Here is the English translation of the second text, with quotation marks added to every dialogue.
---
It was eight o'clock in Rayan Silver, an ordinary Friday evening. The main street was bathed in an artificial pink and golden light, and the signs flickered to the slow rhythm of night owls entering and leaving establishments. The air was heavy, laden with cheap perfumes and car exhaust fumes.
Anathel stopped in front of the facade of Lust and Greed.
The building looked like nothing else on the street. A black marble storefront veined with red, columns that imitated the antique style without truly believing in it, and above the entrance, in faded purple neon letters, the name flickered like a tired heart. Two massive doormen flanked the entrance, arms crossed over suits visibly reinforced at the shoulders.
Alright, alright. Let's see what it's like inside, he thought, pushing the door.
The contrast with the street was immediate. The air conditioning whipped his face, carrying a mixture of smells: varnished wood, the warm leather of armchairs, the acrid smoke of cigars floating in lazy layers under the high ceilings. Classical music, played by an invisible quartet, flowed from hidden speakers — cello, mostly, whose deep notes seemed to vibrate the marble floor.
The main space opened before him like an arena. In the center, under a glass roof revealing the starry night, the gaming tables were clustered: roulette, poker, blackjack. The lights there were bright, almost aggressive, making the gilding of the cards and the stacked chips sparkle. Around this burning core, in a more forgiving dimness, private lounges were lined up — dark leather sofas, smoked glass coffee tables, and everywhere women in light clothing moving between customers like fireflies in a night garden.
Anathel headed for the nearest counter. He sat on a high stool, leaned his elbows on the polished zinc, and ordered a whiskey. The bartender, a dry man with graying temples, served him without a word, placing the glass on a black felt coaster.
This really isn't my kind of place, Anathel mused, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. The ice cubes tinkled softly. Too much noise, too much flesh, too much poorly concealed despair.
He was wearing that evening a light white long-sleeved shirt, navy blue pants, and soft leather shoes. Nothing luxurious, nothing provocative. But his bearing — that way he had of standing still amidst the bustle, like a stone in a current — drew glances. He knew it. He didn't care.
He pivoted slightly on his stool to observe the room.
The customers formed a living tableau of human addiction. At the gaming tables, men with faces hollowed by anxiety pushed chips in front of them with mechanical gestures. Others laughed too loudly, sweat on their brows. In the private lounges, roving hands roamed consenting bodies, kisses were exchanged above champagne glasses, deals were struck in hushed voices.
Lust and Greed. At least they have the merit of honesty, Anathel thought with silent irony.
A sugary voice pulled him from his observations.
"Honey, do you want to spend a wonderful night with me?"
He turned his head. A woman in a bunny girl outfit stood very close to him — black bustier, satin ears, fishnet stockings. Her curves were generous, her brown hair cascaded over her bare shoulders, and her smile was a perfectly calibrated product, designed to seduce in thirty seconds or less.
Anathel didn't answer right away. He fixed his eyes on hers.
Something changed in the air around them.
The woman's smile froze. Her pupils dilated. She flinched back instinctively — that recoil you have when facing a cliff glimpsed too late. Anathel's dark eyes held nothing. No warmth, no desire, no explicit threat. Just an absence that sucked the light out.
He reached out and grabbed her by the waist before she could pull away. His fingers closed gently, almost tenderly, around the curve of her hip.
"You wish to spend a night with me? That's very bold," he said in a low, slow voice. "I'm very flattered."
The woman's face drained of color. Her heart skipped a beat, two perhaps — she felt the void in her chest as if the organ were trying to flee. Her breathing became short, wheezing.
Anathel brought his face close to hers. Their lips almost touched.
"I am willing to spend the night with you, if you truly wish it. It will be an unforgettable night. Because it will be your last."
He let her go.
The woman fell to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Her legs would no longer hold her. She looked up at him, her gaze drowned in terror, and what she saw made her gasp. The olive-skinned, black-haired man towered over her, impassive, a slight crease at the corner of his lips that wasn't really a smile. He was the very image of death when death is bored.
She swallowed her saliva, picked herself up as best she could, and fled, stumbling on her high heels. The sound of her hurried footsteps was lost in the classical music.
The bartender had seen everything. When Anathel gently pushed his empty glass toward him, he jumped as if pricked.
"The same again, please," Anathel said without raising his voice.
The bartender grabbed the whiskey bottle with trembling hands. The neck clinked against the rim of the glass. Anathel thanked him with a nod and took a sip, his face as serene as when he arrived. He even yawned, bringing the back of his hand to his lips.
Good. Now, let's observe the place seriously.
He stood up, left a few bills on the counter, and disappeared into the crowd.
The classical music enveloped everything. Still cello, but also piano now — a sad, beautiful melody floating above the coarse laughter and the clinking of chips. The lamps on the walls gave off an amber light that made everything a bit unreal, as if seen through a glass of cognac.
Anathel walked along the private lounges. On a leather banquette, a potbellied man in a wrinkled suit was kissing two women at once. A little further on, a group of three men in formal wear discussed figures and percentages while a girl served them champagne, her face empty. A couple got up and headed for the stairs at the back, the man's hand already resting on his companion's lower back.
The night might be steamy for some, Anathel thought, amused.
He approached the center of the room, where the light became harsher and the noises more mechanical. The slot machines lined up along a wall emitted their electronic jingles, their flashing lights reflecting off the absorbed faces of the players. The sound was disturbing, a small repeated assault that wore down the nerves. Anathel blinked as he entered this bath of bright light.
A poker table caught his attention. A small crowd had formed around it, silent, tense.
Four players were seated. Three of them looked nervous — a young man whose fingers tapped on the felt, a middle-aged woman with lipstick that was too bright, biting her lip, an old man with a chiseled face staring at his cards as if hoping to change them by sheer force of will.
The fourth player was an enormous man. His body overflowed from his chair, compressed into a brown trench coat whose seams seemed about to give way. His dark blue hair, slicked back, gleamed under the light. A thick beard covered the lower part of his face, from which the smoke of a cigar escaped.
"Haha! Go on, bet! I've got all the time and all the money!" he boomed, slamming his fist on the table.
The chips trembled. The other three players exchanged worried glances.
Anathel stopped at the edge of the small crowd. He placed a hand on his chin, interested.
After all, intimidation is one of the goals of poker, isn't it? he thought. Make the opponent doubt, push them into a mistake. Exactly like in my line of work.
The young man with the nervous fingers folded first, throwing his cards down with a sigh. The woman with the bright lipstick followed suit, then the old man. The fat man burst into thunderous laughter and turned over his cards.
A weak hand. Very weak. He had bluffed with nothing.
The crowd murmured, half-admiring, half-appalled. The winner raked in the chips — seven hundred thousand trens, Anathel estimated — and openly mocked his opponents.
"You are so easily influenced! Ha ha!"
"It's okay," said the young man in a calm tone that contrasted with the rage in his eyes. "Anyway, next round, I'm sure I'll win it."
His gaze burned. The determination of the loser, the absurd certainty that luck would turn. Anathel knew that expression well. He had seen it on so many faces, just before the end.
Other players were already approaching the table, drawn by the smell of money and challenge. The game would resume, even more intense.
Anathel stepped away. If I weren't on a mission, I might join them, he thought. But I have no time to lose.
He looked up toward the first floor.
A gallery ran all around the main hall, separated from the ground floor by a polished wooden balustrade. Up there, there were fewer customers, and the atmosphere seemed more subdued, more exclusive. Two staircases led up, one on each side of the hall, and each was guarded by two thick-necked men with fixed stares.
It was on the first floor that he spotted his target.
Andrew Stephenson stood near the balustrade, both hands resting on his silver-handled cane. He watched the hall below with an expression of poorly concealed frustration. His black trench coat fell straight over his shoulders, and his hat, tilted down over his forehead, couldn't entirely hide his disheveled blond hair. He was stocky, his face pale and shiny with sweat despite the air conditioning. His pudgy fingers drummed on the pommel of his cane.
He doesn't look happy, Anathel thought. Business is bad, it seems.
Next to Stephenson stood a woman. She had short-cropped brown hair, an angular, severe face, and a body where every muscle seemed sculpted by years of training. Her simple but elegant black dress concealed nothing of her physical condition — broad shoulders, straight waist, legs planted in the ground like roots. Her eyes swept the room in a regular, mechanical motion, never stopping on anything for more than a second.
Tynim, Anathel said to himself. The former special forces from Antros. The woman who thwarted twelve assassinations.
He looked at her more closely. She wasn't just watching the crowd. She was anticipating. Her eyes lingered a fraction of a second longer on customers' hands than on their faces. She noted sudden movements, stares that were too insistent, silhouettes that didn't move enough. A professional.
Anathel smiled softly.
Sorry, my dear. But I'm going to tarnish your spotless record.
He left the center of the hall to return to the counter. His glass was empty, an ice cube still melting in it, reduced to a translucent shard. He set it on the zinc and signaled the bartender for another.
That's when he overheard the conversation.
Two men were sitting a bit further along the counter, dressed in sober, cheap suits. One of them, balding, held a half-empty glass of wine and spoke in a low voice.
"Yes, indeed. Usually on Friday nights, it's rush hour... It's strange."
His companion, a younger man with red hair, nodded.
"It would be because of the Nevernight, from what I heard."
"The Nevernight? The new building in the south of Rayan Silver?"
"Only partly," replied the balding man, taking a sip. "If he's losing customers, it's mainly because he's starting to get a bad reputation. Because of the harassment he caused the owner of the Nevernight. Henry Penerith."
"Harassment? That could attract the Crows, that could. No wonder there are fewer people."
The balding man shook his head.
"Yes, but from what I've heard, there's another, deeper cause. Stephenson has been accused of murder. Investigators came here to question him. It's driving customers away."
Anathel took a sip of whiskey, pursing his lips. The liquor was of mediocre quality, but it suited the moment.
The Crows, huh, he thought.
He knew that underground guild well. The Crows regulated interactions between the various players in the underworld. Their principle was simple: you could kill each other as much as you wanted, as long as business continued to thrive and money kept flowing in. But if your quarrels attracted police attention, if they made headlines, if they threatened the fragile balance of the parallel economy... then the Crows would intervene.
And the Crows never intervened gently.
Stephenson's harassment, the murder accusation, the investigation, the bad press... This is getting interesting, Anathel mused. He felt the pieces of a plan falling into place in his mind, like dominoes he would only need to push at the right moment.
He glanced at the waiter bustling behind the counter. The man, a tall, thin guy with lanky hair, seemed to be listening to the conversation with an attention that didn't match his role. His movements were too slow when he wiped the glasses, his head too tilted toward the two customers.
Interesting, Anathel noted without dwelling on it.
He finished his whiskey, set the glass back on the counter, and stood up.
His initial plan had been simple: a forceful entry, the swift elimination of Andrew Stephenson, an exit before the guards could react. He had spent the afternoon scouting the building's exits, counting the guards — about twenty, maybe more — noting the blind spots and cameras.
But that plan wasted energy. And above all, it was boring.
Now, he had something better. Something simpler. Funnier.
The Crows were interested in Stephenson. The murder he was accused of could be exploited. The rivalry with Henry Penerith could serve as a diversion. And Tynim, the bodyguard with twelve victories, deserved a challenge worthy of her.
Anathel crossed the room with a confident step, weaving between the gaming tables and private lounges. The classical music still played, a melancholic adagio that seemed to accompany his thoughts.
Tomorrow night, he told himself, pushing open the exit door. Tomorrow night, I make my move.
The warm street air immediately enveloped him, gluing his shirt to his skin. The neon signs flickered, passersby laughed, cars drove slowly. The night of Rayan Silver continued without him.
He smiled in the darkness, a smile that no one saw, and melted into the crowd.