"It can't be true!" Mister Sim shouted, his polished composure fracturing. He shot to his feet, his chair screeching back. "How… how did you do it?" His voice trembled with disbelief and building rage. "It's a lie! He cheated! He didn't have a flush—he couldn't have!"
The crowd buzzed, but no one moved to support him. All eyes were fixed on Zeke, who hadn't so much as flinched.
Slowly, calmly, Zeke reached forward and tapped the face-up cards before him. "The cards are on the table, Sim. Witnessed by everyone here." His gaze was icy, unwavering. "Including your friend by the pillar, who's been signaling you the whole time."
Sim's face went pale. He looked toward his accomplice, but the man had already melted back into the crowd, unwilling to be implicated.
Before Sim could spit another accusation, two broad-shouldered members of casino security emerged from the periphery. They moved with quiet authority, coming to stand behind Sim's chair.
"Mr. Sim," one said, his voice low but firm. "The game has been called. The win is valid."
Sim stood trembling, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning into Zeke's. The reality of his loss—and the very public exposure of his attempted deceit—was crashing down.
Zeke rose smoothly, buttoning his suit jacket. He didn't smile. He didn't gloat. He simply looked at Sim with a chilling, quiet finality.
"You lost," Zeke said, his voice carrying in the hushed space. "Now, you owe me. And I decide what that means."
A low murmur spread through the crowd, then swelled into a chorus of agreement and cold amusement. These were people who understood stakes, who respected the game—but despised a cheat who got caught.
"Ban him!"
"Strip his membership!"
"Let him pay in reputation!"
Zeke let the voices rise, his expression unmoved. He watched Sim's face flush with a mix of rage and humiliation. Then, he raised a hand. The room quieted, not out of obedience to him, but out of fascination.
"No," Zeke said, his voice calm yet penetrating. "A simple ban is too clean." He tilted his head, a cold, thoughtful smile touching his lips. "I think it's better he be cured of the desire to ever sit at a table like this again."
He paused, letting the silence tighten.
"Or," Zeke continued, his eyes scanning the eager, merciless faces around them, "should we let the crowd decide?"
The suggestion ignited the room. This was entertainment of the highest order—a social execution in the very arena where Sim had tried to scheme his way to power.
Sim's confidence had fully crumbled. He wasn't just losing shares or face; he was being made an example of, in the one place where his reputation mattered most.
Zeke leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping so only Sim could hear the final, chilling sentence.
"You tried to play me in my own house," Zeke whispered. "Now the house will decide what you're worth."
Zeke stood up, his posture relaxed yet commanding. He turned his gaze from Sim to the eager, murmuring crowd. A sea of glittering eyes stared back, hungry for spectacle.
"You've heard him," Zeke announced, his voice cool and clear. "Now, can you decide what we shall do with him?"
The crowd erupted with suggestions, each one more ruthless than the last.
"Take his watch—and his dignity!"
"Make him walk through the casino in his underwear!"
"Let him work as a chip-runner for a year!"
"Hand him over to the floor enforcers!"
Sim knew he was at their mercy. His polished façade broke completely. Panic contorted his features, and he dropped to his knees, hands clasped in front of Zeke.
"Mister Black, please—please don't do this to me," he begged, his British accent fraying into raw desperation. "I'm very sorry—it was a mistake, a moment of madness. I'll do anything. Anything you ask. Just… not this. Not in front of everyone."
Zeke looked down at him, his expression unreadable. The room waited, breathless, for the verdict.
Slowly, Zeke crouched down, bringing himself eye level with the trembling man. He spoke softly, so only Sim could hear, yet the silence in the room made each word feel amplified.
"You tried to steal from me in my own house," Zeke murmured, his voice like polished ice. "You don't get to beg your way out. The crowd has spoken. And I always honor the house's decision."
He rose and addressed the room once more.
"He will be escorted out—not through the back, but through the main hall. He will leave with only what he wore when he entered. Every chip, every watch, every ounce of pride stays here." Zeke's eyes swept over the onlookers. "And from tonight, his face will be at every Black-owned door in this city—not as a guest, but as a warning."
He gave a slight nod to security. Two guards stepped forward and pulled a shaking Sim to his feet.
"Enjoy the walk," Zeke said quietly, before turning away, the matter already dismissed from his mind. He had won more than a game tonight. He had solidified a message: in his world, cheaters didn't just lose. They became examples.