blocks from the main crossing, I finally spotted it: a food truck glowing like a checkpoint, parked in a small side square ringed by tall buildings. "I'll eat here," I decided.
White and orange neon lights wrapped around it as grill smoke rose lazily into the air. The intense smell of charred meat hit me immediately.
I walked up to the truck, run by a couple in their sixties.
The woman, with a warm smile and deep laugh lines that told stories of years of joy, stood at the register in a faded apron.
Her husband, apron stained with sauce, flipped skewers on the grill with millimeter precision that would put pro Osu! players to shame.
The kanji on the menu board above the counter were a total mystery to me—I could only make out basic hiragana and katakana—but the photos spoke for themselves, and for someone as hungry as I was, that was plenty.
The heat from the coals warmed my face against the cool night air, and the sizzle of the meat was a hypnotic soundtrack.
"Hello," I said in English, voice hesitant, hoping they would understand.
The woman tilted her head, puzzled but curious, and murmured something in Japanese to her husband.
He turned from the grill, smoke drifting across his face, and fired back a rapid string of words that to me sounded like a wall of kanji with no subtitles.
"Okay, don't panic," I thought as he kept talking.
I pulled out my phone, opened Google Translate, and recorded myself in Italian: "Hello, could I have those chicken skewers?"
I held the phone toward the couple and let the app do the talking, playing the Japanese audio.
The woman's eyes widened for a second, then her face broke into a huge smile as she pointed to the panel with the photo of chicken skewers.
"Ah! Yakitori!" she exclaimed, voice warm, nodding enthusiastically like we had just cracked a puzzle.
I nodded hard, suddenly feeling less like a clueless tourist and more like an adventurer who had cleared a side quest. "Nice one, Google—you're the MVP tonight."
The man prepared a white styrofoam tray, sliding three steaming skewers straight off the grill and drizzling them with thick, dark brown sauce.
"Hyaku yen," the woman said, pointing to the price on the panel: 100 yen.
A grin slipped across my face. "Fifty cents? In Italy you'd pay four times that for a coffee," I thought, stunned at how cheap it was.
Then disaster struck. I dug through my pockets, blood turning to ice.
"Shit, I didn't withdraw any yen at the airport," I realized, remembering I only had my Italian debit card, which wasn't enabled for international payments.
To make it worse, the truck had a clear sign: "Cash only", in kanji and English—no cards, no apps. Even if my card had worked, it wouldn't have helped.
I was about to stammer apologies and slip away like an idiot when my fingers brushed something cold and metallic at the bottom of my pocket.
The 100-yen coin China had given me as a good-luck charm. I pulled it out, its smooth edge catching the light. "China, you're my savior."
I handed the coin to the woman, and she took it with a small formal bow.
"Arigatou gozaimasu," I said as she passed me the warm tray, hoping I hadn't butchered the pronunciation.
She nodded, smile growing even wider. "Arigatou," she replied, adding something in Japanese that sounded like a kind wish.
I sat on a low wall near the truck and picked up a skewer.
The first bite was pure explosion: juicy, tender chicken melting in my mouth, sweet-salty sauce warming my throat, smoky flavor tickling my nose.
I chewed slowly, savoring every bite, while Shibuya throbbed around me—laughter from a group of guys spilling out of a nearby bar, a J-pop song leaking from an electronics store.
I finished the skewers in minutes, licking my fingers like a kid. But hunger wasn't the only problem; the lesson was crystal clear: no cash, no Tokyo.
In Italy, I was used to paying for everything with my phone—my card was saved in Google Pay, always ready to tap.
Here, without having activated it for international payments, I felt like a total noob with zero gear.
I pulled out my phone and typed into the Discord server for my Italian Osu! community, a packed channel where everyone was waiting for updates—not just on the game, but on my whole trip. I was the only Italian player who had qualified.
«Hey guys, just ate yakitori from a food truck in Shibuya! 100 yen, big thanks to China for the coin! Hunting for an ATM now, then more exploring.»
Replies flooded in almost instantly:
«No problem. Yakitori in Shibuya? You're basically a local already!» Pego_pro wrote, tossing in a ramen bowl emoji.
«I'm starving just reading that! Send pics of the skewers next time!» Zenchidori commented.
«Meanwhile I'm eating cold pasta at home. Go destroy everyone at the tournament!» RhythmSlayer99 added, attaching a photo of the carbonara he had made yesterday, now sadly defrosted and looking pretty grim.
I stood up, pulled the hood back on, and headed out under the neon.
An ATM glowed a block away, its English sign standing out among the kanji.
I slid in my Italian debit card: the touchscreen showed my balance of 2500€, savings I had scraped together from birthday cash and Twitch donations during streams.
I had already figured out that random city ATMs couldn't enable cards for international payments—I would have to go to an actual branch for that.
I decided to withdraw and convert 100 euros into roughly 17,000 yen, just to avoid getting stuck again in a place that wouldn't take cards.
Now I needed to find a bank open at this hour to activate international payments, or I would be stuck relying only on cash.
I wandered Shibuya's alleys for half an hour, a maze of light and shadow where every turn brought something new.
Every bank seemed closed until Google Maps came through again: an international branch open 24/7, twenty minutes away on foot.
Staff were only there from eight in the morning to seven at night, but I didn't need them—I just needed an ATM.
I reached the branch. The lobby opened through a revolving door that unlocked only after inserting the card and passing facial recognition.
Inside it was quiet, lit by cold LED lights, with advanced ATMs that looked like spaceship consoles and offered way more options than the one I had used earlier.
I selected Italian from the multilingual menu, entered my PIN, scanned my passport, and followed the steps.
After a buzz and a few tense seconds, the screen flashed green: «Your card has been enabled for international payments.»
"Mission accomplished," I thought, satisfied.
On the way back to the hotel I passed a 7-Eleven, its white, red, green, and orange lights slicing through the night like a beacon.
"Better grab some water—I can't survive on the hotel's free energy drinks," I decided, remembering I had been chugging Red Bull and Monster all year for training sessions.
Going without them for a week would probably do me some good.
I stepped inside the konbini; the familiar, welcoming ding of the bell sounded, and cool air conditioning mixed with the smell of packaged snacks wrapped around me.
The shelves were paradise: triangular onigiri wrapped in nori, ready-to-go sushi bento boxes, stacks of manga magazines by the register, even a gadget section.
I grabbed two one-liter bottles of mineral water, cold from the fridge.
At the register, the cashier—a girl in her early twenties with a spotless uniform and black hair tied in a ponytail—scanned the items.
To avoid any awkwardness, I stayed quiet, handing over exact change: 200 yen, the price shown on the digital display.
She took the bills with a small bow, gave me the receipt with a soft "Arigatou gozaimasu," and I nodded on my way out without a word.
Communication level: 1, but at least I had water.
That night, wandering Shibuya, I realized something: food from trucks and konbini was cheap—unbelievably cheaper than what I was used to in Italy.
For example, sandwiches here cost about 200 yen, roughly 1.15 euros; back home I paid around 2.75 euros—more than double.
I got back to the Cerulean Tower Tokyu Hotel at four in the morning, after a walk that had checked off everything I needed and stretched my legs after twelve hours on a plane.
In the lobby, Jessica greeted me with a smile—she seemed genuinely glad to see me. She had spent the last few hours alone, probably bored; no one came in or out at that hour.
"Welcome back, Mr. Iori," she said, voice bright. "Did you enjoy your time out there?"
"Yeah," I answered, pulling down my hood and holding up the water bottles like trophies. "okyo's unreal, even though I spent half the night looking for a bank…"
She laughed, a clear sound that cut through the empty lobby. "Smart move getting water. The minibar only has energy drinks and soda."
Then, with a small smile: "Heading up to rest now?"
"I'll try," I said. "Jet lag has completely thrown off my schedule. Plus, tomorrow they're picking me up at eight for the pre-tournament meeting. I need to get at least a couple of hours of sleep."
"Then I'll see you tomorrow evening," she replied, a spark of curiosity in her eyes. "My shift ends before eight. Good luck!"
"Thanks," I said, feeling my face heat up a little at the interest. I took the elevator up, the soft ding echoing through the empty corridors, and returned to my room on the 35th floor.
In the room I collapsed onto the sofa by the window, Shibuya glittering below, the crossing still swarming with life.
My Wacom sat there in its black case on the nightstand, ready for the World Cup—I touched it, picturing the maps waiting for me.
Just thinking about the top 32 players in the world, including monsters like Mrekk with his legendary star records, made my heart pound, a rush of excitement mixed with pure terror.
I set my alarm for seven, giving myself time for a shower, breakfast, and some mental prep, then closed my eyes while the city throbbed beyond the glass.