Xavier leaned on the edge of the blackjack table now, sipping on a drink he didn't even remember ordering.
"Sir, your chips," the dealer reminded with a stiff smile, sliding over his winnings like he was scared to offend.
Xavier didn't even look. Just waved a hand, distracted. "Keep 'em. Spread it to the losers who need it."
The people around the table froze.
A tall man in a grey suit narrowed his eyes. "You serious?"
Xavier turned his head slow. No rush.
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
That was enough. The man shut up. Someone clapped. Another guy muttered, "Must be some royal rich brat," under his breath, not knowing Xavier's glasses had audio filters sharper than a sniper scope.
Xavier smirked but didn't react.
He walked away. Not a single chip in hand. Didn't need it.
Because what he wanted couldn't be bought with chips.
He passed a bar section and two guys in flashy jackets nodded at him. They'd seen his play. They weren't nodding in respect — they were weighing him.
