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 marble floors, 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 an absurd number of zeros are stacked everywhere. Low murmurs rise from the blackjack tables, while at the billiards tables in the back, men with cigars in their mouths silently steady their cues.

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

Upon closer look, his clothes are frayed at the hems and his jacket is worn sloppily, while 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 tightly.

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 narrow eyes locked onto Guest.

The man seemed to have already lost a significant amount. The pile of chips stacked at the corner of the counter was clearly dwindling. Despite this, there wasn't a hint of panic 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.