In the deepest corner of Hell's Kitchen, there stood a sprawling, neon-soaked fortress of sin — a nightclub that pulsed like the black heart of the Maggia crime syndicate.
Even at two in the morning, the place was alive. Music thumped. Lights flashed. Money and whiskey flowed in equal measure.
At the entrance, a dozen armed guards stood like a pack of wolves, their jackets bulging with the shapes of concealed weapons.
Darren strolled toward the door, hands in his pockets.
Two men stepped forward, blocking his path.
"Routine check."
"No problem."
He lifted his arms obediently as they swept him with a metal detector. Naturally, it didn't beep — his arsenal was tucked safely in his in-game inventory.
"Clear. You can go in."
Darren smiled politely and slipped inside, swallowed by the noise and chaos.
...
The nightclub's interior was massive — bars, dance floors, lounges, and, at its glittering center, the casino.
Darren made straight for it.
Dozens of tables stretched under gold-tinted chandeliers. Every dealer was a walking distraction in red lipstick and tight silk, her neckline so deep it could've hidden an ace of spades.
Most players, however, were too busy staring at the "cards" to notice their wallets emptying.
Darren slid into an empty seat. The dealer beamed her most professional smile.
"Good evening, sir. What would you like to play?"
"Euchre."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You know Euchre."
Her smile froze. "I'm sorry, sir, we don't offer that here."
"Then maybe Spades?"
"No."
"Pinochle, at least?"
"No!" she snapped, cleavage trembling in fury.
Darren sighed. "Boring. Fine, I'll go with high or low."
Instantly, her professional smile snapped back into place. "Very well, sir."
She scooped up the dice cup and began to shake. Her wrists blurred; the dice rattled in a rhythm so smooth and hypnotic that Darren couldn't help but watch closely—purely for research, of course.
So fast… so bouncy—no, no, focus, Darren, focus.
A few seconds later, she set the cup down. "How much would you like to bet?"
"Go all in. Big."
He tossed out… one lonely chip.
The dealer stared. One chip?
Still, she lifted the cup. 5-5-6. Sixteen points. Big.
She exhaled quietly and pushed two chips toward him. "Congratulations, sir. Care to continue?"
"Of course."
...
Ten minutes later.
Darren hummed cheerfully as he sipped a cappuccino, watching his mountain of chips grow higher and higher until it nearly blocked his view of the dealer's horrified face.
At least half a million in winnings.
[Skill: Blessing of the God of Gambling's Apprentice]
[Description: Your gambling skills have reached near-divine perfection. In any casino, you are nearly unbeatable.]
[Note: Beware—money won by luck must be spent on charity. Keep it for yourself, and misfortune will follow.]
If not for that nasty debuff, Darren could've bankrupted Las Vegas by sunrise.
The dealer's hands were trembling now. "S-sir… would you like to keep playing?"
"Of course."
She swallowed hard and shook again, more desperately this time—five whole minutes of shaking, her neckline now practically a black hole of distraction.
When she finally stopped, her arms quivered.
Darren leaned forward, eyes glittering. "All in. I'm calling triple sixes."
The dealer's throat bobbed as she lifted the cup.
Six. Six. Six.
The table went dead silent.
The pile of chips exploded in value.
For a moment, the dealer looked oddly… relieved. She quietly pulled out her phone under the table and started searching for coffin sizes. Losing ten million in one night meant the Maggia would literally skin her alive.
Then came the heavy footsteps.
A thick-necked man in a black suit appeared beside Darren, eyes cold. "Sir, please come with me."
Darren's smile didn't falter. "What's this? Win too much and now you won't pay up?"
His voice carried, drawing the attention of half the casino. The enforcer's jaw tightened.
He couldn't cause a scene—not in front of customers. "You misunderstand. The stakes here are too high. Please, follow me to our VIP room where you can play privately."
Yeah, right. The moment he left this floor, he'd be "escorted" somewhere with fewer witnesses and more shovels.
Darren tilted his head, lips curling into a grin. "No need. Tell you what—give me a hundred million cash right now, and I'll walk away quietly."
The man blinked, incredulous. "Why don't you just rob us?"
"Oh?" Darren's grin widened. "How did you know that was the plan?"
Before the man could process that, Darren pulled out a gleaming Golden Desert Eagle, the barrel as thick as his thumb, catching the flashing lights overhead.
"Hands up, everyone!" he barked. "This is a robbery!"
...
Meanwhile, deep inside a luxurious private room at the back of the club—
A massive, bald-headed brute lounged on a leather sofa, his neck like a tree trunk, his skull gleaming like polished steel. His meaty hands were busily groping the two women in his lap as if kneading dough.
They called him Hammerhead, the Russian monster of the Maggia.
Across from him sat a lean man in glasses—Wesley. His tone was polite, but his eyes cold.
"Hammerhead," Wesley said, "have you considered my employer's offer?"
Hammerhead snorted without even looking up. "Tell Fisk to come talk himself."
"Mr. Fisk is… a busy man. But he's authorized me—"
"Then we're done."
The brute's tone was pure arrogance.
Wesley's eyes narrowed. "I heard the so-called Demons has ruined several of your operations lately. If our organizations were to cooperate, we could—"
"Shut up." Hammerhead's hand slammed the table, his voice thunderous. "Those damned Demons—I'll handle them myself!"
"They're said to be formidable. Even for you—"
"Ha!" Hammerhead barked a laugh and thumped his massive skull. The sound was like striking an iron anvil. "You think I'm scared? Bullets bounce off me, boy! No one in Hell's Kitchen can touch the Maggia! No one can—"
BANG!
The door exploded open.
A trembling thug stumbled in, gasping for air.
"B-boss! Bad news! Someone's… someone's robbing the place!!"
Hammerhead froze. "…What?"