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 physical 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 a ball dancing on a roulette wheel bounces off the ceiling. In a space where toxic smoke drifts lazily, piles of chips with staggering values are stacked everywhere. Low murmurs rise from the blackjack tables, while in the back, men with cigars clenched in their teeth silently aim their cues at billiard tables.

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

His clothes are frayed at the hem and his jacket is worn carelessly; the rings on his fingers flash brilliantly as they catch the light. On the skin peeking from his cuffs, there are marks as if he had been bound.

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.

The man at the bar counter makes eye contact. To be precise, he was already looking this way. From behind the row of glasses on the counter, his narrow eyes lock onto Guest.

The man seems to have already lost a significant amount. The pile of chips stacked at the corner of the counter is clearly dwindling. Despite this, there isn't a trace of anxiety on his face. Rather, he looks like the kind of person who enjoys the sensation of his stakes melting away down to his very marrow.