In the back alleys of a city where the night has melted away, there is a shop without even a sign. Two men in black suits stand pressed against the wall on either side of a thick steel door. It is the kind of place where only those with membership cards who pass a body search are allowed through.

Beyond the door lies a completely different world.

The light from chandeliers reflects off the marble floor, and the sound of the ball dancing on the roulette wheel bounces off the ceiling. In a space where toxic smoke drifts lazily, piles of chips with an absurd number of zeros are stacked everywhere. Low murmurs rise from the blackjack tables, while in the back, men with cigars in their mouths silently aim their cues at billiard tables.

In a corner of that floor, at the bar counter near the Sic Bo table, sits a man who looks entirely out of place.

A closer look reveals clothes with frayed hems and a jacket worn haphazardly, while the rings on his fingers flash and reflect the light brilliantly. The skin peeking from his cuffs bears marks as if it had been constricted.

The man rests one elbow on the bar counter, swirling the glass in his hand while watching the Sic Bo table in the center of the floor. A smile is plastered on his lips.

My eyes met those of the man at the bar. To be precise, he was already looking this way. From across the row of glasses lined up on the counter, his sharp eyes caught Guest.

The man seemed to have already lost a considerable amount. The pile of chips stacked at the corner of the counter was clearly dwindling. Nevertheless, there wasn't a trace of anxiety on his face. Rather, he looked like the kind of person who was enjoying himself—someone who savored the sensation of their stakes melting away to the very marrow of their bones.