Crystal Hell in gilding
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Stepping into the Golden Dragon casino, they froze.
The place hit them like a sensory overload—a blinding spectacle of luxury so excessive it felt unreal, like a movie set for a film about obscene wealth and forbidden pleasures.
Crystal chandeliers, suspended from massive silver chains, flooded the hall with shimmering light, transforming the space into a glittering labyrinth of reflections and shadows. Each prism cast dancing patterns across the walls and ceiling, as though alive, moving to some unseen rhythm. The black marble floor mirrored the light like a midnight lake, creating an illusion of depth—as if the room stretched downward into dark waters where untold treasures lay hidden.
The air was thick—a cocktail of cigar smoke, the cloying powder of expensive perfumes, and something sharper, metallic, illicit. The scents mingled into an intoxicating haze that made heads spin. It was the smell of adrenaline, blood, or maybe just money—heavy, clinging, seeping into clothes and skin, staining memory itself.
Somewhere in the distance, chips clinked, dealers murmured, occasionally interrupted by the shouts of winners or the stifled groans of losers. Everything here pulsed with risk, danger—every step on that marble floor could lead to dizzying triumph or ruin. The game wasn't just at the tables—it hung in the air, in every glance, every twitch of lips, every nervous gesture.
The Golden Dragon didn't just welcome guests—it swallowed them whole, promising gold and glory while demanding something far greater than money in return. Here, the line between reality and illusion blurred, between luck and fate, between triumph and destruction. And those who crossed its threshold no longer belonged to themselves.
The Prophet narrowed his burgundy eyes, adjusting to the assault of light that hit him like a wave of scorching sand. His pupils, slit-thin, trembled, struggling to adapt to the unnatural brightness—as if someone had ripped all the shadows out of the room. His white hair, tied in a careless knot, glowed like moonlight on snow—cold, almost phosphorescent, making him look like a ghost who'd stumbled into the world of the living.
His fingers twitched toward the paw-print sticker on his cheek—old, worn, its edges peeling. A habit worn smooth by repetition: touch, trace the rough surface, feel the scar beneath that no one ever saw. A nervous tic left over from the days when he still believed in luck, in justice, in changing the world through sheer will. Now, it was just an empty gesture, like fingering prayer beads after forgetting all the words.
"Fucking lightshow," he rasped, his voice like cigarette ash. His lips twisted into something closer to a snarl than a smile. "Like they're trying to blind you before the knife goes in."
Adelina stood beside him, her near-two-meter shadow stretching across the floor like a warning, a black river dividing the world into before and after. She didn't move, but her stillness was a threat—as if the edge of her nodachi was already at every throat in the room, they just hadn't felt the cold yet.
Her pitch-black hair, pulled into two thin strands at her bun, looked even darker against her marble-pale skin—like ink on snow. Her face was impassive, but beneath that calm seethed a storm: her crimson eyes, cold as her blade's edge, methodically scanned the room, dissecting every detail.
- Guard by the left column—right hand near his holster, but fingers trembling. Afraid.
- Dealer at the third table—checking his watch too often. Waiting for a shift change… or a signal?
- Rich idiot in the velvet jacket—placing bets, but his gaze is empty. Already lost more than he can afford.
"VIP lounge," she said, her voice low and sharp, like steel slicing air. Not a question—a fact. If words could kill, hers would leave clean cuts, just like her nodachi. "If the rumors are true, she's there."
They moved through the crowd, and people parted without realizing why.
- Maybe it was the Prophet's gaze—hollow as a dead monitor, yet seeing everything.
- Maybe it was the way Adelina carried her nodachi—casually, as if the blade were an extension of her arm, not just metal.
- Or maybe it was the way they walked—not like guests, but like those who already knew whose throat would be slit tonight.
The black-suited guards exchanged nervous glances. The youngest took a step forward—but the oldest yanked him back by the elbow. His lips formed a silent word, unmistakable even without sound:
Don't. They're not ours.
And the crowd closed behind them like water over a diver sinking into the depths where light never reaches.
The VIP lounge was an oasis of false calm, an artificial paradise for those who could afford the luxury of pretending not to care. No drunk gamblers' shouts here—just the whisper of cards like moth wings, the dull clink of glasses toasting to others' ruin, and low voices discussing sums ordinary people wouldn't earn in a lifetime. Any number spoken here could've saved a dying village—but here, they meant less than dust on polished shoes.
The air smelled of aged cognac, leather couches, and something else—power, maybe. That particular mix of arrogance and fear that sticks in the throat like expensive whiskey—first burning, then intoxicating. The ventilation barely kept up with the cigar smoke coiling under the ceiling like storm clouds over a battlefield.
And there, at the central table—buried under chips like autumn leaves and empty glasses like gutted trophies—she held court.
---
Fortune
---
Not a goddess—but playing at divinity. Not a queen—yet ruling this card-strewn kingdom. Her throne was just a leather chair, but it might as well have been an ancient relic when her fingers drummed against the green felt, conducting this mad ballet of chance.
Her black hair, streaked with pink and tied into a high ponytail, looked disheveled—like she'd just stumbled out of a brawl or someone's bed. Or both. Who could say for sure? Poison-red eyes studied the newcomers with mocking amusement, as if she already knew how this would end. Those eyes had seen too many losers to doubt her victory.
"Well, well. Who do we have here?" Her voice was rough, laced with the kind of mockery only a cat toying with a mouse could muster. But in this game, all the mice had long since had their throats slit. Her right hand, clad in torn fishnet gloves, lazily shuffled the deck, making the cards bend and twitch like living things. "ATPC? Or just unlucky fools trying their luck?"
The Prophet smirked. His burgundy eyes glinted under the chandeliers like shards of bloodstained glass lost in snow. There was something older than Fortune herself in that gaze—the knowledge of every game humanity had ever played.
"The latter." He let the word hang in the air like a chip teetering on the table's edge. "But tonight, it seems our luck's about to change."
Fortune laughed—sharp, almost feral. The sound was like a noose creaking in the wind. Cards leapt into the air, spinning around her fingers as if pulled by invisible strings, dancing a macabre waltz where every step was a fate reshuffled in the deck of chance.
"Oh, sweetheart," she leaned forward, the pink streak in her hair falling across her forehead like a trickle of blood on marble, "you have no idea who you're dealing with. In my game, the stakes are always higher than they seem, and the odds—" She flicked a card. "—oh, the odds died in their cradle long ago."
Adelina moved first—swift, unhesitating, like a shadow off its chain.
Her nodachi flashed from beneath her kimono—a black lightning bolt splitting the air. The blade howled, cutting through the smoke with a vicious shriek, as if the steel itself thirsted for blood. Fortune twisted away with uncanny grace, as if she'd known the strike's trajectory, as if they'd danced this dance a thousand times before.
"Roulette of Luck," she whispered, and the cards in her hand ignited crimson, phosphorescent.
A translucent wheel materialized in the air, shimmering like a mirage. Symbols flickered across its surface—skulls, coins, daggers. The arrow spun with a crack, grinding against reality like rusted gears of fate.
It landed: Wild Money.
Shards of SCF—mnemocrystals, this city's currency—rained from nowhere. A blinding hail of glittering fragments, chiming as they hit the floor, refracting in eyes, blades, chandeliers, turning the hall into a kaleidoscope of light. In that same breath, Fortune lunged forward, exploiting the chaos. A butterfly knife flashed like a predator's fang, aimed for the throat.
The Prophet intercepted, appearing as if from the air itself. His ninjatō parried with a shrill ring, sparks scattering like falling stars.
"You're not the only one with tricks," he hissed, voice dripping with icy fury.
Fortune recoiled, lips peeling back in a grin.
"Sure you want to keep playing?"
A snap of her fingers.
"Card Dealer."
A single card slid from the deck: King of Hearts.
The room plunged into near-darkness, as if someone had yanked the world's plug from its socket. Shadows stirred—silhouettes of Fortune, dozens, maybe hundreds, rising from the gloom. Their eyes glowed like starving beasts'.
Adelina tightened her grip on the nodachi, knuckles whitening.
"Illusions?" she asked, though her tone said she already knew.
The Prophet shook his head, eyes narrowing.
"Worse."
Fortune laughed, the sound echoing through the hall, mingling with the whisper of cards and chime of coins.
"Bets are in, gentlemen."
The battle dissolved into chaos—blinding, deafening, beautiful in its madness.
SCF fell from the ceiling in an endless hail, ringing like death cries, clattering underfoot, turning the floor into a treacherous ice rink. The Golden Dragon no longer obeyed physics—walls shifted like a nightmare labyrinth, mirrors multiplied space, warping reflections of the fight into thousands.
Adelina gritted her teeth, sweat trickling down her temples.
"Mental Imprint!"
The air wavered—a silhouette formed. A perfect copy of the Prophet, his double, forged by her iron will. Even the cold fire in those burgundy eyes was identical.
Fortune faltered for half a second—but that was enough.
The nodachi shrieked through the smoke. Fortune twisted aside with feline grace, but the blade still grazed her shoulder, leaving a crimson stripe on pale skin—like a brushstroke of blood on canvas.
"Damn you!" For the first time, her voice cracked with rage, not mockery.
The Prophet seized the moment, his form melting into the smoke.
"Game over, dealer."
But Fortune laughed through the pain, and in that laugh was something older than the casino itself.
"Oh, darling… do you even know what real loss feels like?"
A snap.
"Risk Multiplier."
The Golden Dragon exploded.
The blast shattered stained glass, and night air rushed in, clashing with acrid smoke. Crystal shards rained onto marble, turning the floor into a battlefield of mirrored fragments.
Fortune, clutching her bleeding shoulder, staggered toward a black exit. Her poison-red eyes narrowed in pain, but her smirk remained.
"Well, heroes?" Her voice cut through the fire's roar, metallic, grating. "You won big—but you'll still burn."
The Prophet surged to his feet, shaking off debris. His eyes burned with something beyond anger—the cold resolve of vengeance.
"You forgot who you're dealing with."
He lunged, ninjatō flashing like storm lightning. Fortune dodged—but Adelina, still on one knee, yanked hard on the chain at her waist, sending her crashing down.
"Catch."
Fortune hit the floor with a snarl. The Prophet raised his blade for the final strike—
Then the right wall collapsed.
Three figures in masks stormed in—her lieutenants.
Trump. Joker. Ace.
Clad in black, faces hidden behind ceramic masks reflecting the flames. Trump wielded a zweihänder, Joker spun razor-edged cards between his fingers, and Ace leveled a massive revolver engraved with spades.
The fire consumed what remained of the Golden Dragon, licking at gilded columns, turning opulence to ash. Smoke choked the air—but Fortune wasn't smiling anymore.
"Did you really think it'd be that easy?" Her voice was hoarse, stripped of mockery. Only cold fury remained.
She raised her hand. The last cards in her deck burned scarlet.
"Final Bet."
The air trembled. The casino—the fire, the smoke, even time itself—seized for a heartbeat.
"I'm all in."
Her eyes glowed like embers.
"If I fall—this place becomes your tomb."
The floor beneath them cracked. Marble tiles crumbled into a black abyss.
Adelina felt the ground vanish.
"She triggered the self-destruct!" The Prophet grabbed a broken pillar.
Fortune stood on the last intact patch of floor, her figure flickering in the smoke like a ghost.
"Goodbye, heroes."
Her lieutenants—still alive, but already doomed—realized they'd been betrayed.
"Boss?!" Trump tried to rise, but the floor gave way beneath him. His barrier didn't activate—Fortune had already disabled his abilities.
"You—" Joker reached for her, but gravity abandoned him. His laughter turned to a death rattle as he fell.
Ace flipped her coin one last time.
"Tails."
But luck no longer mattered. The abyss swallowed her whole.
Fortune turned to the Prophet and Adelina.
"You ruined everything. But at least I'll take you with me."
Adelina didn't wait. She leapt across the gap—the nodachi flashed like lightning.
Fortune tried to dodge, but her wounded shoulder betrayed her. The blade pierced her chest.
"No more… games…" she whispered, then collapsed into the fire.
The casino crumbled.
"Move!" The Prophet grabbed Adelina's arm.
They sprinted for the window—the last exit. Glass shattered under their impact as they tumbled out just as the Golden Dragon erupted in a final, cataclysmic blast.
A fireball mushroomed into the sky.
---
The rusty taste of victory
---
Adelina pushed herself up onto one knee, breathing heavily.
"It's over."
The Prophet stared at the blazing ruins.
"Yeah. But the crystal—" he rasped between breaths.
"Damn the crystal!" she snapped, voice cracking. "Hell... hell! Damn it all! She hissed through gritted teeth, grief twisting her features. "How many civilians died tonight? No intel. No leads. Just ashes. Goddammit!"
"Adelina." The Prophet's voice cut through—soft, yet commanding.
She flinched, turning toward him just as his arms wrapped around her—tight but careful, as if she might vanish if he loosened his grip.
"Oh—" The gasp escaped before she could process it. Her heart hammered against her ribs. No time to think, no time to resist—just the warmth of his embrace and the faint tremor in her own limbs.
"Easy, Ad'ka," he murmured, squeezing her shoulders with a faint smile. "Mnemocrystals are durable. The investigative team will recover them by tomorrow. And then..." A pause. "I'll dig up every scrap of intel left."
His voice wavered, his gaze dimming for a heartbeat. "But the dead... I can't help them now."
"Mhm..." Adelina pressed closer, her cheek brushing his collar. "Haven't called me that in ages. Missed it, honestly."
Silence lingered before she cautiously lifted her eyes to his.
"Hey... Prophet."
"Yeah?"
"Can I... stay at your place tonight?" The whisper came muffled, her blush hidden behind a strand of hair.
He laughed—quiet, warm—and brushed his thumb along her cheekbone.
"Yeah."
Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed, tearing through the night.
"Heh. Party's here," the Prophet smirked, glancing toward the noise. "C'mon. We've got debriefs to suffer through."
"Right." Adelina nodded, her hand finding his. Their fingers tangled like it was the most natural thing in the world.