The alarm buzzed relentlessly at 8:00 a.m., dragging Lucien from another night of restless sleep. His dark circles betrayed the lack of rest, his shoulders heavy with fatigue as he swung his legs off the bed and got ready for the day. The apartment was quiet, the faint glow of morning light filtering through the window.
By 8:30, he was at the bus station, waiting for the next ride. The cold morning air did little to wake him, and he rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the haze of exhaustion. That's when he saw a familiar face.
Panic flared. He pressed his hand to his face, heart thudding. Crap... he's here. Don't look. Stay out of sight.
But it was too late. The man's voice rang across the station.
"Lucien!"
He froze, then slowly turned. The man approaching was short, with a big belly that pushed against his plain shirt. His trousers were simple, tucked neatly into worn boots, but it was the expression on his face that made Lucien tense: the man looked furious, eyes narrowing, jaw tight, and gray hairs stubbornly poking through his otherwise black hair.
"Good morning, Mr. Grayson," Lucien said, forcing a polite tone.
"Good? What's good about this morning?" Mr. Grayson snapped, his deep frown making it clear he was not a man to joke with. "When will I get the money?"
"I'll give it to you when I get back," Lucien replied, keeping his voice steady, though unease knotted in his stomach.
Mr. Grayson's gaze hardened, filled with mistrust. "You better bring it with you."
"I'll bring it, don't worry, Mr. Grayson," Lucien said firmly.
"If you don't bring the money," Mr. Grayson warned, "I'll have to throw you out of the apartment."
Before Lucien could respond, the bus screeched into the station. He climbed aboard, keeping his thoughts tangled between fear and obligation.
Neon signs flashed in every color, reflecting off polished floors and mirrored walls, casting a kaleidoscope of light across the room. The hum of slot machines filled the air, punctuated by the cheerful clink of coins and the mechanical jingle of jackpots.
The smell of perfume and cigars mingled with the faint scent of alcohol, creating an intoxicating mix that seemed to wrap itself around every visitor. Velvet ropes guided lines of eager gamblers toward tables covered in green felt, where chips stacked high and cards moved with hypnotic rhythm. Waiters weaved through the crowd, balancing trays of drinks, their polished shoes sliding silently across the marble floors.
The casino was alive, buzzing with energy, all designed to draw people in and make them lose themselves-and their money.
Lucien sat at a blackjack table, the green felt stretched beneath stacks of chips. His jaw tensed as the cards were dealt, his eyes flicking between his hand and the dealer's with growing frustration. The game wasn't going his way; the losses piled up, and his expression darkened with every turn.
After some time, he stood, brushing chips from his hands, and made his way to the cashier.
"I need more chips," he said, sliding a few bills across the counter, hoping to turn the tide.
While he waited, a voice broke through the din.
"You look like you're having some troubles."
Lucien turned his head. The man before him looked old-perhaps in his sixties-but carried an aura of authority. A scar ran down his cheek, a brown eye sharp and observant. He wore a tailored suit, a hat perched neatly on his head, and leaned slightly on a polished walking stick, the kind elderly men used for support. Every detail of him screamed wealth and refinement.
"I'm Silas Crowe," the man said, his voice smooth, confident.
"I can give you a lot of money."
Lucien's interest piqued at the word, though suspicion creased his brow. He hesitated for a moment, then leaned slightly forward.
"All right... I'm listening," he said, his voice cautious but curious.