-
-
DATE:17th of June, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
-------------------------------------------------
-
-
Emily woke me up by Announcing that Blazer was currently under investigation for sex trafficking and multiple rapes. Apparently it reached headlines.
That certainly wasn't good for the image of heroes, but at the same time I don't get how he managed to avoid any persecution for so long.
The next day didn't go any better. We switched to poker, and once again, I lost. The same frustrating cycle played out: just when I thought I had the upper hand, she'd upend the game with an effortless bluff or an unexpected raise, leaving me struggling to keep up.
I couldn't deny it anymore—Synia was an exceptional player, the kind of opponent who was in tune with every shift in the game. She wasn't just skilled; she seemed to know the cards before they even hit the table, somehow reading patterns or signs that no one else would catch. Her intelligence had an unsettling, almost uncanny edge to it.
As I watched her rake in the winnings with an infuriating smile, I realized that if I wanted a chance to beat her, I'd need more than just solid strategy or luck. She was far too calculated, too precise. If I was going to win, I needed to disrupt her rhythm—something eccentric, something unexpected that would throw her off her game.
A plan started to form. Synia was sharp, but she was still human; she had her own patterns, her own weaknesses. All I had to do was find a way to make her question her assumptions about me, to introduce a level of chaos she couldn't anticipate. I didn't need to be better at poker than her—I just needed to be unpredictable enough to shake her confidence.
-
-
DATE:18th of June, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
-------------------------------------------------
-
-
Surprisingly the Changeling still didn't try to do anything to me. She tried herself to play with Synia, but quickly have up so now she was bored.
I told her to look for the Combine Agents to get her off my back. I didn't need her presence, at the very least I didn't want to keep acting like her boyfriend.
On the final day, I joined her at the baccarat table, hoping that a different game might give me an edge. But it quickly became clear I was in for more of the same. Synia settled into the round with that same confident calm, a slight smirk curving her lips as the cards were dealt.
Baccarat's simplicity was supposed to even the playing field a bit, but Synia made it feel like a science. Her gaze shifted with each card drawn, tracking the trends in the shoe like she was reading an open book. We both watched as the cards revealed themselves: Player, Banker, Tie. The numbers slid out, and she barely blinked, adjusting her bets precisely, almost methodically.
When the cards turned up a four on my side and a nine for hers, she watched me with that amused glint in her eye, as if she could see the outcome before it even happened. I was left with nothing but a mild sigh as she raked in the winnings yet again, stacking her chips in a neat pile, a testament to my streak of failures.
Synia gave a slight shrug, not even bothering to hide her satisfaction. "Looks like Lucien's going to owe me one for discouraging you," she teased.
I felt the frustration rise but swallowed it, nodding as though unfazed.
Sophie wanted to distract Synia, but the protagonist thought it was useless.
Giving up, I couldn't help but be frustrated. It wasn't really fair, but then again, I also didn't use my whole arsenal.
I had one last trick that not even her would be able to beat.
I got Synia to an empty room and took out my Beretta, showing it to her. I took out the magazine to make it obvious the bullets were real. Then I pointed it at her.
She thought it was one of those sharades she plays, but I was having none of it.
I could see her amusement flicker, just for a second, into something sharper—caution, maybe. "So, what's this, some cheap intimidation attempt?" she asked, her tone confident but her eyes locked on the gun, assessing.
"Not exactly," I replied, steadying my aim. "This is the final bet."
She scoffed, but the tension in her shoulders gave her away. "A bet with a gun at my head? That's hardly a gamble, more like blackmail."
I kept my tone cold. "You're free to refuse, but that would mean forfeiting. Here's how it goes: you have to place a bet on whether I'll pull the trigger or not. Simple as that. No card counting, no strategy. Just you, me, and a fifty-fifty chance."
Synia's expression faltered for the first time. Her eyes narrowed, searching my face for any sign of a bluff. "You wouldn't dare," she said, voice laced with defiance, though her hands clenched slightly at her sides.
I smirked, leaning a bit closer. "Those are your odds. So what's it gonna be, Synia?"
For a long moment, she stood there in defiant silence. But her breathing had changed, the rhythm offbeat now, giving her away. She swallowed and glared back at me, but her eyes betrayed her doubt. "This is insane," she muttered, almost to herself. "This isn't even a game. It's just madness."
"Then play," I snapped, my tone sharp enough to cut through her hesitation. "Or walk away. But don't stand there acting like you're above it."
Her silence hung heavy in the room, her gaze flicking from the gun to my face, unable to fully hide the fear creeping in. Finally, she forced out, "Fine. I bet you won't do it."
The moment she said it, I felt my pulse steady, the world sharpening as I activated my power. In one swift motion, I pulled the trigger, sending the bullet out with a fierce blast—then snatched it from the air mid-flight. The slight burn of the metal against my fingers was satisfying. I held it up, letting her see the bullet caught just inches from where it would've struck.
The silence that followed was absolute, only the faint hum of the room's AC filling the space. Synia sat on the floor, staring up at me with wide eyes, all of that self-assured calculation from the casino now nowhere to be found. Her expression was a blend of shock, confusion, and something close to fear—a look that finally cut through her composed facade.
Still holding the bullet between my fingers, I crouched down to her eye level, letting the silence linger as I twisted the projectile lightly in my grip. "This is the difference between games and reality, Synia," I said, my voice low. "Out there, you're a master of the deck, of probability and numbers. But here? Sometimes, real life doesn't care about your calculations."
She opened her mouth to speak, but her voice failed her for a second. When she finally found it, it was shaky. "Are you insane? I could have—"
"Lost?" I interrupted, giving her a smirk as I pocketed the bullet. "That's exactly what you just did. In the real game, Synia, winning doesn't always mean just playing safe or counting cards. It's about risk. Pure, unpredictable risk."
Her confidence was shredded now, and her hands were still shaking as she tried to stand. I watched as she composed herself, pulling back together the dignity that had just unraveled.
"So," I said, breaking her silent processing, "how to prove you lost.... Oh I know!" I pullet up the phone and took a picture of her standing on the floor.
" Start praying, I need to take some proof.x
She let out a harsh breath, her gaze flickering between me and the door as though she was weighing her options. After a few tense moments, she straightened up and looked me in the eye, finally placing her hands together. Her hands were no longer steady, and a hint of reluctant fear lingered in her eyes.
As I pocketed the phone, I turned to leave, pausing just before reaching the door. "Next time, Synia, remember: some people aren't bound by the odds. They make their own."
I walked out, leaving her with her shaken pride and a lesson she'd probably never forget.
Emily messaged me why I didn't use her algorithm to win, but it wouldn't really count if I were to constantly look at my phone. Surely neither Lucien nor Synia would accept it.
I showed Lucien the photos and he handed me the paper. He was delighted at my success and had more so the expression of an animal than a human. He had wanted to see her lose for a long time from the sights of it.
In any case, with one part of the plan done I needed to prepare myself for tomorrow.
I don't really get why the trade would be done at the exclusive gambling table, but it's not like I cared. I just needed to steal whatever was there.
-
-
DATE:19th of June, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
-------------------------------------------------
-
-
Today was the first day of the gamble.
I decided to see the bidding as it was earlier, but I honestly didn't care much for it.
There were many artefacts, relics, even some Ventium infused equipment, but they were either worthless for me like those pompous ancient vases or too expensive.
Sophie was much more interested than me, but I explained at the start I wouldn't give her money to bid so she was bummed out.
I remember she has a gambling addiction. No wonder she lost me 100k Zols in the past few days. Whatever, it wasn't not my money.
As I stepped through the doorway, leading to the exclusive room I was met by a line of guards wearing strange, almost absurd, bunny masks. They were bulkier, their posture sharper than the standard casino staff. Not ordinary security. These were Combine—this gang's version of personal muscle. I counted ten of them, stationed in pairs down the dim, pulsating corridor leading to the exclusive table. Every eye beneath those masks followed me as I walked, but I kept my gaze steady, casual, as if I belonged here as much as the upholstery.
Finally, I reached the main room—a neon wonderland with garish lights and sharp angles, colors shifting along the walls and floor like some fever dream. The table sat in the middle, a circular, polished surface glinting beneath the haze of colored light. Seven chairs surrounded it, four of them already occupied, with three seats waiting for players who hadn't arrived yet. Just the kind of intimate setting where secrets whispered at the table could mean life or death beyond it.
I took a quick glance at the current occupants, sizing them up.
First, there was a man who took up his seat and then some, a hulking figure in a stark white suit that looked more like a stretched tarp than fabric. Rings glinted on almost every finger, his heavy hands resting on the table with a sense of entitlement. A single monocle sat wedged in one eye, magnifying its beady gaze, while the other eye drifted lazily over the rest of us, calculating, judging. He lifted a heavy finger to adjust the monocle now and then, giving a little sniff every time as though he smelled something unpleasant.
Across from him, I noticed another familiar type: the Combine gangster, a mid-level enforcer who wore a poorly disguised hunger in his expression. His hair was slicked back, darkened with enough product to make it glisten unnaturally in the dim light, while his suit tried to be classy and fell short. A faint scar traced down his cheek, a mark of his supposed street cred, though it looked like it came more from a street corner scrap than a proper fight. His eyes darted, restless, and I could almost hear his thoughts racing, always on the lookout for the next bit of leverage or threat.
Then, just to his right, was a woman. She looked like she'd walked off the cover of some dark fashion magazine, draped in a sleek, pitch-black dress that hugged her frame in a way that made her both alluring and a bit terrifying. Her hair—a rich auburn shade—cascaded down in waves, framing a face so perfectly composed it might have been chiseled from stone. A single diamond necklace lay against her collarbone, sparkling with an elegance that demanded attention but offered no warmth. Her gaze was sharp, focused, and when her lips curled into a faint smile, it was the kind that didn't reach her eyes.
I could feel her eyes on me as I took my seat, the corners of her mouth lifting just slightly, as if she knew exactly what I was after. I settled into my chair, trying not to let on just how many calculations were running through my mind. This was the kind of table where anything less than perfect control could get you swallowed alive.
Just as I took a breath, readying myself for the first round, the fat man let out a low chuckle, his thick fingers tapping rhythmically against his pile of chips. The Combine thug flashed a toothy grin, as if he were already savoring whatever game was about to unfold. The woman merely watched, unblinking, a calm sea hiding god knows what underneath.
"Welcome," she said, her voice smooth as silk but carrying a weight I couldn't quite place. "I hope you're all prepared for something a little more... exhilarating than the main floor."
I kept my face as blank as I could, flashing a quick grin to give off the right vibe—just another rich kid here for some excitement, nothing more. But inside, I was already preparing.
The last occupant caught my eye immediately. His hair was split perfectly down the middle—one half dyed electric blue, the other a shock of platinum blonde, styled high like some punk rock peacock. His outfit was no less eye-catching: a velvet blazer, each sleeve a different shade, one dark emerald green, the other crimson. Beneath it, he wore a metallic silver shirt that shimmered under the neon lights, catching stray glints of pink and purple with every subtle shift. Rings, chains, and bangles clinked with each movement, like a human wind chime, and he had a single, feathered earring that dangled, bright green, adding another layer to his striking appearance.
The man leaned back in his chair, one arm slung over the back, entirely at ease in this bizarre setting. His grin was playful, like he was in on a joke no one else could hear. His gaze was intense, though, two sharp, clever eyes that took in everything at the table. I could tell immediately that his flamboyance was just a mask. Beneath it, he was calculating, dangerous—a shark dressed as a showman.
He caught my stare and gave me a little nod, acknowledging my presence with a smirk. "New blood," he drawled, a faintly mocking edge in his tone. "Hope you brought your A-game, friend. The folks here… don't like to lose." He looked pointedly at the Combine gangster, who glared back with a hint of annoyance.
The tension in the room was palpable. Everyone here had their own goals, their own stakes, and none of us could afford to falter. I'd have to stay sharp if I wanted a real chance to outplay them. With a slow breath, I settled back in my seat.
Within the next half-hour, the door slid open to admit two men whose presence immediately shifted the atmosphere. The first, a bald figure dressed in deep, ceremonial robes bearing the unmistakable insignia of the Unified Church, walked in with a calm but severe gaze. His head was shaved smooth, a mark of his devotion, and his expression was one of practiced indifference as though his reason for being here was above anyone's understanding. His appearance seemed almost surreal in this neon-drenched den of risk and wealth.
Beside him, the second man was a sharp contrast, with the glint of a red cross gleaming from a heavy chain around his neck. Unlike his partner, the red cross was a symbol of the Concordian Royal Governor—a mark of political power that hinted at deep influence within Concord itself. He wore a deep green coat adorned with polished medals and brass buttons, yet despite the tailored precision of his attire, his eyes held an unmistakable edge, a kind of restlessness that didn't seem to suit his official position. Why did that mysterious Governor send an agent here?
I couldn't help but wonder why these men, representatives of order and authority, would step foot in a place like this—a high-stakes table hidden under the garish lights of a casino. What business did they have gambling here, amidst gangsters and showmen? The Unified Church rarely associated with secular affairs so openly, and the Governor's office even less so. But here they were, slipping quietly into their seats, eyes forward with a focus that made their intentions unreadable.
My mind raced, but I didn't have much time to speculate.
The last guest to arrive drifted into his seat without a word, his face hidden behind a plain white mask that caught the neon lights in an unsettling, featureless reflection. The mask was blank, unreadable, and he gave no nod of acknowledgment or hint of personality. He simply sat, folding his hands over the table, waiting in absolute silence
A casino official with a fox mask came forward, saluting us, before presenting our warm-up game, a classic.
The first round of straight poker opened with a tense silence, broken only by the clinking of chips and the occasional murmur from the eccentric crowd around the table. My eyes scanned each face in turn, trying to get a read on these players. They weren't the type to reveal anything openly—everyone here was hiding something, a layered mask of composure over deeper intentions.
Across the table, the Concordian royal official, adorned with his heavy red cross necklace, played methodically, folding early and often. He was cautious, disciplined. Each time he looked at his cards, he squinted slightly, as though every decision was filtered through the lens of Concord's strict code. He wasn't here to win a fortune; he was here to see who might be worth noting, worth mentioning to his superiors.
Beside him, the church official was an entirely different story. His shaved head gleamed under the lights, and he wore the insignia of the Unified Church with almost theatrical pride. Every so often, he'd glance at his necklace, as if it were a good-luck charm. He played aggressively, raising with little hesitation, like a man who saw risk as a test of faith. His eyes burned with something beyond greed—it was conviction, a kind of righteousness. Every hand, he watched me with the intensity of a hawk, sizing up my moves like they were sinful puzzles to unravel.
The woman in the black dress, enigmatic and effortlessly poised, played with an unnerving calm. She'd sit back, perfectly relaxed, barely moving. Her gaze would drift over her cards as if they were merely a formality, but the way she occasionally eyed the pot showed she was in it for the win. She was shrewd, calculating, and perhaps the most mysterious player here. Not once did she give away a single tell, her face an unreadable mask.
The fat mogul, with his ridiculous monocle and gold rings flashing, treated this game as if it were a lavish spectacle just for him. He guffawed after every hand, regardless of the outcome, taking apparent joy in both his wins and his losses. He played recklessly, tossing in chips like they were nothing, relishing the thrill more than the risk. If he folded, it was with a grand flourish; if he bet, it was with an arrogant smirk. He was here for fun, but it was clear he wouldn't mind breaking a few egos—or wallets—in the process.
The Combine gangster brought a gritty contrast to the others. Unlike the mogul's exuberance or the cleric's intensity, he played with streetwise caution, sizing up every hand and every player with a sharp, knowing gaze. Seems like he got scolded by his superiors for losing so much money the past few days. His movements were quick, his fingers drumming lightly on his cards as he waited for his turn. He'd raise only when he felt sure he had an edge, and if he folded, he'd do it without a hint of shame. He didn't need to win every hand; he just wanted to stay in the game, to keep his footing. I could sense he was watching the others as much as his cards, keenly aware of the balance of power.
As the hands went by, I could feel the tension building. My stack was bleeding steadily; I couldn't catch a break. With every fold, I kept my expression blank, but I could feel the churchman's watchful gaze on me, taking in my every loss with quiet satisfaction. When I finally drew a promising hand, the anticipation burned hot—I went in hard, confident that I'd finally hit my stride.
The clergy man matched my bets without hesitation, watching me with that unsettling calm. Each raise from him felt like a judgment, some unspoken condemnation. When the final card hit, I saw his smug smile widen. He'd wiped me clean.
I couldn't let him leave the table with that smug look plastered across his face. Reaching down, I unstrapped the watch from my wrist, holding it out with a lazy grin. "Not out just yet," I said, holding his gaze. "I'll put this in the pot instead. It's a diamond-plated piece."
The cleric's eyes gleamed at the mention of diamonds, and without a second thought, he took it, nodding with a solemn approval, as though accepting a humble offering. Little did he know, it was a cheap replica, barely worth the chips it'd cost him to win.
As he pocketed the watch, my only satisfaction came from watching him pocket a worthless trinket with such pride. It's a good thing I won't return here.
The rounds dragged on, and I found myself neither winning nor losing enough to make a difference. I played conservatively, trying to stay under the radar while the others burned through their stacks with zeal. The cleric had turned his focus toward the half-dyed man, who seemed to revel in antagonizing him. Their rivalry added an air of tension to the room, one I was happy to avoid. The less attention I drew, the better.
Meanwhile, I studied each of them, considering who could be the associate Secundo Manus had sent. The half-dyed man was an obvious outlier—he flaunted his eccentricity too openly to be part of any hidden agenda. His presence alone drew eyes, so unless he was using that as a cover, I couldn't see him working for Secundo.
The gangster was another one I could write off. He didn't hide his allegiance to the Combine, wearing it like a badge of honor. He wouldn't be here on anyone else's behalf; his ambitions and alliances were obvious and external.
The mogul? Hard to believe he'd be involved. He seemed more interested in flaunting his wealth and amusement than anything remotely discreet. I doubted Secundo Manus would trust a man like him, one with too many loose lips and too few scruples for subtlety.
This left the three wild cards: the woman, the cleric, and the royal official with the red cross.
The two men arrived together, likely acquaintances or friends, bonded over their shared affiliations. For both to be in league with Secundo was unlikely, unless they had orchestrated a very elaborate front. Possible, but risky—Secundo was strategic enough to know that the more people you bring into a scheme, the greater the chances of failure.
The woman, though... she was the mystery, the one whose eyes gave nothing away. She played every hand with an unbreakable calm, barely raising or lowering her bets, as if she were part of the furniture rather than a player. She was the most suspicious by far. But then again, Secundo Manus had a way of picking the least likely candidates, knowing that doubt itself could be a distraction. And that brought me back to the half-dyed man. Eccentric, loud, but who knew what was beneath that colorful facade?
Keeping my face neutral, I watched them all carefully. The answer was here, somewhere in the shifting glances, hidden in the way they played. The only thing I needed was a moment, one slip, to find my way into the real game underneath the cards.
The cleric's face twisted into a scowl as he fixed his glare on the half-dyed man. "You're cheating," he spat, his voice low but brimming with contempt. "No one gets that lucky unless they're hiding something up their sleeve."
The half-dyed man leaned back in his chair, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Or maybe, dear holy man, I'm just that good," he replied, his tone dripping with mockery. He glanced around the table, eyes flashing with a challenge. "Anyone else here think I'm playing dirty?"
The cleric, undeterred, turned to me. "What do you think? Do you see what I'm seeing?"
Before I could answer, the official with the red cross emblem interjected smoothly. "Come on now, Father. I doubt our friend here," he gestured dismissively in my direction, "has the insight to detect foul play. A bit too green for these waters, wouldn't you agree?"
I forced a polite smile, keeping my real thoughts hidden as the cleric shot me an appraising look before rounding on the official. "Fine, then. I'll ask you. You're both bound to serve the same kingdom. Surely, you must have an opinion?"
The official sighed, rubbing his temples as though wearied by the priest's persistence. "I can't say. He may be smug, but skill and fraud can look quite alike in the hands of a professional." His words were noncommittal, calculated to stay out of the skirmish.
The half-dyed man laughed, crossing his arms. "See? No proof, just bitterness. Don't hate the player—maybe you just don't have what it takes." He tossed a wink at the woman across from him, who responded with a knowing chuckle, her amusement only deepening the cleric's ire.
A tense silence settled over the table as the cleric sat up straighter, eyes blazing with renewed resolve. "Fine. One more round, then. Let's see if that so-called 'talent' of yours holds up."
With a scowl, the cleric tossed his chips into the pot, his hands trembling with contained anger. The cards were dealt. It was a fierce round, each of them pushing and raising with barely veiled aggression. Every chip pushed forward was like another taunt, another jab. I could feel the weight of the tension pressing down, the air crackling with animosity.
When the final cards hit the table, the half-dyed man leaned back with a satisfied grin, flipping his hand. He'd taken it—four of a kind. A lucky draw, but an undeniably strong one. 400,000 Zols in winnings stacked before him.
The cleric's face went ashen as he stared at the pile he'd lost. He could barely contain his rage as he rose abruptly, pushing back his chair so hard it nearly toppled. "This establishment is a mockery of decency!" he shouted, looking between each of us with scorn. "And so are you."
Without another word, he stormed out, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway.
For a moment, there was only silence. Then, the official sighed and rose from his seat, adjusting his coat with a hint of disdain. "I must agree, the atmosphere has taken a rather unsavory turn." He shot a pointed look at the half-dyed man. "I think it's best I take my leave as well."
With that, he left, and only four of us remained. I cast a quick glance around, trying to gauge the others' reactions, but the half-dyed man looked unaffected, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the chips he'd won. If anything, he seemed amused by the whole affair. The woman simply smirked, as though she'd been expecting this all along.
Judging by the fact none of the people here followed them, it was clear they weren't sent by Secundo Manus.
This left only the woman and excentric man as the suspicious ones.
The gangster looked around with a bored expression, scoffing as he rose from his seat. "Well, this was a waste," he muttered. "I'm out. But this continues tomorrow, right?"
The man with the half-dyed hair, still seated, smirked and nodded. "Three nights of high stakes—wouldn't want to miss out." The gangster rolled his eyes, gave a dismissive wave, and strode out, leaving the room nearly silent in his wake.
I started to leave as well, thinking over the night's events, when I felt a light touch on my shoulder. I turned to see the woman in the dark dress, her gaze soft but curious.
"Going already?" she asked, her voice low and inviting. "Care to join me for a drink?"
My first instinct was to decline, but I caught myself, remembering my purpose here. She might have information, or at the very least, insights worth prying into. I forced a slight smile and nodded, gesturing for her to lead the way.
As we made our way to the VIP bar, I studied her a bit closer. She moved with a deliberate grace, each step slow and calculated, as though every inch of her was aware of the attention she commanded. Her dark dress clung to her frame, its fabric shimmering faintly under the neon casino lights, while a high slit ran along one side, revealing a glimpse of a silver anklet with a small charm—a crescent moon, perhaps.
Her face was elegantly sharp, with high cheekbones and a knowing glint in her dark eyes, like she was sizing up the world and everyone in it. A faint red lipstick added a splash of color to her otherwise monochrome look, and her hair was styled sleekly to one side, framing her face in soft, glossy waves.
As we reached the bar, she was already talking, her voice low and musical. I caught phrases about "temporal displacement," "quantum convergence," and "simultaneity paradoxes." All of it went over my head, but she didn't seem to notice—or maybe she didn't care. Her voice was hypnotic, and the way she spoke about these strange concepts gave her an air of mystery, like she was on the edge of secrets the rest of us could never understand.
She took a seat, and I followed, ordering a whiskey as she continued. "You know, it's not just theory anymore," she said, swirling her glass thoughtfully. "Time travel. It's all about perspective. One timeline bleeding into another… Some people even think it could connect dimensions." Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, probing. "Think of the possibilities."
"Sounds… impressive," I replied, trying to sound casual despite my growing curiosity. Was this more than just the musings of an eccentric gambler?
As we settled into the VIP bar, she gave a light, polite laugh that hinted at some hidden amusement. "You really are the type to say that, aren't you?" she teased, her tone smooth as silk.
I kept up the bratty, overconfident act, shrugging as if I didn't have a care in the world. "Can't help it," I replied, leaning back in my seat. "Gambling's in my blood."
She gave me a curious look, leaning in a bit closer. "So you enjoy the thrill, do you? Winning big, risking everything…"
Before I could answer, I felt a firm tap on my shoulder. I turned to see Sophie standing there, looking perfectly at ease but with a steely glint in her eye. Her presence alone shifted the energy in the room.
"Hi," she said smoothly, glancing at the woman beside me with a polite but cool smile. "I'm his girlfriend, Sophie. I was waiting for him back in our room—thought we'd have some time together."
The woman raised her eyebrows, momentarily surprised at Sophie's bluntness. There was a flicker of something—maybe confusion, maybe amusement—in her expression, but she composed herself quickly, nodding with a faint smile.
"Well… I didn't realize," she said, almost as if weighing her words. There wasn't much else she could add, though the exchange hung in the air for a second longer than comfortable.
Feeling the awkwardness settling in, I got up, offered a polite goodbye, and followed Sophie out, all too aware of the eyes that followed us as we left.
As soon as we were out of earshot, I leaned in, lowering my voice. "What was that about? You realize she could've been the contact I was looking for."
Sophie rolled her eyes, unfazed. "If you'd bothered to notice, she's probably just a gold digger, Marcus. She saw the stacks you threw around in there and got ideas of her own." She gave a smug little smile, crossing her arms as we walked.
I opened my mouth, ready to argue, but then stopped, thinking it over. As much as I hated to admit it, Sophie was probably right. She had that particular talent for sniffing out people's intentions, likely from having used the same strategy herself countless times. If anyone knew that game, it was her.
Still, I scoffed, unwilling to fully concede. "Charmed? By her? Hardly," I muttered, keeping my voice dismissive. But inside, I had to admit, Sophie's instincts had probably saved me a wasted effort.-*-*-*-*-*-*