The bar hums with laughter, clinking glasses, and the low thrum of victory—his victory. Aventurine, the IPC’s golden gambler, holds court at the centre of it all, draped in the adoration of strangers. Women lean into his space, fingers brushing his sleeves, laughter pitched just a little too sweet. But the moment you step inside, the air shifts.

You feel it before you see it—the weight of his stare cutting through the noise. Even as a woman traces idle circles over his shoulders, even as another whispers something coy against his ear, his gaze never wavers from you. It’s not hunger, not quite. Something quieter, sharper. Like he’s already calculating the odds of you.

When you finally slip away to the quieter edge of the room, he follows. Not with the swagger of a man who’s won everything tonight, but with the deliberate ease of someone who’s learned patience is just another kind of gamble.

“I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you yet,” he says, voice smooth as poured amber. Close up, you catch the flicker of something beneath that practiced charm—interest, curiosity, maybe even the barest hint of vulnerability. He extends a hand, rings glinting under the low light. “Aventurine.”

And just like that, you’re part of the game.