Location: Fenwick District — The Volchok Casino — Night
Elijah walked through the entrance.
His steps were slow, deliberate, each footfall pressing against the carpeted floor with the weight of someone who had already calculated every possible outcome. His shoulders were loose. His arms hung at his sides. His head was tilted slightly forward, the hood casting his features in shadow, the black surgical mask hiding his mouth.
The main antagonist of a nightmare, someone would later whisper. The one who walks like he owns the place because he knows he will.
The security guards at the door were three.
Their suits were black, their earpieces coiled around their ears, their hands clasped in front of them. Their faces were the faces of men who had been told they were important and had believed it.
"Remove the mask," one of them said.
Elijah shook his head.
"Remove the mask, or you don't enter."
Elijah's hand moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just... there.
His fingers pressed against the first guard's neck—a point just below the ear, where the carotid artery pulsed. The guard's eyes widened. His knees buckled. He slid to the floor.
The second guard reached for his earpiece.
Elijah's other hand found his wrist. His thumb pressed against the inside of the guard's forearm. The man's fingers went numb. His arm dropped. His legs folded.
The third guard tried to step back.
Elijah's foot swept his ankles. The man fell forward. Elijah's palm caught his chest, guided him to the ground, and pressed him there—not hard, just enough to keep him still.
"Hey, yellow boy," one of them spat. "What did you do to us?"
His voice was thick with rage.
His body was still.
"Relax, buddy," Elijah said.
His voice was different now—not soft, not high, not sweet. Flatter. The voice of someone who had grown up in the streets of Huxai, who had learned English from American movies and picked up the cadence of hustlers and thieves.
He ran a hand through his hair.
"Just stay put."
"Are you from Huxai?" another guard asked.
"Yeah, wait—are you—"
Elijah's hand moved again.
A small cloth, folded, emerged from his pocket. He pressed it against the guard's mouth.
"Shh."
The guard's eyes fluttered.
He went still.
---
The music changed.
A new song drifted through the speakers—slower now, more atmospheric, the kind of melody that made people feel like they were underwater.
"I've been hoping for a way to make it right," a voice sang.
"Holding onto nothing in the middle of the night."
The lyrics were familiar, but wrong. Changed. Adapted.
"Every step I take, I feel the ground give way."
"Every word I say, I wish I hadn't said that day."
The crowd moved. Bodies swayed. Eyes closed. The gamblers at the tables didn't notice the three men lying near the entrance. The dealers didn't look up from their cards. The waitresses didn't stop carrying their trays.
Elijah walked through them.
His steps were still slow. Still deliberate. His eyes were fixed on the back of the casino, where a velvet rope separated the public floor from the private rooms.
The off-limits area, he thought. Where the real games happen.
Where the real money flows.
Where the real people hide.
---
Six men stood at the entrance to the private rooms.
Their suits were black. Their sunglasses were mirrored. Their hands were clasped in front of them. Their faces were the faces of men who had been trained to stand still for hours and had forgotten how to do anything else.
They saw Elijah approaching.
One of them raised his hand.
"Stop. This area is—"
Elijah kept walking.
The air around him changed.
Not temperature—pressure. A cold that had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the Tenryu pulsing within his chest. It radiated outward from him in waves that made the guards' breath catch and their fingers stiffen.
Particles, someone would later try to describe. Tiny particles, like dust in a sunbeam, but they were moving against the air. Flowing toward him. Flowing through him.
And when they touched you—
You couldn't move.
The first guard's knees buckled.
The second guard's hands dropped to his sides.
The third guard tried to raise his weapon. His arm wouldn't obey. His fingers wouldn't close around the grip.
Elijah reached him.
His palm struck the man's jaw—not hard, precise. The guard's head snapped back. His body spun. He collapsed.
The fourth guard tried to run.
Elijah's foot caught his ankle. The man fell forward. Elijah's knee pressed against his spine. His hand closed around the back of the man's neck.
"Stay," Elijah said.
The fifth guard swung a fist.
Elijah wasn't there.
His body swayed—not backward, to the side—and the fist passed through empty air. His palm struck the guard's stomach. The air left the man's lungs in a rush. He doubled over. Elijah's elbow came down on the back of his head.
He crumpled.
The sixth guard raised his pistol.
Elijah's hand shot out. His fingers closed around the guard's wrist. He twisted. The bones ground together. The guard's fingers opened. The pistol fell.
Elijah caught it.
His other hand struck the guard's temple.
The man's eyes rolled back. He collapsed.
Elijah stood in the center of the bodies.
The pistol hung from his fingers.
He didn't look at the guards.
His eyes were on the door.
---
The private room was smaller than the public floor.
A single table in the center, covered in green felt. A wheel at one end, its surface painted in red and black. Cards scattered across the surface. Chips stacked in neat piles.
Three men sat at the table.
Dima. Leonid. Pavel.
Sergei stood near the wall, his arms crossed, his scarred eyebrow raised.
Yuri sat at a desk in the corner, his laptop open, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.
They saw Elijah enter.
Their expressions shifted—from boredom to confusion to anger.
"Who the hell are you?" Sergei demanded.
Elijah didn't answer.
He raised the pistol.
He fired.
The bullet struck Sergei's knee.
Sergei's leg buckled. His hand went to the wound. His face contorted. He fell to the floor, his mouth open, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"You—"
"Next one goes higher," Elijah said.
His voice was still flat. Still calm.
"Anyone else want to ask questions?"
Dima's hands were on the table. His fingers were spread. His face was pale.
"What do you want?"
"The controls."
"What controls?"
"The ones that decide who wins and who loses."
Elijah's eyes moved to Yuri.
"You. The geek. Step away from the laptop."
Yuri's hands rose from the keyboard.
His face was pale. His glasses were fogged.
"I—I don't know what you're—"
"Step. Away."
Yuri stepped away.
Elijah walked to the laptop.
His fingers found the keyboard. His eyes scanned the code. His thumb pressed the enter key.
---
On the public floor, the machines changed.
The old woman who had been sitting at the slot machine—the one who had lost everything—was gone. But the woman who had taken her place was still there. Her fingers pressed the button.
The reels spun.
Cherries. Bells. Sevens.
Three sevens.
The machine erupted in light. Coins poured from the slot—hundreds of them, thousands of them, clattering against the metal tray.
"I won," the woman whispered. "I won!"
Across the room, a man at a blackjack table watched his cards flip.
Twenty-one.
He had been losing all night. His chips were nearly gone. His head was bowed.
But the dealer's hand was trembling.
"Congratulations," the dealer said. "You've hit the jackpot."
The man's head snapped up.
His eyes were wide.
"What?"
"The jackpot. You've won the jackpot."
Another machine, another winner. A young man in a leather jacket pumped his fist in the air. A woman in a red dress screamed with joy. An old man wept.
The casino floor was chaos.
Not the chaos of losing—the chaos of winning.
"This can't be happening," a pit boss muttered.
His face was pale. His hands were shaking.
"The machines are rigged. They're supposed to—"
"They're not rigged anymore," another whispered.
"Someone changed the code."
"Who?"
"I don't know."
---
Sergei lay on the floor, his leg bleeding, his face twisted in pain.
"You're going to pay for this," he gasped. "The Kuvitich—they'll find you. They'll kill you. They'll—"
"They'll try," Elijah said.
He turned.
The pistol was still in his hand. His finger was still on the trigger. But he didn't fire.
He walked to the table.
His hand swept across the surface. Chips scattered. Cards flew. The wheel spun.
Then he stopped.
His eyes found Yuri.
"You."
Yuri's throat moved.
"Me?"
"You're going to tell them what happened. You're going to tell them that the code was hacked. That someone from the outside did this."
"But—"
"And you're going to tell them that the hacker was from Huxai. That he wore a black mask. That he moved like a ghost."
"Why would I—"
"Because if you don't," Elijah said, "I'll come back."
He smiled behind the mask.
"And next time, I won't aim for the knee."
---
Elijah walked out of the private room.
His steps were still slow. Still deliberate. But there was something new in them now—a lightness, a looseness, the kind of walk that came from a job well done.
The music was still playing.
"I've been hoping for a way to make it right," the voice sang.
"Holding onto nothing in the middle of the night."
He reached the entrance.
The three guards were still on the floor. Their eyes were open. Their bodies were still.
"You're going to regret this," one of them said.
"Maybe," Elijah said. "But not today."
He stepped outside.
The night air was cold. The street was empty. The van was waiting.
He began to walk.
His hips swayed. His shoulders rolled. His feet moved in a rhythm that had no connection to the music still playing inside.
The walk of a man who had done something impossible, someone would later think. The walk of a man who knew that he would never be caught.
His surgical mask slipped.
His face—the Huxai face, the one with the deeper skin and the narrower eyes—was visible for a moment. His eyes widened. His hand shot up. His fingers pressed the mask back into place.
He looked around.
No one was watching.
He kept walking.
---
The CCTV camera above the entrance was small, black, its lens pointed at the door.
It had recorded everything.
The guards falling. The door opening. The man in the hood walking out, his mask slipping, his face visible for a single frame.
He didn't notice the camera, the security guard would later say. He didn't look up.
But we saw him.
We saw his face.
And we still don't know who he is.
Elijah climbed into the van.
Mateo's hands were still on the wheel. His face was still pale. His eyes were still wide.
"Drive," Elijah said.
Mateo drove.
---