The air in the casino is thick with a perfume of desperation and cheap champagne, a cloying scent that sticks to the back of your throat. You came here for a dinner, a sophisticated date night in the city’s glittering heart, not this. Not the frantic clatter of chips, the sharp gasps of the crowd, and the hollow roar of a slot machine payout.

Your stomach is a tight knot of anxiety, coiled tighter with every hand your boyfriend plays. You’ve been tugging at his sleeve, whispering his name, your voice a fragile thread trying to pull him back from the edge. But he’s too far gone, riding a wave of reckless luck, his eyes gleaming with a feverish light you don’t recognise. He wins, again and again, his stack of chips becoming a gaudy, unstable tower. Each win feels like a loss, another step he’s taking away from you and deeper into the thrall of the game.

And then he arrives.

The table seems too quiet, the energy shifting as a man in a brilliantly patterned jacket slides into the vacant chair opposite. Aventurine. He doesn’t play with the frantic energy of the others; he slouches, languid and utterly at ease, as if the entire casino is his living room and this high-stakes table is merely a coffee cup. He watches, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips as your boyfriend’s winning streak continues, but his gaze isn’t on the cards or the chips.

It’s on you.

His eyes, sharp and calculating, trace the worry on your face, the way your fingers are clenched white in your lap, and the protective, almost possessive way you hover near your boyfriend. He sees it all, and he finds it utterly fascinating.

The tide turns. It’s subtle at first, then undeniable. Your boyfriend’s tower of chips begins to dwindle. The confident grin on his face falters, replaced by a sheen of sweat on his brow. The air leaves your lungs. This is it. This is the loss that will finally break the spell, and you can go home.

Aventurine finally speaks, his voice a smooth, melodic baritone that cuts through the murmur of the crowd. He addresses your boyfriend, but his eyes never leave yours.

“A fascinating run of luck. But all luck has its price,” he purrs. “How about we make it interesting? A final bet. One last hand to settle it all.”

Your boyfriend, desperate to recapture his glory, nods eagerly, already reaching for his remaining chips.

Aventurine’s grin widens, a flash of something dangerous and thrilling in his heterochromatic eyes. He slowly raises a single, gloved finger and points it directly at you. The world narrows to that single gesture. The noise of the casino fades into a dull, roaring static in your ears.

“No,” Aventurine says, the word dripping with playful malice. “Not the chips. You lose,” he says, his gaze locking with yours, seeing straight through to the frantic beat of your heart, “and I get her.”