“Doesn't it?”
I turned to leave, then stopped. “Why do you care about failing algorithms in a criminal's casino?”
“Why do you protect players from scams when the house pays you not to?”
He'd seen that too. The way I shut down the worst predators, protected the newest marks, kept the games just fair enough that people had a chance. Small rebellions that could get me killed if anyone noticed.
“Habit,” I lied.
“Compassion,” he corrected.
The word sat between us, weightless and impossible to ignore. I didn’t know if it was a challenge or a lifeline.
The question of what game he was truly playing returned, more insistent than before, followed by the question of why I wanted so badly to know the answer.
VARRICK
The VIP services coordinator barely looked up from her screens when I approached. A Merrith, small and efficient, her six fingers dancing across multiple interfaces simultaneously.
“Private game,” I said, sliding a credit chip across her desk. “High stakes. Tonight.”
She scanned the chip, and her demeanor shifted. The amount did that. “Of course, sir. Administrator Qeth appreciates high-stakes players. He believes they add a certain... quality to the station's reputation. Preferred game?”
The casual mention of Qeth’s name confirmed what I already knew. This entire den of desperation was his. Which meant the Regalia I was hunting was somewhere within these decaying walls.
“Flux. Six players maximum.” I paused, making the next part sound like an afterthought. “And I want the dealer from Table Seven. Sabine.”
Her fingers hesitated for just a moment. “Specific dealer requests require additional fees.”
I added another chip. “That should cover it.”
“Level nineteen, Suite Four. At the start of the third shift.” She processed the transaction. “Your dealer will be assigned as requested.”
The suite was excessive, all black walls and gold fixtures, with a table that cost more than most beings made in a year. The other players were already arriving when I got there. A Nexian arms dealer. Two Lyrikan siblings who'd inherited their wealth. And a Fainith businessman named Jor Pamat, sweating through his third merger and reeking of entitlement. All wealthy enough to make this interesting, none observant enough to matter.
Sabine arrived precisely at the start of the shift, dressed in the VIP dealer uniform—same black as the standard, but cut sharper, the fabric catching the light differently. She set up her station without looking at any of us directly. Pure professionalism.
“Gentlemen, lady,” she said, addressing the room. “House rules apply. Minimum bet ten thousand, no maximum. The house provides refreshments but recommends moderation.”
The Nexian laughed. “Moderation is for the poor.”
I took my seat directly across from her. The best position to watch her work, to ensure she saw every move I made.
The first three hands, I played flawlessly. Not showing off—just demonstrating complete understanding of the game's mathematics. Every bet optimized. Every decision perfect.
Then the Fainaith, Jor Pamat, now thoroughly drunk on Altairian brandy, decided to notice Sabine.
“You're pretty for a human,” he slurred, leaning too far across the table. “What's someone like you doing in a place like this?”
I watched her reaction. There was none. Her face remained a perfect, neutral mask, but I saw the muscles in her neck tighten almost imperceptibly. A predator’s stillness. She continued her deal without a word.
“I asked you a question, dealer.” His voice sharpened with irritation. He reached out, his hand closing around her wrist as she dealt his cards. “Show some respect.”
My hand shot across the table, clamping down on his wrist with enough force to make him gasp. The sound of my fingers compressing his bones was quiet, but it carried in the suddenly silent room.
“The dealer isn't part of the game,” I said. My voice stayed conversational, but something in it made the Lyrikan siblings lean back.
Pamat tried to pull his arm free, then glared when he couldn't. “Get your hands off me! Do you know who I am? I pay my tribute to The Conclave. This entire station runs on their good will. She's just property.”
