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DATE:16th of June, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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I spent about ten minutes washing off that thick lip-stick she uses. I don't get the point of this stuff other than to cover someone. Alice doesn't wear make-up, but I am not sure if that is because she doesn't know how to apply it.
She is mostly useless as a normal human. She can't cook, can't use make-up or even most devices women do... She can barely even dress herself, wearing sports clothing in every day situations when she doesn't even job like me or choosing large T-shirts and shorts like some mostly clean vagabond... it's not even that she is dirty, but she has no idea how to improve her appearance. I don't know whether this is incompetence or laziness. Is that because of her lab childhood? I don't think so.
We dressed and went over our fake identities in the mirror's reflection: I was now "Marcus Fabio," the rebellious rich kid from Normandia, supposedly cutting ties with my family's control. Sophie, in her role as "Martha," eyed me with an amused look as she adjusted her outfit.
"A runaway college kid, huh?" she snickered. "Doesn't suit you at all. You're supposed to be almost forty, and you're playing a twenty-something brat? You know, I could pass as a proper young socialite more than you."
She flashed her current appearance—a curvy brunette in her early thirties, with enough subtle glamour to blend into high society or any scene she pleased. Her form was deliberately picked, every detail finely tuned. But I only gave her a blank look.
"You can make yourself younger, I can't," I said coolly. "Besides, who even knows how old you really are? For all I know, you could be pushing fifty, just hiding behind that shapeshifter's magic."
She put a hand over her heart, her face dropping into an exaggerated look of hurt. "Fifty? Really, Marcus? That's low—even for you."
"Prove me wrong, then," I replied, deadpan, crossing my arms.
Sophie laughed, shaking her head. "Trust me, I'm a lot younger than you think, and unlike some people," she tilted her head toward me with a smirk, "I'm not stuck with the same look day in, day out. Being adaptable keeps me fresh, keeps me interesting."
"Interesting," I echoed, voice flat. "Maybe to you."
She rolled her eyes, unfazed by my lack of enthusiasm. "So, Mr. Fabio, let's get this straight. You're a spoiled rich kid with no ties, and I'm your new girlfriend, just another one of your indulgent choices."
"Fine," I said. "But let's keep it professional."
Sophie grinned, clearly enjoying the act she'd get to play. "Wouldn't dream of anything else, Marcus. Let's just see if you can manage to look the part of someone actually having fun for once."
I turned away from her, but she was right there by my side, still grinning as we left the room.
The hero league got me all of this money and access to the VIP lounge, but they couldn't actually get me to the exclusive table where the trade was going down. That was invite only.
They wanted me to see where it was an intercept it while they left, but I didn't have the strength to do something so brutish.
Instead, I thought about going there myself. Sure, I didn't have an invite, but I could certainly find get one from one of the guests.
This was a Casino after all.
The casino buzzed with energy, every corner alive with flashing lights, the clink of glasses, and the steady hum of conversation and laughter. High ceilings adorned with chandeliers and the plush carpet beneath gave the Vince Casino's VIP section an air of opulent sophistication, worlds apart from the usual gambling halls.
I surveyed the area with keen eyes, my gaze tracing over the high-stakes slots that lined the central room. Their screens glowed, casting a sharp neon light across the faces of focused gamblers, but I wasn't interested in these. Instead, my attention was on the corridor of private rooms beyond. Six rooms, each discreetly tucked away for VIPs who required privacy—or who had something to hide.
I glanced back at Sophie—Martha now in her carefully chosen disguise, looking every bit the high-rolling socialite in a fitted dress that matched the glitzy crowd around them. She seemed right at home, tapping her pile of chips thoughtfully as if deciding her next game. She noticed my look and gave me a subtle nod, her eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and determination.
"I'll take room two," she murmured, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Let's hope one of us finds our 'friends' tonight."
I handed her half of my chips, the weight of them solid in his hand before she took them, rolling a few between her fingers. Her face was neutral, but he knew her well enough to sense she was relishing the game.
"Just don't get too attached to anyone," I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper, yet firm enough for her to hear. "The goal is information, not making friends."
"Relax, Marcus," she replied, giving me a playful nudge that almost seemed genuine. "I won't lose sight of the mission. Try to blend in yourself, alright?"
She walked off with a casual confidence, blending seamlessly into the crowd, and I watched her disappear into the flow of people before turning toward the first private room. Taking a steadying breath, I rolled my shoulders back, adjusting my collar to fit the image I needed to project—a wealthy man here to indulge, not a spy on a mission.
Then, I made my way to the first room, my expression calm, yet every sense on high alert. The stakes were high, but I knew my mission: get close enough to win that coveted invitation and secure a place at the exclusive table.
As I walked into the first private room, I immediately noted the setup. A few tables were empty, but in the middle sat a group of four, focused on a high-stakes game of blackjack. I took a quick inventory of the players: a serious-looking Asian man with oversized glasses, an older woman with sharp, watchful eyes, a blonde man trying to chat up the girl next to him—a teenager, by the look of it, dressed in a strange mix of spandex and casual wear. An unusual assortment, but each of them radiated a certain wealth, if not a presence, that fit this part of the casino.
Keeping my expression neutral, I stepped forward, nodded politely, and took one of the empty seats at the table. The players' attention shifted, sizing me up. The blonde was the first to break the silence, his gaze flicking over me with a smirk.
"Well, now," he said, his voice thick with an accent I couldn't quite place, "you look young to be in the VIP section. Did they let you in straight out of college?"
"No," I replied, a hint of irritation purposely slipping into my voice. "I'm not some kid fresh off campus. Just a man enjoying a change of scenery."
The blonde let out a low chuckle and raised an eyebrow as if he didn't buy it. But he let the matter drop, turning his attention back to his cards, though he'd thrown a hook to test the waters. Meanwhile, the girl in spandex shot me a quick, curious look before quickly schooling her face into something indifferent. The man with glasses merely glanced up for a split second, his eyes blank and unreadable, before focusing back on his cards, as if I were just another fleeting distraction.
An attendant placed a stack of chips in front of me, and I began to place my bets, carefully studying the faces at the table. For now, I was only watching, seeing how they played and how much they seemed to care about their winnings. But as the game went on, I had one goal in mind: identify which of these people held the invitation I needed to secure a place at the upcoming event.
The air around the table was charged. Each player had a different reason for being here tonight, and all were wearing masks of their own, concealing their motivations. In that sense, we weren't so different.
The dealer's voice was smooth, rehearsed, as he explained the rules one more time—probably for my benefit, though I gave no hint I needed them. My eyes flicked across the table, gauging my opponents. The blonde guy seemed jittery, his fingers drumming against his stack of chips. Across from him, the teen looked almost bored, her lips twitching slightly every time she glanced at him. The old lady, silent and reserved, leaned back, her hands folded over her chips like she was watching something beneath her notice.
The cards came down, and I kept my face neutral as I picked mine up. This game was about more than winning chips. Every move was a test, every glance a gauge of my composure. I bet small, cautious. No reason to stand out yet.
The first round began, and luck favored me with a minor win. I let my chips clink together as I added them to my stack, keeping my face unreadable. Beside me, the blonde guy scowled as he watched a chunk of his pile disappear. His frustration was written all over him. The teen, meanwhile, pocketed her own small win with an air of satisfaction, barely hiding the smug smirk tugging at her lips. The old lady… just watched, as if this were all just a rehearsal for the real game.
I let my gaze drift to her for a split second, wondering what lay beneath that calm exterior. People like her didn't come here for a handful of chips.
I glanced back down at my cards as the next round began, fingers steady on my chips. This wasn't about winning money—it was about reading the room, piecing together who could lead me to the trade.
The next few rounds started, and I kept my cool, keeping the bets steady and small. I'd watch, let them think I was still feeling my way through this. The blonde guy kept up his reckless streak, chips disappearing from his pile faster than he seemed to notice. The teen kept winning just enough to keep her entertained, and the old lady still folded half the time, watching us with her distant gaze. And the older guy—he grew quieter, his frustration bleeding through the stony expression he tried to hold. He muttered a few times under his breath, then pressed his lips tight, but his eyes darted around, taking in the whole table like he was sizing up an opponent.
Another round, and I kept my bet conservative. I won again, just barely—enough for the old man to grumble, his hand tightening on his remaining chips. The blonde guy sighed as he watched another stack slide out of his reach, and the old lady finally folded again, letting out a dry chuckle under her breath. And then it happened. The old man suddenly pushed his chair back, his face tight with restrained anger, eyes narrowed as he looked at the dealer and then each of us, barely masking his disdain.
He stood up and left, and I watched him go, something about his sudden departure gnawing at me. I waited a moment, threw down my cards, and stepped away from the table. A hunch pulled me along, and I trailed him out of the VIP lounge, catching up with him in the quieter hallway just outside.
"What was wrong?" I asked, keeping my voice even.
He stopped and turned to me, giving me a cold, hard look. "A youngster like you wouldn't get it." His tone held a mix of bitterness and irony, like he'd said the line too many times in his life to mean it sincerely anymore. I held back a smirk, knowing he couldn't be more than ten years older than me, but let it slide. He continued, voice low, almost like he was talking to himself.
"This place…" He looked away, glancing down the hall as if someone might overhear. "It's a classic Silvian Morris scheme. The games are rigged—more than usual. There's an art to it, the subtlety of knowing when to make someone lose."
I raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
His gaze slid back to me, his mouth forming a tight line as he pushed up his glasses. "Why don't you go back, play a few more rounds. You'll see." He tilted his head toward a nearby balcony. "I'll wait out here."
I didn't bother with questions. Instead, I nodded, turned, and went back toward the lounge, his words circling in my mind.
Just as the old man had implied, my luck turned, and not in a subtle way. Hand after hand, I watched my stack shrink, slipping through my fingers no matter how careful I played. I lost 5k, then 10k, and finally, when I was down by 15k Zols, I decided to take a break. Pushing back my chair with a nod to the others, I made my way out of the room, finding the hallway empty.
I glanced around, hoping to spot him somewhere nearby, but he wasn't there. A hunch pulled me toward the balcony, where a slight breeze drifted in, carrying the scent of smoke.
There he was—the serious-looking man with the big glasses, leaning against the rail, a thin stream of smoke curling from his cigarette. His posture was casual, almost disinterested, but the glint in his eye said otherwise as he looked out over the night view. The way he held himself, he seemed worlds apart from the controlled chaos of the casino floor.
I stepped out onto the balcony, letting the door close quietly behind me. He didn't turn, but after a moment, he took a slow drag, speaking as if he already knew I'd come looking.
"Lost more than you expected?" he asked, his voice smooth, devoid of sympathy.
I leaned against the railing a few feet from him, choosing my words carefully. "Seems like the house has its favorites tonight."
He exhaled a cloud of smoke, letting a small, knowing smirk slip through. "Welcome to Silvian Morris's world. You play by his rules, or you lose more than your chips."
The old man took another slow drag, eyeing me with that scrutinizing gaze again. "So," he asked, his voice low and calm, "what's a Normandian runaway really doing in a place like this?"
I gave a casual shrug, keeping my expression carefully bored. "I got tired of the usual routine back home," I said, leaning on my rehearsed story. "Needed a little excitement, and Normandia wasn't exactly cutting it. Heard Concord could offer more."
He studied me a moment longer, his expression still unreadable, then nodded slowly, as if accepting the excuse but still unimpressed.
After a quiet beat, he tilted his head, watching me carefully. "Did you know about the weekend bidding? Special items go up for auction, high stakes. Only the right people get invited."
I raised an eyebrow, feigning ignorance. "Bidding? First I've heard of it," I replied, keeping my tone curious but not too interested. Truth was, I'd known about the bidding, though it wasn't the main reason I was here. My goal required something even more exclusive—an invitation to the private table where certain 'trades' would happen. Without that, I'd be wasting time on this assignment.
I decided to press a little, feeling him out. "Do you have one of those invites for a certain private table? I think it is held in the same night."
He gave a dismissive shake of his head. "I know about the exclusive table, but it's not what I'm after." His voice turned serious, as though weighing whether to tell me more. "I'm here for the auction. There's a specific item up for bid, one that's... important."
"Must be valuable if you traveled all the way from Chou," I replied, my curiosity genuine this time. Chou was a world away, and someone like him wouldn't be here without good reason. "What kind of item is worth all that trouble?"
For a moment, he hesitated, the gleam in his eye sharp as he took another drag. "Some things can't be valued in money alone," he said finally, his tone almost cryptic. "But some of us know the real worth of what's out there, and we're willing to cross oceans for it." Well that was vague, but I didn't really care about his history.
As I stepped back into the lobby, I spotted Sophie—Martha, I reminded myself, keeping her alias in mind. She was chatting animatedly with a group that immediately caught my attention. Standing out from the usual casino crowd, they were seated around a low lounge table, exuding an air of effortless wealth and exclusivity.
The man at the center of the group was especially striking. He had pale, almost silvery-white hair that contrasted sharply with his crimson-red eyes, which narrowed slightly as his gaze landed on me. He wore a tailored black suit, the lines sharp, accented with a deep red pocket square that matched his eyes. His expression was reserved but vaguely amused, as if he found everything around him a private joke. "Lucien," Martha introduced him as he stood to shake my hand with a grip that was deceptively light, almost ghostly.
Flanking Lucien were two young women who looked like they could be models—or assassins. The one to his left was tall and slender, with jet-black hair cut in a sleek bob that framed her face with precision. Her intense gaze, sharp cheekbones, and poised demeanor gave off an aura of restrained danger. She wore a simple but elegant dark dress that clung to her frame like a shadow. Martha introduced her as "Celeste."
The second woman had a warmer, almost ethereal appearance, with golden-brown curls that cascaded over her shoulders and a soft smile that seemed genuine but cautious. She wore a flowing, lavender dress, adding an almost whimsical contrast to the others' darker aesthetic. Her eyes, however, were what stood out the most—an amber shade that seemed to study everything around her with quiet intensity. Her name, according to Martha, was "Amara."
Martha shot me a knowing smile, stepping to my side as if we were already long acquainted. "Lucien, Celeste, and Amara," she introduced them with a satisfied glint in her eyes. "They're VIPs here for the bidding as well."
Lucien's eyes lingered on me, and he gave me a slight nod, his smile faint. "So, you're the elusive Marcus, are you?" he said, his tone almost mocking. "A friend of Martha's is always welcome in our little circle."
I offered a polite smile, noting how their relaxed stances and subtle gestures suggested they might be more than they appeared.
Summoning every bit of energy to play the spoiled, carefree "college kid," I slid an arm around Martha's waist, feeling her tense in surprise before leaning into the act. I smirked at Lucien, putting on my best impression of a cocky, entitled trust-fund brat.
"Say, Lucien," I drawled, tapping the edge of his glass with a finger, "you wouldn't happen to know how a guy could score an invite to that exclusive gambling table, would you? Heard that's where the real action's happening." I gave him an exaggerated wink, hoping the arrogant swagger was convincing enough.
Lucien's eyes flickered with interest, though his expression didn't change. He glanced at Martha, eyebrow arched as if to ask what exactly she'd brought into his orbit. She just smirked and took my lead, letting herself look both amused and indulgent as I played my part.
"Ah, so you're aiming for the private table, are you?" Lucien's tone was dry, a hint of mockery in his voice. "Those seats aren't easy to come by, you know. Typically reserved for... seasoned players."
I gave him a cocky grin, ignoring the jab. "Trust me, I can handle my own. I just thought maybe a man like you would have, y'know, connections."
Lucien chuckled, low and amused. "Perhaps," he said, swirling his drink. "But they aren't given away for free. It would depend on what you have to offer." He leaned forward slightly, his red eyes studying me as if I were something he was debating buying, but not particularly interested in.
I gave Lucien a half-smile, feeling Sophie's watchful eyes on me as I leaned into my "reckless college kid" persona. I reached into my pocket, pulling out a few chips. "Money's no problem," I said, flipping one over with practiced ease. "Got plenty where that came from."
Just as I was about to toss Lucien a careless grin, Sophie's voice interrupted, soft but with an edge that felt almost parental. "Marcus, remember—you need those funds for the actual gambling." Her tone was infuriatingly gentle, like I was some impulsive kid needing guidance. I shot her an annoyed look, scoffing just loud enough for Lucien to catch.
Lucien raised a brow, clearly entertained. "I see someone's looking out for you." He chuckled, but then his expression shifted, his eyes taking on a spark of intrigue. "If you're so eager, maybe I could help you with that invitation," he said, leaning back with a slight smirk. "But there's a condition."
I straightened, listening.
"There's a certain... girl," he said, tilting his head toward the VIP area. "In room one. She's a difficult one to beat—never managed to win a game against her, no matter the gamble." He swirled his drink, his gaze lingering on the glass as if he was watching memories dance in the whiskey. "If you beat her, I'll hand you my invite myself."
I paused, something about his tone catching my attention. "Room one... the girl with the serious look?" I asked, recalling her face. I'd noticed her earlier, the quiet one at the blackjack table with a cold, calculating expression. She didn't give off any obvious tells, which already made her a challenging opponent.
Lucien's mouth curved slightly, but he just shrugged. "A girl I met a long time ago," he said, leaving whatever connection they had deliberately vague.
We stayed with Lucien, exchanging idle banter, the hum of casino chatter blending with the clinking of glasses and the soft shuffle of cards from nearby tables. Suddenly, a commotion broke through the din—a man with slicked-back hair and a furious expression was being escorted out by two guards. His voice rose over the crowd, dripping with indignation.
"What are you doing?! Don't you know I'll own this place someday?" he yelled, struggling against the guards as they firmly steered him toward the exit.
Lucien's lips curled in a small, amused smile. "Ah, that's Isaac. Silvian Morris's son."
I raised an eyebrow, watching Isaac's futile attempts to shake free. "Did he get into a fight or something?"
Lucien shook his head, chuckling. "Knowing Isaac, it's probably about a woman—or several. He's notorious for his... abrasive charm, let's say. Seems almost cursed with how universally despised he is by women."
I smirked, noting the irony in the man's angry outburst about "owning" the place. Isaac might inherit all the wealth and power in the world, but it was clear he lacked any real influence, at least in the eyes of those around him. His entitled arrogance was repellent, a stark contrast to Lucien's smooth confidence.
"So, he's that bad?" I asked, keeping the curiosity light, as if I were simply gathering gossip.
Lucien shrugged, giving Isaac one last look as he was led through the doors. "Depends who you ask, but he's a familiar face around here. Most people just ignore him—unless they're forced to deal with him." He looked back at me, raising his glass slightly. "Let's hope you don't have to, Marcus."
I just nodded, filing the information away, but I didn't particularly care about him.
I stood up, leaving Lucien and Sophie behind as I made my way over to the blackjack table where Lucien had pointed out Synia. She was seated, fingers drumming lazily on the felt, her dark hair falling over one shoulder. When she looked up, there was a sharpness in her gaze—a cold gleam that felt as cutting as a dagger.
I waited until her hand ended and then stepped forward. "Marcus Fabio," I introduced, forcing a smug grin. "Seems I've got a little wager with Lucien—to see if I can manage to beat you."
At that, her eyes narrowed, and her glare darkened even further before an unexpected laugh escaped her, cold and mocking. "So that's what this is. Lucien's still holding onto his little fantasies, is he?" Her voice was smooth, yet laced with something sharp and hard to place. "Well, Marcus, I'll make it easy on you. Forget this ridiculous bet. Go back to him and tell him I'm not some prize he can dangle in front of whoever wanders by."
I shrugged, keeping the casual, confident front intact. "I would, but I'm afraid that's not an option. Lucien's not exactly the type to just let things go, and neither am I. So, Synia—what do you say we raise the stakes a bit?"
She gave me a once-over, lips curling into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "And what's in it for me if I play along with this little game?"
"An extra fifteen thousand zols. Or… bragging rights when you win," I replied, keeping the challenge light but direct.
Synia smirked, tilting her head as she considered. "Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you," she said, gesturing to the dealer for a new round.
I took my seat across from her, the tension humming between us as the cards were dealt.
But I didn't stand a chance and cut my losses early.
Back in the room, I tossed my jacket on the chair, feeling the weight of my newly depleted funds hanging over me. Sophie looked up from her spot on the couch, eyebrows raised as she assessed my expression.
"Lost big, didn't you?" she asked, barely hiding her smirk.
I didn't answer right away, rubbing a hand over my face. "Fifty thousand," I muttered.
She shook her head, leaning back. "I thought so. But I don't get why you told her about the bet in the first place. Now it's personal for her. You realize she'll go out of her way to make sure you don't get that invitation?"
I let out a low laugh. "Exactly. A girl like Synia wouldn't give a second thought to some stranger. But knowing she has a chance to beat Lucien—through me—now that's motivation. If I'd kept quiet, she wouldn't take any of my challenges the next day."
Sophie folded her arms, still skeptical. "So you were expecting her to beat you tonight?"
"Of course. I don't need her to lose to me right now," I explained, leaning against the wall. " I am aware that there are few games I can beat her in. Tomorrow, I'll switch it up and keep her off balance. Losing was just the first move."
She seemed to consider that, though a hint of doubt lingered. "You're playing a dangerous game."
I shrugged. "Every good game is. But if it works, I'll get my invite to that table. I can really afford to lose." -*-*-*