In a sprawling mansion, a man clad only in bright blue boxers reclined on a large, wine-colored couch. Beside him, several half naked women lounged, though his attention was fixed elsewhere. A broad glass table stood before them, cluttered with small transparent bags of white powder; some were torn open, their contents already arranged into neat lines.
Suddenly, the man's gaze sharpened. Looking directly at the women enjoying his company, he rasped groggily, "Get out!"
Confusion rippled through the group as they struggled to understand what had changed his mood, but the man wouldn't tell them anything. Before they could protest, he bellowed the order again, much more loudly this time. Scrambling, the women gathered their dresses from the floor and hurried outside.
As the last of them vanished, the man erupted into hysterical laughter. He attempted to stand, but his legs gave way, sending him crashing face-first back onto the cushions. A soft smile played on his lips for a moment before he began snoring heavily.
The man bolted upright, his identity as the unknown figure finally revealed. Glancing around his environment, the fog of sleep cleared, and the previous night's events rushed back to him. His expression turned grim as he reached for his phone—a plush iPhone encased in a fancy silver pouch.
On the home screen, just beneath the time and date, a chilling message stared back at him: "I WILL KILL YOU."
Confusion clouded his face; the sender was completely unknown, with no name or blocked ID to provide a clue. As he sat there, desperately trying to piece together the fragments of yesterday, as a wave of paranoia set in. He weighed his options: should he flee his mansion to hide in an obscure motel, or stay and hire a team of private security to shield him from this mysterious threat?
Uncertain and on edge, the man sat upright, forcing his mind to reconstruct the events of the previous night.
As a government official, his presence in a casino usually meant business—arresting gang members, flushing out thieves hiding in the staff, or chasing leads on a high-stakes investigation. But last night, he hadn't gone as an agent; he had gone as a player. He wanted to win big. Despite the risk, he chose to play among the regulars at the pub rather than the high-stakes tables. To him, the risk was universal, but he had a foolproof strategy.
He joined a game of blackjack. It began with a back-and-forth rhythm—winning one, losing one. As his opponent became engrossed in the flow, they failed to notice him shifting gears. He began winning two in a row, then three. Suddenly, the regular player reached into his pocket only to find it empty. Tearing up, the man retreated, replaced immediately by a spectator who had been watching intently, confident he could spot the previous player's mistakes.
The unknown figure remained expressionless, his eyes fixed on his winnings. He was calculating; he hadn't hit his five-thousand-dollar goal yet, and this new player was simply the means to fill the gap. The cycle repeated—a calculated exchange of wins and losses until the second regular was also cleaned out.
By then, a crowd had gathered, whispering about the "magic" behind his consecutive wins. A striking woman—blonde hair shimmering, wearing a stone-encrusted waistcoat that sparkled under the pub lights, a luxury yellow miniskirt, and a golden fur that layed arou her neck—clung to his arm. He brushed her off without a word, his eyes scanning for the next challenger.
Offended, she locked eyes with him. "You think you're better than me?" she challenged. "Let's bet. If I lose, I drop a grand for every round. If you lose... you become my dog."
He ignored her at first, scouting the room for another regular, but the crowd held its breath. No one else dared to step up; some feared his skill, while others were convinced he was cheating and didn't want to get caught in the crossfire. Realizing she was his only path to the money, he sighed and met her piercing yellow gaze.
"Okay," he said flatly. "I accept."
The girl's eyes sparked with excitement. A bright, predatory smile lit up her face as she slid into the chair and gripped a fresh deck of cards. "Then let's play."
This match was different; the unknown figure had to win every game, refusing to give the girl any chance to disrespect him. Many in the crowd were busy muttering that it all came down to the sum of the first two cards. Hearing this and feeling the tension in the air, a subtle scorn crossed the man's face, as if to say he had already won.
The girl, clad in her yellow attire, noticed the scorn. Although she didn't know what to make of his change in expression, she played her cards with firm know-how, determined not to lose. However, when the unknown figure won the first game, she felt rattled as she handed over the first grand. Rather than learning her lesson, she demanded another game, only to lose this time to a perfect 21.
Another grand flowed into the man's hands, and the game continued with her losing every round. She handed over a thousand-dollar bill each time, the unknown figure's scorn deepening with every new game she requested. Just like his previous opponents, the girl lost everything over twenty-five games—a total of thirty grand, now neatly arranged in a black suitcase.
Sensing he had stripped every cent from the depressed girl, the unknown figure proceeded to head home. Before he could reach the exit, a man clad in a white suit with a decorated red vest tucked inside approached him. He was flanked by a couple of buff men who wore staff clothing but were unmistakably bouncers. The man in the white suit, sporting curly blonde hair, smiled wistfully at the lady in yellow and then to the unknown figure before saying: "Mr. Jones, I presume? How would you like to truly increase your returns?"