Raxephon Resort
Bonus Spin!
The slot machines screamed and whirled, lights flashing in dizzying patterns, their cheerful music crafted to lure players deeper into chance's embrace. Rows of machines stretched across the casino floor, each seat filled by gamblers of every age and background. The house didn't discriminate when it came to feeding desperation.
Through the neon haze walked a man whose presence drew more than a few second glances. His hair, a shock of bright blond, bounced with each step, framing a face half-shadowed behind thick glasses. Dull grey eyes swept over the rows of machines, lingering on the crowded card tables before drifting away again. He wore simple clothes — a navy long-sleeved V-neck, dark khaki trousers, polished loafers — nothing that stood out. To the untrained eye, he looked like any ordinary man come to test his luck.
But his movements betrayed him. A subtle nod to passing staff, a slow and deliberate pace toward a vacant slot machine, a hand that lingered too long over the metal surface before sliding a dollar into the slot. His pale fingers traced the instructions on the panel with almost idle patience, though his gaze kept flicking toward his watch.
He was stalling. Waiting.
The air reeked of perfume, alcohol, sweat, and pheromones that clashed like cheap cologne. To most it was nothing, but to Nikolai — cursed with hypersensitivity — it was an assault. He could separate each note in the haze like instruments in a discordant symphony. Most were foul, cloying, overwhelming. Yet even that curse was his strength. It allowed him to pick out what others missed, to catch the faintest trace of what he sought.
He sat with a dull hum in his throat, eyes still on the machine, while his body betrayed his impatience. His foot tapped against the carpet, his fingers drummed restlessly on the cold metal. The agitation was like withdrawal — the hunger for contact, for heat, pressing against his restraint. He imagined the strangers around him in risky situations, imagined the warmth of skin beneath his hands, and his lips curved faintly at the thought.
Then his eyes caught on one in particular. Dark hair, pale skin, grey eyes that mirrored his own. Something about the man struck him as especially enticing, enough to make Nikolai's tongue dart across his lips before he realized it.
Unfamiliar faces, but familiar habits. He had seen their types before, read their files, studied their patterns. They wasted money with the giddy ease of gamblers who believed themselves untouchable. As they began to settle at their machines, Nikolai's breath caught again. This time the scent that lingered in the air was sharper, sweeter — so alluring it made his mouth water, his fangs ache to break free.
The aroma hung among them, teasing him, though he could not yet pinpoint its source. But he knew it would reveal itself soon enough.
One of the men — the loud one — shoved an obscene amount of cash into a slot machine. Nikolai's lips twitched. I wonder if that money was ever his to begin with.
He flicked his watch with casual ease, though the gesture was anything but idle. Somewhere in the shadows, an employee received the signal.
A moment later, confetti burst from the machine as though announcing a miracle. Cheers erupted, employees swarming the man with syrupy praise. "Jackpot, sir! Incredible!" Cameras flashed, laughter rose, the spectacle well-rehearsed.
An attendant gestured to the group, offering a more private room to sign their winnings — away from the crowd, away from watchful eyes.
And while the revelry swallowed them whole, Nikolai remained at his machine, back turned, shoulders steady. His head tilted just enough to hide the grin spreading across his lips — a sharp, sinister curl he did not bother to restrain.
The trap had been set.
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Lucien had never liked casinos.
Too many flashing lights, too many painted smiles. The air smelled stale despite the glittering chandeliers overhead, and the endless music from the slot machines throbbed behind his temples like a dull headache waiting to bloom.
Yet here he was, dragged along by coworkers who'd begged him to join. Birthday drinks, a little gambling — "just for fun," they'd said. Lucien had laughed, teased them, and let himself be pulled along. It wasn't as if he had better plans for the night.
He lingered near them at first, hands shoved deep into his pockets, eyes skimming the rows of tables and machines without much interest. His friends had already scattered — some rushing to the roulette wheel, others clustering around a row of slots that promised impossible jackpots. Lucien forced a crooked grin, trying to appear relaxed, though something under his skin itched like the memory of an old scar.
He blamed it on the noise. On the lights. On maybe the strange heat prickling along his spine. Something faint, tantalizing, slipped past the ordinary crowd — a scent that teased at the edges of his awareness, like smoke curling around a candle he hadn't lit. He ignored it, told himself it was nothing.
"Come on, Lucien!" one of them shouted over the clamor, waving him toward a high-stakes slot. "You've got the best luck out of all of us!"
Lucien chuckled, shaking his head, and drifted closer anyway. "Luck, huh? Pretty sure it doesn't work that way," he muttered under his breath.
He pulled a few notes from his wallet and slid them into the machine. His fingers tapped restlessly against the cold metal as the reels began to spin. His pulse had quickened — maybe from the music, maybe from the air, heavy with something sharp and unfamiliar.
He told himself it was nerves.
Around him, his coworkers laughed, their voices pitched strangely brittle, but Lucien hardly noticed. He was too busy forcing himself to relax, loosening his shoulders, wearing that easy grin as the reels clicked into place: nothing but cherries and lemons.
Unbeknownst to him, eyes watched from across the floor. A presence. A scent. Familiar in some ways, impossible in others. The air between them seemed to twitch.
Yet Lucien remained oblivious. Even his unusually senses, usually so sharp, were buried beneath the relentless clamor of the casino, and what should have been entertaining now felt exhausting.
It was just another night for the crowd.
Just another spin.
Lucien had barely settled on the edge of his stool when a bright carnival scream split the air.
"JACKPOT!"
Confetti rained from the ceiling, glittering like cheap stardust, tumbling through the air with a soft rustle against the polished floor. His friend — Mark, loudest of the bunch — leapt up, arms raised as if he'd just scored the winning goal of his life. A heartbeat later, employees in crisp vests appeared as though conjured, clapping and calling him sir with syrupy enthusiasm.
Lucien blinked, jaw tightening. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered under his breath.
It wasn't envy. God knew he didn't even want to play. The whole place felt too… fake, the air scraping at the back of his throat like steel wool. The speed of it all — the oversized check produced in an instant, the clapping staff, the too-smooth invitation for a "private photo" — made his skin crawl.
"See? Told you, Hale!" Mark whooped, nearly dragging Lucien from his seat by the elbow. "You bring the luck, man! I told them, didn't I? You're our lucky charm!"
Lucien let himself be tugged a few steps, pulse drumming in his ears. I didn't even play, he wanted to say, but bit his tongue.
"I'm really not," he sighed instead, voice low, forcing a tired smile that never touched his eyes. "Don't get too carried away, yeah?"
They were already carried away. The ink was barely dry on the check before his friends were shoving more bills and cards across the counters. "Double it! Triple it! Luck's on our side tonight!" one barked, his voice thick with that dangerous, giddy desperation Lucien had seen in drunks just before they picked fights.
Lucien's gut twisted. "Guys, slow down," he said, stepping closer. "Seriously — don't dump everything at once. Places like this don't lose often."
They didn't hear him. Or didn't want to. Mark slapped him on the back, too hard. "Come on, Hale! Live a little! Buy in! At least drink something if you're gonna stand there brooding!"
Lucien exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. Fine. If he couldn't stop them, he'd at least keep watch.
He flagged down a waitress, ordered a whiskey neat — something to keep his hands busy — and watched as the group poured out cash they shouldn't have had, eyes glassy with hope.
Beneath the smoky burn of the whiskey, something older gnawed at his bones. A deep, primal warning. His heart beat faster; the air thickened, tainted by something he couldn't name.
He caught it again, faint this time — a scent. Sharp, intoxicating, almost predatory. His pale eyes flicked across the floor, scanning machines, employees, the shadows.
Something was off.
His friends laughed, oblivious, drunk on sudden fortune. Lucien swallowed the warning crawling up his throat and tipped back the glass, trying to drown the restless itch beneath his skin.
Just let them play, he told himself. Just get through tonight, then leave.
But deep inside, buried under human doubt, the part of him he didn't yet understand — the part with claws and fangs — bristled in silence.
And Lucien, stubborn as ever, turned his gaze back to his drink, convincing himself he was only imagining things.