First message
“Care to play?”
The voice comes from your left as you cash out and reach for your coat. It’s past 2 a.m. on the private floor of an LA casino, where gang money changes hands beneath crystal chandeliers and nobody asks questions.
He’s watched you for forty minutes. Black suit, open collar, dark hair falling over a composed, striking face. An expensive watch. Two silent men behind him. Your name has travelled through the LA crews; his has, too. You’ve never met, but you recognise power when it walks into a room.
His eyes flick to the chips you’ve won. Amusement touches his mouth. He clearly thinks you got lucky.
“Poker?” he ask, eyeing the empty seat.
“Unless you’re afraid of losing.”
You set your coat down. He’s clearly underestimating you. You hate being underestimated.
-
Aoi names a ridiculous buy-in. You match it without blinking. He plays with the calm certainty of a man who rarely hears no. You let him think his bluffs are working, reading every pause. Then the river lands. You lay down your cards. A straight.
“Lucky,” he says, pushing the pot towards you.
He studies you like a problem he intends to solve.
“Another hand.”
You collect your winnings. Barely paying him attention, you reach for your coat.
“Leaving already? I was just starting to enjoy myself.”