Chapter Text
The Sweet Dreams tavern was unusually crowded and noisy tonight. Judging by the swarm of men coated in coal dust, roaring over jokes about their wives that weren't the least bit funny, and downing the cheapest ale available, the nearby mines must have paid their wages. A pity for the trio of friends tucked into the corner table, who could only sigh each time another wave of slurred laughter erupted from the totally drunk miners.
They stood out against the wild crowd: in the middle sat a girl with pink hair cascading to her shoulders and wide, distrusting blue eyes fixed on the suspicious meat pie dominating the table; a dark-haired young man with a stern expression, nearly glued to his beloved notebook as he scribbled notes, only occasionally glancing up to offer a dry remark; and… her . A girl shrouded in a hooded black cloak adorned with random leather straps and orange accents. Beneath it peeked a plain white blouse, a knee-length skirt neither too voluminous nor too tight, and cream-colored knee-high socks paired with scuffed boots. A turquoise band wrapped around her thigh stood out like a deliberate flourish, while under the hood, silver hair framed delicate features. Her amber eyes, sharp-pupiled and faintly luminous in the shadow of the fabric, gave her the air of a cat peering from the dark.
"Guys, I think it's… alive," said the pink-haired girl, March, prodding the meat with a shaky fork. "Ah! It moved! " She shrieked, nearly knocking the pie off the table had Dan Heng not lunged to catch it.
"Unlikely," he replied flatly, his nose wrinkling. "Unless it's been festering long enough to cultivate its own civilization. Remind me again—whose idea was it to order 'Six Feet Underground'?"
The hooded girl laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of her neck:
"Well… It's the Pumpkin Lantern Festival now! I thought the name was just festive flair! Who'd guess it'd look like someone actually chewed up a corpse and baked it into a crust?"
March sighed, shaking her head with a theatrical slump:
"Let's never let you pick the food again. Like, never in the history of ever."
"Don't worry, Ray," Dan Heng said without glancing up, flipping a page in his notebook. "Statistically, half of humanity has terrible taste. You're in good company."
The silver-haired girl—"Ray"—puffed out her cheeks and crossed her arms, huffing. Oh, sure, blame me. They hadn't uttered a word of protest when she'd pointed at the menu! Now, they acted like they had nothing to do with this tragic choice.
"Fine! You pay next time, geniuses!" She stuck out her tongue before crossing her arms and letting out a quiet "hmph!".
Such lighthearted fights were commonplace among them, but they left a warmth in the heart of the girl whose actual name wasn't Ray—though she sometimes wished it were. Her real identity, Stelle, was a secret locked deep within her. A necessary lie, one that nibbled at her whenever her friends wondered aloud why she disappeared for days without a word.
The hour had long since slipped past midnight. They always met under the veil of darkness when Stelle could slip free from her gilded cage and pretend, for a stolen handful of hours, to be someone ordinary.
"Ray…" March began; she abandoned her fork to swirl her wineglass, her face unreadable. "The festival's tomorrow. You are coming, right? I know you've waited a whole year and all that, but… you're so hard to pin down sometimes."
Her eyes widened, pleading and puppy-like, as if a "no" might kill her. Guilt twisted in Stelle's chest. Oh, how she hated making them worry and wonder about her whereabouts all the time. She wished she could abandon the act and be herself, but for now, "Ray" could only indulge in dreaming about times when it happens.
"Of course!" She ruffled March's pink hair, her smile softening. "I wouldn't miss spider lollipops! Just imagining them—" She licked her lips, a thread of drool nearly escaping. "—that sour punch when you first bite, then the sweet cherry oozing out! And the chocolate legs… It should be considered a crime against humanity that they're only sold during the festival!"
"You'd bankrupt the vendors," March giggled. "I can already picture Ray devouring spiders for breakfast, lunch, and dinner."
"An arachnophobe's fever dream," Dan Heng added drily. "I've got a colony at my place. Need extermination?"
"Ugh, no, thank you! Live spiders are disgusting!"
As if to echo her revulsion, a nearby drunk puked violently. March snorted, jabbing Stelle with her elbow:
"Looks like you've got an ally."
Stelle stiffened. Mocking another's misfortune was unbecoming. She wasn't that sort of person—
Another heave, louder and wetter. This time, a snort burst from Stelle. She clapped a hand over her mouth, murmuring a reflexive "Pardon me" under her breath.
March dismissed it, but Dan Heng's gaze flicked to Stelle, lingering like a blade testing its edge. He turned a page and scribbled faster, the scratch of his pen almost accusatory - it's like telling a joke to a psychiatrist, but instead of laughing, he starts taking notes.
Eventually, the drunk's merciful comrades dragged him outside, letting the crisp autumn air rush in—a relief through the tavern's stench of stale ale, rancid frying oil, and tobacco smoke. Stelle inhaled deeply, the chill finally cleansing her lungs, making her feel born again.
With a slight smile, she carefully picked up a wine glass and took a small sip to check the taste. The girl's nose scrunched up just for a moment: it was bitter and reeked of cheapness. But for a place like this one - it's not surprising. Actually, it's not half as bad as some wine in other taverns. And we're not even talking about the ale those men are drinking... She tried it once and almost puked, not from being drunk but from utter disgust. Even if it's cheap, is it worth it if it tastes like dirt mixed with rotten grass?
Dan Heng kept watching her. She pretended not to notice his lingering gaze every now and then. Once, she'd thought he wanted to say something but was too shy. Now she knew better - Dan Heng is never afraid to share his opinion, not with them. He was an analyst who dissected the world through that notebook. It was weird, but the girls had long since grown accustomed to it and now considered it charming in its own way.
The doors closed soon after—much to Stelle's dismay. It seemed the drunkard's companions, realizing his evening was over, had taken pity and decided to escort him home. A small mercy, at least; no one would further ruin what was already a raucous night. As soon as the miners left, the silence that followed felt like a divine blessing. The other patrons, who hadn't participated in the workers' impromptu revelry, sighed in relief. Only the bartender remained as stoic as ever, betraying neither joy nor disappointment. Nothing seemed to faze him, judging by his eternally stony expression as he mechanically mixed drinks for the guests at the counter.
"Can you believe it? We might actually get to sit and talk in peace now," March sighed, rubbing her temples. "I was starting to wonder what they'd write on my tombstone: Death by miner's breath or Shattered eardrums."
"Try the pie, and we can add food poisoning," Dan Heng shrugged. Stelle burst out laughing—the way he said it with that deadpan expression made it even funnier.
The silver-haired girl glanced around. Now, the tavern resembled the place they'd fallen in love with—soft lighting casting a cozy glow, sturdy wooden tables (some large, some small), plush sofas and armchairs tucked into corner nooks, and walls adorned with patrons' scribbles, cheap auction paintings, and shelves of knickknacks from foreign lands. The large round table at the center, which had recently been occupied by the rowdy miners, was now being swiftly cleaned by a young waitress. Quick as a whip—the men had barely left, and the table already sparkled. Ralph was lucky to have her. The atmosphere lifted immediately; new patrons trickled in—loners sipping solitary drinks while scanning the room, couples lost in their own worlds, groups of friends chuckling over the latest gossip.
Nothing could spoil this night now!—
"Ladies and gentlemen!"
A voice drifted from the staircase—smooth as sinful honey but with an aftertaste of bitterness. Friendly, but only superficially. A veneer of warmth masking mockery. Like a flower luring insects with vibrant colors and sweet nectar, only to snap shut and devour them. Cloyingly sweet, yet poisonous.
The room fell silent, all eyes turning toward the source of the sound. The young man hadn't raised his voice, yet he'd effortlessly commanded attention. Curiosity got the better of "Ray," and she turned to look. The moment her eyes landed on the unfamiliar figure, her heart stuttered, her lips parting slightly in surprise.
The stranger was dressed extravagantly—far too extravagantly for a humble tavern. An emerald-green shirt with gold embroidery at the collar, a daring slit at the chest adding intrigue, and a glittering gemstone nestled just beneath it. A dark waistcoat and jacket with emerald accents, trimmed with white fur. His hands were sheathed in black gloves, the only understated part of his ensemble. Every single element of his outfit was adorned with jewels, as if he were determined to flaunt his wealth. Rings stacked on his long fingers, gold watches and bracelets, straps around his collar, even one around his ankle.
Yet, for all his flamboyance, he exuded mystery. A wide-brimmed black hat with a band of his signature color—emerald—pulled low enough to shade his eyes, which were further hidden behind light-purple tinted glasses. Even the frames seemed to be made of gold. A pendant in the shape of a die hung from his neck, but instead of numbers, each face displayed a different card suit. And on his ears were earrings, asymmetrical ones – one in the shape of a tassel, with a gold frame and an emerald-colored feather; the other was a simple black stud.
His hair was the color of pale wheat, but his eyes remained a secret. The tavern's occupants gaped, silent as ghosts. Only Ralph, the bartender, seemed unfazed, merely glancing over with mild curiosity.
Dan Heng leaned toward the girls, whispering:
"Another merchant with too much money and nowhere to spend it. But this one outshines even the most narcissistic I've seen. I might've heard of him… Let me check."
He began flipping through his beloved notebook.
Stelle, however, didn't share the drunken admiration some of the women nearby were directing at the stranger. She huffed and deliberately looked away. Flashy trinkets didn't impress her—she'd seen enough of them.
"Just showing off," she muttered.
March let out an intrigued "Hmm," a mischievous grin spreading across her face.
"But you have to admit, he's handsome," she whispered, nudging Stelle with her elbow.
"Who let the peacock out of the cage?" Stelle rolled her eyes, ignoring the teasing.
And it seemed the young man reveled in the attention, letting out a playful chuckle as his smirk widened. He took a few steps forward, heading toward the central table. Every eye followed him, glued to his every move.
"I have an offer you can't refuse."
He snapped his fingers, and as if by magic, a dark green cloth spread itself across the table, revealing an array of poker chips, silken pouches, and several gemstones—emeralds, garnets, and a ruby. Stelle's eyes narrowed. Was he seriously proposing… gambling, right here and now, with stakes like these? Most nobles could barely afford games like this, let alone common folk. What could they possibly wager that would match his offer?
"Each pouch holds a hundred gold coins," he declared. "We play All-In—win just a single round against me, and everything you see is yours. Straight poker—no tricks, no cheats. But if you lose…"
Still wearing that self-satisfied smirk, he dropped onto the bench, draping an arm over the backrest and gesturing to the table with his palm:
"You owe me. And how much? That depends on how spectacularly you fail." With two fingers, he plucked a poker chip, flipping it into the air with a flourish. "I'll play anyone—even if you have nothing. I always find a use for losers…"
He caught the chip and, with his other hand, tipped his hat up just slightly, finally revealing a glimpse of his eyes. Sharp. Icy. The kind of gaze that could slice through paper. His smirk twisted into something colder.
"…one way or another."
He opened his palm—where the chip had been a second ago, there was now nothing. His deft fingers moved to a deck of cards, so pristine as if they'd never been touched before, and began shuffling. Even this was a performance—Stelle had never seen anyone handle cards with such effortless skill. He split the deck, tossed halves between his hands as if gravity didn't apply to them, interlaced them seamlessly, and then laid the two halves on the table, riffling them together in one smooth motion.
"Who among you dares to challenge Lady Luck herself?"
For a moment, the room was utterly still. The patrons seemed entranced—by his hands, by the wealth many of them had never seen in their lives, now laid bare before them, taunting them to reach out and take it. People exchanged glances, debating internally. But the blond knew precisely what he was doing, coming to a place where alcohol flowed freely—decisions here wouldn't be nearly as rational as they might be sober.
The most entertaining games were played without limits.
Stelle scoffed, shaking her head. What nonsense. Who in their right mind would agree to such vague terms? He might as well have outright said he'd do whatever he pleased with the losers. Surely no one could be foolish enough to—
"I'll go first, pretty boy!" A middle-aged woman with a sturdy build called out. She'd clearly had more than a few drinks tonight, judging by her glassy eyes and flushed cheeks. "Deal me in."
The blond chuckled, gesturing to the seat across from him.
"Marvelous. I do love bold women."
After a final shuffle, he dealt five cards to each of them facedown. The woman, however, seemed less interested in the cards and more in the man himself, judging by her hungry gaze and the smirk playing on her lips.
"What's your name, boy?"
"Oh, questions already?" He grinned. "First, mine: What's your wager, darling?"
"Cheeky, aren't you…"
Sighing, she reached into the daring neckline of her dress, fishing out a fabric purse and dumping its contents onto the table—a dozen silver coins and a couple of gold ones.
The young man hummed thoughtfully, resting his chin on his hand as he eyed the meager sum compared to his own display. Then his gaze slid over her, pausing on something more interesting.
His playful expression shifted into a more serious one.
"That won't do, sweetheart," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Take off that ring."
The woman blinked, looking down at her hands. There was only one—a wedding band. Probably the most valuable thing she owned: real gold. His eye for such things was sharp.
"Excuse me? My late husband gave me this. It's not for trading."
Silence fell, thick enough to cut with a knife. The tension was palpable—everyone watched, riveted as if this were a staged drama unfolding before them.
The blond slowly lifted his hat. His piercing, glacial stare pinned the woman in place. She shrank back, scowling, a bead of sweat trailing down her temple.
"We play by my rules. No wager, no game. All or nothing."
The quiet was suffocating. It felt like even the woman's nervous gulp and racing heartbeat were audible. Every second under his gaze cranked the pressure tighter. The unease wasn't hers alone—the crowd fidgeted, and Stelle, especially, felt it coil in her chest.
She sensed the danger radiating from this flamboyant gambler. He didn't need to move—his presence alone was a stranglehold.
"Poor thing…" March whispered, frowning. "I think she's about to pass out."
"She knew what she was getting into," Dan Heng said with his usual detachment, though his eyes gleamed with interest. "Did she really think he'd trade fortunes for a handful of silver?"
"You're so cold," March huffed.
"Realistic," he corrected.
Stelle stayed silent. She'd witnessed high-stakes games before—but this wasn't a game. It was a crocodile's maw waiting to snap shut. Anyone who agreed to play had already lost.
The woman finally choked out coherent words:
"Fine... But if I win—I have another condition."
The blond laughed at this bold declaration from someone who'd trembled with fear seconds earlier. Strangely, even his laughter sent chills skittering along the edges of one's soul.
"Now that's intriguing. What condition?"
He idly twisted a ring on his finger. Boredom, perhaps. His practiced smile slid back into place.
"You'll kiss me, pretty boy." She gifted him a hungry grin—likely meant as charming or seductive, but it made even Dan Heng grimace faintly. Thank the gods, she's not aiming at me.
A few patrons snickered; others outright laughed, sharing crude remarks about her with their companions.
The woman wouldn't tolerate it. Her plump face flushed crimson with rage.
"Shut your mouths! Before I rip out your filthy tongues!"
March flinched at the razor-sharp shout.
"She's not joking…" she whispered, clutching her friends' arms. "What a terrifying woman."
The gambler only seemed amused. He chuckled, his smirk taunting:
"Bold. Wonderful. Then we're agreed." He'd acquiesced far too easily.
Is he that confident? Or just insane?
Satisfied, the woman wrestled the ring off her swollen finger and flung it at him— Choke on it written in the motion. Unfazed, he snatched it midair, inspected it, then tossed it toward the gold pouches with an approving nod. The golden band clinked against the wood.
"Splendid." His playful tone returned, that relaxed smile accentuating his handsome features. He definitely was in his element. "Now, the rules. This applies to all who dare play me—listen closely. I won't repeat myself. My time is… prohibitively expensive."
Stelle rolled her eyes. Such a peacock. Everyone was already rapt; he didn't need to emphasize it.
Still, she found herself turning fully now, watching intently. She was 99% certain of this game's outcome. Her mother had adored poker, playing with officials for amusement—or political leverage. Stelle had seen enough games to last a lifetime. As a child, she'd sneak in, mesmerized by those high-stakes performances. Her mother could bluff anyone… and Stelle knew every trick.
But… this blond was different. While the woman's lack of skill was apparent, he radiated overconfidence. Was it a bluff? Stelle's curiosity sharpened. She doubted anyone could surpass her mother, but this might prove entertaining.
The gambler stacked chips into neat towers with fluid motions.
"One deal. Three betting rounds. Chips represent wagers." He slid two stacks of 100 chips—one to her, one to himself. "The goal is simple: leave me chip-less or hold more when we finish. Succeed—take everything."
He swept a hand over the gold and gems.
"But if I…" His fingers lifted the wedding band, spinning it like a prize already claimed. "...win? You'll be grateful your debt ended with trinkets."
The woman swallowed but didn't show it—just nodded. Too proud to admit fear now.
"Game flow: Deal—five cards each. Then, three betting rounds. After each round, you may discard and draw up to three new cards. Finally, the showdown—if no one folds."
He flipped a single chip between his fingers, tossing it hand-to-hand. Explaining rules bored him, but such was the price of playing amateurs.
"Betting rounds: First—I start. Options: Check —pass if no bets; Bet —add chips to the pot; Call —match a bet; Raise —increase it. Understood?"
"I'm not stupid, boy. Get on with it," she snapped, arms crossed. Her expression betrayed she'd grasped half at best. He ignored it. He wouldn't coddle.
"After the first round—draw phase. Discard up to three cards, then draw replacements. Second round— you start betting. After that—another optional draw. Third round—my turn. Then showdown. We compare hands—strongest takes all. I trust you know the rankings? I won't list them."
Stelle tilted her head. Hand rankings were critical—especially in the withdrawal phases. To gloss over them? Unfair, perhaps… yet no one forced her to play. Don't start what you can't finish. It was almost kind that he explained the basics to novices. But therein lay the trap: this game thrived on psychology. A strong hand could be shattered by doubt, luring a player into discarding winners or folding prematurely.
The gambler smiled, but it died before reaching his eyes—still cold behind tinted glass.
"Ah, and my favorite rule: You may fold —surrender your hand. Anytime. But know this…" His voice dripped saccharine menace. "...chips already in the pot? Mine. The longer you hesitate, the costlier cowardice becomes."
The woman balled her fists, jolting upright:
"You calling me a coward?!"
"I implied nothing, darling. But minds wander where corruption festers," he riposted, smirking as his gaze burned through the lenses.
She nearly spat back but bit her lip. Perhaps realizing threats wouldn't faze him.
"Excellent. No more questions." He gathered the deck, fingers poised. "Let's begin."
Finally, he lifted the deck again, discarded the top card, and began dealing. Five cards slid like oil across the green cloth toward the woman, five toward himself. She snatched hers greedily, fanning them to shield them from prying eyes as if they held state secrets. Stelle noted how her heavily penciled eyebrows shot up— a strong hand?
Novices always made the same mistake: they couldn't hide their excitement when dealt high-value cards.
He definitely noticed that… Stelle's thoughts raced. What's your move, gambler?
He barely glanced at his own hand, lifting the corners for a fraction of a second before laying them flat. His face betrayed nothing. Unreadable, as expected. The crowd leaned in—the real spectacle had begun. Potential players finally saw what awaited them.
"First betting round," he sliced through the silence. He took five chips, placing them before him but not yet in the pot. "Bet five." He leaned forward, his glacial stare pinning the woman. "Your turn, darling. Will you check, call, raise… or fold? Cowardice is an option. Still cheap at this point."
She looked ready to wipe that smirk off his pretty face.
"Don't push your luck, handsome. Only the thought of your kiss is holding me back," she shot back, flashing a vulgar wink.
Her opponent only seemed more amused. Chuckling softly, he adjusted his hat, fixing her with an intrigued look.
Before he could reply, she grabbed a fistful of chips—ten—and slammed them into the center. Clatter. "Raise! Stop nickel-and-diming—is your manhood as small as your bets?"
March snorted a laugh. Stelle elbowed her, though she fought her own smile. The tavern erupted—hoots, whistles, applause for her audacity.
The gambler didn't blink. Propping his chin on his hand, he remained unmoved.
"Raise called," he stated flatly. He added five chips to her ten. Pot: 20 chips. "Now, the draw. Up to three cards." He tilted his head. "May your luck prove as generous as your commentary, sweetheart."
She huffed, re-examining her cards. A thoughtful "Hmm" escaped her as she scratched one of her chins.
Stelle sat angled to see the woman's hand: Two Kings—a powerful start. The rest? Garbage: a Two, Seven, and Four, all mismatched suits. Predictably (for a novice), she plucked out the three worthless cards with sweaty fingers and slapped them face down.
"I'm taking three!" she blurted—too loud, betraying her nerves.
He nodded as if expecting this. Discarded the top card of the deck and slid three new ones toward her. She snatched them up, hope blazing in her eyes—until her eyebrows twitched. Disappointment. No miracle: just a Jack of Diamonds, Eight of Clubs, and Three of Spades. Useless alongside her Kings.
"Your draw?" she asked, feigning calm.
The gambler glanced lazily at his hand. What did he hold? No one could tell—he shielded them too quickly. He silently discarded one card, burned another from the deck, and drew a replacement. Barely looked at it before adding it to his hand.
"I'll take one," he said, boredom dripping. His face revealed nothing.
"Second betting round. Your turn." He gestured to the 20-chip pot. "Bet? Or check?"
The woman froze. Two Kings and trash. Even after the draw, nothing changed. Strength? Yes. Guarantees? None.
"I…" She grabbed five chips. Playing safe. "Bet five." She pushed them forward. Her earlier bravado had vanished, laying her weakness bare.
"What's wrong, sweetie? Seems I'm not the only one with… size issues?" he teased. Laughter rippled through the room.
"Shut your pretty mouth," she scowled—but the barb struck home. On impulse, she grabbed five more and hurled them in. "Just wanted to see you squirm, sweetie. Happy now?"
Mistake after mistake… Stelle shook her head, sighing aloud.
"Her emotions just cost her ten chips," Dan Heng murmured. "That could lose her the game." March nodded grimly. Everyone saw it. Even the woman might regret it—but it is too late.
The hatted man hummed a melodic "Hmm," pausing as he studied his own chips. Her emotional imbalance satisfied him. She thought she'd shut him down—her smug smile would soon shatter.
Slowly, he reached for his stack. Not five. Not ten. He began counting out thirty . Methodically. Click. Click. Click. Each chip landed with a soft, deliberate thud . He didn't toss them into the pot. Stacked them into a neat tower. All in tombstone silence—more frightening than any threat.
"Raise." His voice sang the word as the final chip fell into place. His gaze turned predatory. "I see your ten… and raise to thirty." He tapped the table toward her remaining chips. "Your call is twenty-five."
The woman gasped. A buzz swept the room. March and Dan Heng exchanged glances. Stelle's lips parted.
There it is.
The card shark had finally shown his fangs.
Twenty-five. Nearly a third of her chips. The pot now swelled to 55. The woman's eyes darted from her cards to his smiling face to the tower of thirty chips—a silent threat.
"You… you're bluffing," she hissed.
"Perhaps." He shrugged. "Or not. Well? Call? Re-raise? Or…" A weighted pause. "Fold? Think about it well. You'll only lose the twenty already in the pot. Keep sixty for the next betting round. Not too late." His offer sounded like a headsman's mercy.
She clutched her cards. Fire blazed in her eyes—lust, irritation, and greed fused into a hellish cocktail.
"Call!" she exhaled, scraping together twenty-five chips and shoving them violently into the center. Chips scattered; some hit the floor. She didn't care. Pot: 80 chips. She had 60 left. He held 65.
"Accepted." He nodded, eyes narrowing slightly. "Second draw. Up to three cards. Your final chance to turn the tide." His stare pressed down like lead, forcing a nervous gulp.
The woman stared at her cards with such intensity that it seemed she might will them to change—or pray to every god for better draws. She kept the Jack, discarded the Three and Eight, and slammed them face down.
"Change two!" Her voice rasped. She coughed hastily.
A card burned. Two new ones slid toward her. This time, she lifted them tentatively, her face a canvas of naked anxiety. When she fanned them beside her others, her nostrils flared, lips twisting. Her nose twitched and wrinkled.
Pure tragedy.
Her prayers went unanswered—more worthless trash. Arguably worse: Six of Hearts, Three of Diamonds.
This is the end.
The gambler glanced at his own hand, then at her. A smile touched his lips—light, cold.
"No draw." He pushed the deck away and winked. Instead of joy, icy dread washed over her.
The game neared its climax. Breath hung suspended in the tavern. Every eye tracked the card shark's slightest movement, every micro-expression. Was his hand strong? Was it all a bluff? Impossible to tell.
"Third betting round." His velvet voice was a death sentence. "My turn, if I may." He laced his fingers on the table, tilting his head. His gaze slid over her pitiful 60 chips, then locked onto her eyes. She flinched almost imperceptibly but held his stare—pride intact. "I bet…"
A pause. Deliberate. He savored the agony he crafted—the guessing, the dread. His eyes skimmed the room… and lingered for a fractured second on one specific spot .
"He looked at us!" March squeaked, yanking Stelle's sleeve, cheeks flushing.
"You're acting like a celebrity glanced our way," Stelle whispered, giggling.
"Isn't he?" March arched a brow. Stelle just shrugged, offering no contradiction.
The crowd strained. The woman fought to keep her face blank, pretending disinterest. Yet her palms trembled; sweat glistened on her forehead. Her eyes darted from the man to her cards to the chips—searching for salvation.
Finally, the hatted man shattered the silence:
"…Fifty!"
He reached for his stack and pushed forward nearly all of it, leaving only 15 behind. He never broke eye contact, watching her flushed face bleach white. Her lips—once painted crimson, now half-eaten away—parted in silent shock. But the silence didn't last. Her mouth opened and closed like a suffocating fish.
Fifty! She had only sixty left. To call—to stay in—meant betting almost everything. Near all-in.
Stelle narrowed her eyes, lips pressed thin. She guessed his game. A theory, unproven—this was her first time watching him play. She kept it to herself, absently tapping a finger against her lower lip.
"But… but this is…" The woman choked. "What am I supposed to do?!"
The man laughed, leaning back against the bench. He folded his arms, pinning her with a smothering gaze.
"I suggest nothing. Do as your soul desires, darling. Call. Raise. Go all-in. Or…" A loaded pause. "Fold. Now, truly—all or nothing. Bet if you trust your luck… and take everything."
He nodded toward the glittering hoard. So close, yet oceans away. If the ring had consciousness, it would stare at her with fading hope.
"…But if you lose? The debt will be… spectacular. Utter ruin. Fold now, and you lose only the forty-five chips already in the pot. At least you keep fifteen. Though the ring?" He winked. "That's mine, regardless."
Silence. He waited. Patient. Relishing every second of her unraveling. The mask of composure crumbled—raw panic rooted in her eyes, breath ragged as if drowning. His stare was serpent-still. Time oozed like tar. Sweat trickled down her temples; a droplet smudged a card. Pity—the deck was pristine. She stared at her Kings—strength turned straw. At the 80-chip pot holding her 45. At his face—smug, savoring her agony, begging for a fist to shatter it. Fold? Lose 45 chips and the ring? Or bet everything? He must be bluffing! Must!
Her hand shook as she reached for her chips. Nearly all that remained. She grabbed a few… started to seize more…, and then her fingers slackened. Chips clattered back onto her stack.
"N-no…" she whispered, voice breaking. "I can't… I can't do this anymore…" She crushed the cards in her fist, then lunged up, hurling them face down onto the discard pile in one hysterical motion. "Fuck you, fuck this stupid game! Take it! Take your cursed chips, the gold, the ring—I never loved that fool husband anyway!"
The tavern gasped. Sighed. Relief? Disappointment? Pity? She collapsed back onto the bench; the table shuddered. Chips and gems jumped. Head bowed, she heaved ragged breaths. Tears of shame streaked her cheeks.
The gambler didn't move. He watched her unraveling—still. One second. Two. Three. Then, a chuckle escaped him, blooming into low, resonant laughter. Restraint was abandoned, and now the game was won.
He straightened, pulling the mountain of chips toward himself.
The room froze as he reached for his own cards. Patrons half-rose, straining to see the mystery resolved.
Stelle crossed her arms. She didn't stand like March. Something stopped her—a feigned disinterest. She deliberately huffed, tilting her nose away.
He lifted his cards slowly. Paused. Aligned them. Scanned the breathless crowd. Then fanned them face up.
Gasps ripped through the room. Someone yelped. Another swore.
March's blue eyes widened in stunned silence. Half to herself, half to Stelle, she stammered:
"No way…" Her voice cracked. "Two of Diamonds… Three of Clubs… Four of Hearts…"
Stelle frowned harder.
What...?
March continued, voice trembling:
"Seven of Diamonds… and… Jack of Spades."
That's it?!
Stelle's eyes flew wide. She couldn't help it—she shot to her feet. Impossible. She needed to see. And there they lay: exactly those cards.
A man bellowed from the crowd:
"He won with just a high card? A Jack?!"
"This gotta be a social experiment." a woman yelled from the balcony.
"Won with that hand?!" March squeaked.
The gambler laughed again, unrestrained, as the woman jolted up, clawing at her hair:
"You… You…!"
He tipped his hat, stepping closer. Pure amusement glittered in his eyes. Her meltdown was comedy.
"Apologies, dear lady. It seems you'll go kissless tonight. But we'll add that to the pot—perhaps another lucky soul will claim it. Along with your ring. Congratulations! Your contribution to our future winner's treasury is… priceless."
Steam seemed near to erupt from her ears. She gnashed her teeth, scorching him with a glare meant to incinerate. His words were the final spark. She clenched a pudgy fist, drew back—
Before she could swing, he seized her wrist. She struggled—immovable as stone.
"L-Let go, you stinking cheat!"
She swung her free hand. He caught it before it cleared her hip, wrenching both arms behind her back. Bruises would bloom on her wrists tomorrow. He leaned close, his voice dropping to a marrow-chilling whisper only she could hear:
"I take no pleasure in this, darling… While you can still walk away with just trinkets lost? Don't push me. Or you'll beg coins for your own coffin. Care to test me?"
Her face paled. She fought briefly. His grip tightened—bones creaked. Breakage seemed imminent.
Her resistance died. Jaw clenched, she went limp.
"Damn me for playing with you! Pretty face can't hide your rotten soul!"
He chuckled, releasing her, and adjusted his gloves.
"I never asked for salvation, sweetheart."
She snarled, gathering spit in her mouth—aiming to hurl it. One glance from him froze her. She choked on her own saliva, coughing violently. Hunched and hacking, she turned and fled—not daring to meet the eyes watching her like a circus animal. Mocking. Disgusted.
Pure humiliation.
"Well played, sweetheart! Come play again!" he called, arms crossed.
The door slammed in reply. Glasses rattled on the bar. The ceiling shook. Bald Ralph, the bartender, sighed. Another door needing repair. How many is that now?
Tombstone silence hung over the tavern. No one dared move, only exchanging uneasy glances—until one man shouted, "Now that's a show!" Applause erupted. A welcome reaction; sometimes, winners face threats purely for daring to win. But Sweet Dreams had always drawn good-natured regulars.
Someone whistled:
"Sign me up!"
Cheers and eager shouts followed. The blond closed his eyes and smiled. With one hand behind his back, he bowed to his impromptu audience, the other holding his hat in place.
"Such bold patrons you have, Mister Ralph," he called to the bartender, who responded with his usual stoic nod. "I approve."
He sank gracefully back onto the bench, crossing his legs as he surveyed the excited crowd. Only one figure refused to look his way: the girl in the dark hood—Stelle.
Thoughts raced through her mind. Her theory had been correct. She'd dared suspect his hand was weak, that he'd exploited the drunk woman's inexperience and impulsiveness to break her psychologically. Simple, yet brutally effective in this setting. He knew his craft—but was he truly skilled at reading people, or had his first victim just been transparently unstable?
Did luck favor you… or did you know the ending from the start?
She recalled how he'd barely glanced at his cards. He'd drawn one replacement early, then stopped. Why hadn't he tried to improve such a wretched hand? Playing with only a high card was reckless—one misstep meant ruin. Fool or genius?
And why discard one card? For realism? He couldn't have hoped for improvement—even a duplicate card wouldn't have saved him. Unless… he'd tossed a good card. To make his victory more humiliating.
If true, this man is genuinely dangerous.
No… Too soon to tell.
Reluctantly, she admitted her fascination. What came next? She glanced at her friends. March watched with naked curiosity. Dan Heng had set his notebook aside, arms crossed, one hand propping his cheek. His pensive expression gave nothing away.
Dan Heng met Stelle's gaze and mirrored her tilted head:
"Thoughts, Ray? I noticed your… interest in the game."
She startled, yanked from her thoughts. Her eyes darted away.
"Not interest. Just nothing better to do."
March made a stone-faced "Sure" expression. Dan Heng raised a brow. They exchanged a look.
"Oh, absolutely. And you didn't leap up like struck by lightning just to see his cards," March teased. Stelle huffed, yanking her hood lower.
"I wanted proof that someone could win with garbage."
"Which is interest," Dan Heng deadpanned.
"Not even close!"
March rolled her eyes. Once Stelle dug in, no force could move her. Pointless. But they didn't need confirmation to see the truth.
"Why be ashamed? It's harmless," March pressed.
"I just hate his arrogance," Stelle hissed, flicking a dismissive glance toward the gambler. "Acting like we're all beneath him. Swagger in, clean out drunks, swagger out."
"Hmm…" March scratched her neck. "Maybe. But it's entertaining. We're not playing."
Dan Heng and Stelle locked eyes. He chuckled, turning to March:
"Funny. Someone recently called me 'cold-hearted.'"
"I'm not cold—I'm realistic," March retorted, sticking out her tongue and shoving his shoulder.
These lighthearted squabbles always lifted "Ray's" spirits. This was why she risked everything—sneaking out, enduring her mother's disapproval and punishments. For nights like this: carefree, ordinary, free from the weight of her family's expectations, her clan's honor, her inevitable future. She knew it was irresponsible. Knew adulthood loomed. But not yet.
Suddenly, March gasped:
"Look! Another victim approaches!"
She bounced in her seat, boots tapping the floorboards. Stelle sighed—but smiled. Fine. Maybe I care a little.
And so began the gambler's gauntlet. Stelle studied his every move—his reactions to cards, opponents, bets—but learned little. Only this: he was lethally competent, utterly fearless, and reveled in emotional manipulation. No hidden techniques emerged. Each defeat felt unique. High-stakes aggression balanced by cautious plays. He tailored tactics on the fly. But one constant chilled her: his unreadability . That ever-present smirk only shifted to a smile, laughter, or icy seriousness—never revealing whether his cards soared or cratered. Terrifying.
But was he better than her mother? As games piled up, he inched closer to that caliber—yet Stelle remained convinced he fell short. Bias? Perhaps. But the impression held.
The "treasury" swelled with diverse wagers. The gambler didn't keep them—he added each to the glittering hoard, promising everything to whoever might finally beat him. Soon, the table groaned under coin pouches, loose coins, rings (many wedding bands, some engraved), silver and gold earrings, lockets (one held a tiny portrait), and… two gold teeth from the last brave soul.
An impressive haul. Most losers fled immediately, but a few stayed, curious: would anyone claim their lost treasures tonight? Or would the gambler pocket it all?
After a dozen games, the challengers dried up. The remaining patrons exchanged glances—earlier interest now snuffed by his unbeaten streak. Why gamble when defeat felt inevitable? Despite the glittering prize, silence reclaimed the room.
A full minute passed. Only whispers broke the quiet—including from the corner table:
"Total annihilation… Is he even human?" March whispered, shaking her head in disbelief.
"Predictable," Dan Heng said. "Combine all poker experience in this tavern, and it'd still pale next to his. He reads them like open books. Only fools play on."
Stelle chewed her lip. He's right. Luck became irrelevant when you controlled minds. And fate loved this man—twice, a single higher card had snatched victory from near-certain loss. As he'd boasted, playing him was challenging Lady Luck herself.
Another silent minute. The gambler sighed, leaning back against the bench. His bored gaze swept the room.
"Seems our bold souls are spent. Pity. I was just warming up."
He reached for his chips—then paused:
"Last chance. Trinkets not tempting enough? Win this, and you will live comfortably for years."
A gambler's final lure.
"Greedy much?" March muttered, arms crossed. "How much gold does one man need?"
"Not greed," Dan Heng countered swiftly. "He savors the humiliation. Loves watching hope shatter."
Stelle didn't answer immediately. Her eyes narrowed. Softly, almost to herself:
"No… That's not quite it, either. He…"
Her gaze brushed the brim of his stylish hat.
"…I think he wants to lose."
"Huh?" March arched a skeptical brow. "Then why try? Losing's easy—just throw good cards away!"
Dan Heng stayed silent, waiting for Stelle's reasoning.
"Not like that." She shut her eyes briefly. "He doesn't want to just lose. He wants a thrilling game. To be barely beaten by an equal." Uncertainty crept in. "At least… that's my impression. This isn't greed. I think…"
March remained unconvinced. She frowned, studying the gambler as if debating internally.
"Dunno… He's too strange. Can't figure him out."
Another minute crawled by. No takers. Even the initial lure of "easy riches" now felt like fool's gold.
He sighed, the sound steeped in theatrical disappointment, and began gathering chips.
"W-Wait, please!"
A bright, girlish voice rang from the kitchen entrance. Every head swiveled—making the speaker shrink back.
Ralph's young waitress, Bella, stood trembling but resolute, her eyes fixed on the gambler. Ralph's stoicism cracked—eyebrows shooting up, wrinkles deepening on his forehead. He stopped mixing a drink.
"Bella, what're you doing?" he asked, disbelief raw in his voice.
She ignored him. Wouldn't even look. Too ashamed, Stelle guessed, to have everyone witness this recklessness.
"I… I'd like to try. Please—allow me one game!" She fought to sound confident, but her quivering voice betrayed her completely. Clutched in her hands: a handkerchief bulging with coins. Her life savings, scraped from wages. Ralph knew she starved herself—he'd slipped her extra food often.
The card shark instantly leaned back from his chips, disappointment vanishing into keen interest. One eyebrow arched as he tipped his hat fractionally higher. An intrigued smirk touched his lips, his penetrating gaze dissecting the girl.
"Oh? The fawn proves boldest of all. How curious." A low chuckle escaped him. "I'm intrigued. And you came prepared too—good girl." His praise felt like silk over steel.
Bella swallowed hard, her eyes lingering on the handkerchief holding her hard-earned savings. Doubt warred in her expression, but gritting her teeth, she thrust it toward the relaxed gambler. He squinted, his smile widening predatorily. He snatched the bundle, peeked inside for barely a second, then deftly retied it and tossed it onto the glittering hoard.
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the room. No one expected this turn—everyone knew diligent Bella. The tavern shone from her relentless scrubbing; orders arrived swiftly, always delivered with a shy smile. Gambling? What could drive her?
Stelle's eyes widened. She exchanged stunned glances with her friends. March covered her mouth, eyebrows nearly disappearing into her hairline. Dan Heng's frown deepened.
"This is madness! She has no money!" March exclaimed, shaking her head.
"Bella, have you lost your mind?!" Ralph's voice cracked—the first time they'd ever seen him truly agitated.
He wasn't alone. A regular patron who often exchanged pleasantries with Bella shouted, "Don't do it, lass! He'll devour you whole!"
The blond watched the unfolding drama with palpable relish, his Cheshire Cat grin widening. His eyes flickered between the distraught crowd and the trembling girl, noting how she hunched, hands pressed to her chest, gaze darting helplessly.
"Why are you doing this?" Ralph's words tumbled out—he'd spoken more in these seconds than all evening. A bead of sweat traced his furrowed brow.
"I…" Bella seemed overwhelmed, choking on the attention. "I need the money for my mother!" Her voice rose, fraying at the edges. "She's worse, sir Ralph! The doctor said… if I don't pay by month's end, she won't…" Tears welled, glistening. Stelle's own brow furrowed in genuine sympathy.
Poor thing. Utterly desperate.
"It takes me a year to earn that much—even with tips!" Bella's voice pitched higher, hysterical. "If I lose her…" A sob threatened to escape. She choked it down, collapsing onto the bench opposite the gambler, staring fixedly at the table. Her calloused hands twisted the hem of her apron, her knuckles white. "There's no point going on without her."
The gambler remained silent, arms crossed, an observer awaiting the climax of a tragic play.
"So… please," she whispered, as if convincing herself, "if you respect me… don't stop me. My mind's made up." Bitterness etched her downcast eyes.
Ralph visibly fought the urge to argue further, his jaw clenching. He knew her quiet determination. She pushed through everything.
The crowd exchanged worried glances. The friendly patron ground his teeth, fists clenched as if ready to physically drag her away.
As the protests died into uneasy quiet, the gambler smiled, tipping his hat again for a clearer view. Unusual-colored eyes glinted coldly.
"Well then? Your final answer?"
Silence descended. A collective, unspoken hope hung heavy—please, change your mind. Eyes pleaded with her. But Bella drew a shuddering breath, lifted her chin, and met his gaze squarely.
She filled her lungs.
Parted her bitten lips.
And—
"I shall play in her stead."
A decisive voice cut through the silence. A figure rose from the corner table, turning to face the room.
The tavern froze. Jaws dropped. All eyes snapped toward the bold speaker.
The gambler's smile faltered. His expression cooled instantly, a frown creasing his brow as he scanned the newcomer. Who dares interrupt?
"R-Ray?! What are you doing?!" March stammered, waving her hands frantically before grabbing Stelle's wrist. She forced an awkward laugh, addressing the room. "My friend's joking! She didn't mean it! Ha-ha!"
"Ray," Dan Heng interjected, his gaze boring into her, sharp and urgent. "This is profoundly unwise. I understand your compassion, but this is a terrible idea." His voice was low and intense as if he were willing to reason with her.
But Stelle shook her head, tugging her hood lower. She gently disengaged March's hand, silently apologizing. Her amber eyes locked onto the gambler's as she approached the table.
"Will you accept my wager if it surpasses hers? Allow me to play in her place?" Her voice was controlled, belying the knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach.
His eyes, barely visible beneath his hat and tinted glasses, radiated an unsettling scrutiny. The air grew colder.
He remained silent. Bella shook her head frantically:
"Miss, please don't. My decision stands. Thank you, but this is my burden."
Stelle ignored her. Before the gambler could dismiss her, she reached into her cloak pocket, seeking the one thing that might sway him. His expression remained an unreadable mask—cold, yet not refusing. Merely waiting, eyes narrowed.
She carried this item daily, removing it only for these secret meetings. Today, she'd forgotten. Fate's cruel favor.
Will Mother ever forgive me if I lose them?
Her mother had called her "my little star" since she was a child. These earrings were a physical manifestation of that love—priceless to her heart, painful to remove. A relic from a time before conditional affection.
Compressing her lips, her fingers closed around them. Her hand trembled as she slowly withdrew the delicate gold. She stepped closer; the scent of his expensive cologne pricked her senses. Extending her closed fist toward the blond, she hesitated only a heartbeat before dropping the earrings into his waiting, gloved palm.
Her star earrings. Solid gold, set with citrine stars and diamond accents—a constant reminder she was Stelle, her mother's "little star." She didn't know their monetary worth, only their irreplaceable sentiment.
Their hands brushed for an instant. Stelle recoiled, turning away to yank her hood forward. Her heart ached; fists clenched until her knuckles bleached white.
The crowd leaned forward. The gambler lifted the earrings toward a lamp, examining them with increasing interest. He whistled low:
"I don't deal in stolen trinkets, little mouse." His gaze snapped back to her, sharp and accusatory. The room buzzed with whispers. March and Dan Heng exchanged baffled glances. "Return these to the noble lady they belong to."
Stelle flinched. Seeing her friends' confusion, her heart stalled. Suspicion radiated from every stare. Bella shook her head slowly. Eyes burned through her hood.
Dread took root. The gambler watched her like a thief caught mid-theft. Why? Even March looks doubtful...
Compose yourself, Stelle…
She drew a steadying breath. The earrings were hers. But how do you prove it without exposing everything? Damn it, why didn't I anticipate this?
"I… understand how this appears," she managed, voice betraying a tremor. "But they are mine. A thirteenth birthday gift from my mother."
Pure truth. Yet why would they believe a hooded girl in a tavern? She bit her lip.
The gambler remained unconvinced, one eyebrow arching skeptically. He scrutinized the gems anew, his assessment clinical:
"High-purity gold. Twenty-millimeter citrines, approximately ten carats. Surrounded by pavé diamonds—too numerous to count easily." His expertise was a curse. "Who is your mother to gift such treasures? Do I look like a fool, little thief?"
His contempt was scalding, his certainty infectious. Patrons now eyed her like a criminal. Her concealing hood only deepened their doubt.
Think, Stelle, think…
The accusations spun in her head. March and Dan Heng sat frozen, expressions inscrutable yet radiating tension. They wanted to believe her.
Seconds stretched into hours. The world tilted; the earlier chill gave way to suffocating heat. Her jacket felt like a shroud. She might faint. Pathetic—trying to save someone only to drown yourself. As always.
Her mother's face surfaced in her mind. Disappointed. Disgusted. If she learns…
Stelle stumbled backward, knees weakening.
Then, the vision shifted. Mother's revulsion melted into the tender smile she'd reserved for Stelle as a child—the very smile she'd worn when giving the earrings. A warmth long absent.
Her mother's lips moved, forming silent words. What had she said? The memory drowned in static—drowning the vital phrase that could save her.
"Stelle..."
Stelle...
Stelle?
Yes! The answer had been before her all along. Her eyes flew wide. Downcast gaze snapped upward. "Ray" stepped forward again, a faint smirk playing on her lips. The panic vanished as if it had never been. How could she have forgotten?
Mother hadn't mentioned it in years. Long enough for Stelle to overlook what had become mundane. Her very name came from the stars—the celestial body present at her birth. That was why Mother called her "little star." Why she'd gifted these earrings.
The blond man huffed, tilting his head:
"Seems I've cornered the little mouse. Folding before the game even starts?"
A chuckle escaped him, cold enough to make souls shrivel.
But Stelle didn't retreat. She smiled. Her fingers flew to the buttons of her blouse. She had to do this. Shame was preferable to accusations of theft, which would drag her family and friends through scandal.
Admittedly, the gambler's reaction was satisfying: his smug facade cracked into genuine surprise. His lips parted slightly, eyes widened behind his glasses. He pushed them down his nose—revealing irises of an impossible, mesmerizing hue. Outer rings of deep amethyst bleeding into inner pools of teal. She'd never seen such eyes. Never imagined they could exist.
They captivated her. Her hands stilled on the third button.
Why am I noticing a peacock's eyes now?
This was not the time.
Stelle didn't unbutton fully—only the center, exposing the skin above her sternum to the distinct, star-shaped birthmark hidden there.
"Wait, kitten. If you think flashing skin will—"
His words died. He choked as the grey-haired girl boldly pulled the fabric aside, carefully shielding her breasts but baring the mark. Heat flooded her face beneath the hood as his heavy gaze settled on her chest. Thank god she had a hood - she wouldn't want to give him satisfaction for making her blush.
Her priority wasn't the crowd—yet as adrenaline faded, their reactions registered. A sharp whistle cut the air. Women clapped hands over their companions' eyes, blushing furiously. March turned the shade of a ripe tomato. Dan Heng, ever the gentleman, averted his gaze—though Stelle couldn't see the faint pink dusting his usually pale cheeks.
The moment stretched. Agonizingly.
Is he having a revelation or giving birth to a thought?!
Stelle pressed her lips thin and squeezed her eyes shut. If I see no one, no one sees me. Flawed logic but comforting.
The gambler's brows shot upward. Recognition—pure and stunned—flashed across his face.
"Impossible…"
A strangled laugh escaped him. Then another. Then genuine, rolling laughter. He clutched the earrings, bracing an elbow on the bench back, pressing two fingers to his temple as mirth threatened to overwhelm him.
Stelle flushed crimson, hastily covering herself.
Through peals of laughter, he managed:
"Stars above… Your birthmark is the spitting image of the citrine in these earrings." He wiped a nonexistent tear. "Bravery award goes to you, kitten."
March's eyes went saucer-wide—shock melting into a radiant grin. She squealed and crushed Dan Heng in a hug so tight he gasped. A buzz of astonishment swept the room. Ralph shook his head, a rare smile touching his lips. Bella's face was a masterpiece: flushed, bewildered, then dawning comprehension, shaping her mouth into a perfect "O."
Stelle cleared her throat, fumbling with buttons. She smoothed her blouse as if ironing out nonexistent wrinkles.
"A-Anyway!" Her voice betrayed every ounce of embarrassment. "I assume the matter's settled? You'll play me?"
"Sweetheart, after that? You don't even need to ask."
His gaze lingered on the earrings one last heartbeat. Then drifted—deliberately, teasingly—back to Stelle's chest. She whirled away, arms crossed protectively. With a flourish, he tossed the earrings onto the glittering hoard.
Her heart gave a sickening lurch. Seeing her most precious treasure dumped beside gold teeth and strangers' wedding bands… It was visceral. If she lost, she'd betray Bella and sever her last tangible link to Mother's unconditional love.
No. Don't think like that.
She clenched her trembling hands.
It has to work.
"Apologies, deerling," the gambler purred towards Bella, not sounding sorry at all though. "But you'll yield your seat. Pray her luck matches her… persuasive talents."
Stelle's eye twitched.
We'll see who laughs last, peacock.
She cleared her throat, approaching Bella's vacated bench. Her gaze locked with the waitress's.
"Forgive my interference. But trust me. Please."
Hesitating only a heartbeat, Stelle placed her hands over Bella's work-roughened ones, offering an encouraging smile. Bella turned away, lip caught between her teeth. Discomfort radiated from her stiff posture.
"I don't understand why you're doing this, miss…" Bella whispered voice frayed. "But… do your best. I'm… counting on you."
With a resigned sigh, Bella stood. Stelle gave a final nod before sliding onto the worn wooden bench. Only then did she register the man opposite—his gaze fixed on her with such intensity she nearly flinched.
Has he been staring like this the whole time?
Icy fingers traced her spine.
His eyes dissected her. Like a rare artifact under glass. As if he could peel open her ribs and read the headlines of her heart. She wouldn't let him. She tugged her hood lower, folding her hands primly on the table. Focus. Remember Mother's lessons. Recall every trick he'd used tonight. Steel herself against taunts and mind games.
He'll weaponize what I just did.
He'll dredge it up to rattle me—make me slip.
The gambler's smile was cloying honey, radiating toxic charm. He watched her like a connoisseur sampling a new vintage—testing her flavor, her composition.
You'll get nothing.
Mother's training was her armor. Stelle had never beaten her, but every loss taught strategy. Every cryptic hint was a treasure.
Losing now meant failing Bella. Failing her friends. Failing Mother—even if she'd never know.
A plan crystallized. High risk, but victory demanded boldness. All-in.
From the corner of her eye, March flashed a tiny, fierce fist— We're with you. Dan Heng's subtle nod spoke volumes. Their belief was a lifeline.
Stelle scanned the tavern one last time. No distractions now. One stray glance, one micro-expression could unravel everything.
This man's perception was terrifying.
And she'd turn it against him.