Two hours bled into each other in a blur of lights, noise, and adrenaline. Xavier had long forgotten the concept of time—he was buried deep in the high of the tables, in the sharp shuffle of cards, the spin of wheels, the clatter of dice. Each sound built into a symphony around him, with him at the center of attention and the man of action.
He started small—slots, roulette, blackjack—mostly leaning toward tables where the house took pleasure in breaking the confidence of rich idiots who thought money could bend odds. Xavier flipped that entire balance. Every round he joined ended with the same stunned silence, then clapping, then whispers. The house didn't lose; Xavier won.
By the time he moved to the high-stakes tables, word had spread. The upper balcony filled with men in suits and women in shimmering dresses, watching through their drinks. The pit below buzzed. Then someone, a corp brat with too much money and pride, stood up and shouted, "I'll play you myself!"
