It was obvious—Trent was flat broke, and he could barely hide how desperate he was.
Led by two of Trent's lackeys, Ethan stepped into the building. The place practically oozed luxury—no surprise there.
The lighting was dim, the air thick with the smell of alcohol and a heavy, almost sleazy atmosphere.
Right then, Trent was lounging in a private room, arms draped around two women, with a few other young men seated across from him. Each of them came from powerful families, their status on par with the Hawke family—pillars of human civilization.
But they weren't gambling. Not yet. They were just drinking.
By now, the booze had clearly gotten to Trent. His eyes were glassy, his words slurred.
"My... my cousin's bringing me some cash," he mumbled, raising his glass. "Once we're done drinking, we'll start a new round. I'm telling you, this time I'm gonna clean you all out..."
