Years before Nine claimed the city, he watched the young ones learn the rules the hard way.
The room smelled of smoke and expensive whiskey, heavy enough to stick to the skin. A low hum of conversation buzzed like a live wire, but all of it faded the moment Anthony Pickins pushed his last stack of chips into the center of the table. His grin was wide, sharp, eyes glinting with reckless certainty.
A million dollars sat between him and the man across from him, a man who had survived long enough to know how to kill quietly.
The older man's fingers tapped the table, a slow, nervous rhythm. Every tap betrayed the tension he tried to hide behind expensive fabric and carefully chosen posture.
Anthony leaned back in his chair, shoulders loose, head tilted just enough to seem casual. But the fire in his eyes made everyone else freeze.
"Come on," he said, voice soft but cutting. "Bet it all. House, money, pride. Otherwise, why sit here at all?"
Nine stood in the doorway, hands tucked into his coat pockets, observing. He did not need to intervene. This was not about money. It was about chaos. About seeing how far someone would go when the stakes were absolute.
The older man's jaw tightened. A bead of sweat slid down his temple. His men shifted behind him, eyes darting between the table and Anthony.
"You do not know who you are playing with, kid," the man muttered, voice low, strained.
Anthony's grin widened. "That is the fun part."
Nine's gaze sharpened. He catalogued every detail: posture, micro expressions, timing of breaths. Anthony was fast, reckless, unpredictable, but there was something controlled beneath the chaos. Worth noticing.
A long pause. Anthony's hand hovered above the chips, just short of touching them again.
The older man's pride screamed. He considered folding, considered bluffing. But Anthony had already stripped him of illusions.
Finally, he exhaled, slow and deliberate. Fold.
The room exhaled with him. Relief, disbelief, tension all coiled into one tight knot that loosened as the chips slid toward Anthony.
Anthony leaned forward, dragging them in. He did not celebrate. Not yet. The danger was still alive, and that is what mattered.
"You got lucky," the older man said, voice trembling. "Keep playing like this, someone is going to put a bullet in your head."
Anthony's smile was quiet now. Thin. Controlled. "I hope so."
Nine stepped into the light, each movement deliberate. Anthony finally looked up.
"Here to tell me I am reckless?" he asked.
Nine tilted his head. "Nah."
Anthony raised an eyebrow. "No?"
Nine pulled a chair out, letting it scrape against the floor. He sat opposite Anthony, calm, predatory, measuring. "I am here to see if you are worth my time."
Anthony's grin returned, teeth flashing. Finally, someone worth reading.
Nine did not speak again. He simply watched. Every gesture, every twitch, every decision told him what he needed to know.
This was the first real test. And Anthony? He was surviving beautifully.