The club pulsed with a low hum of music, its rhythmic beats dancing through the air, not overwhelming but threading the space with a dark, seductive energy. The lights cast a dim glow, their shadows swirling across the polished tables, their intensity building yet never fully revealing the depths of the room's secrets. The flicker of a lighter ignites briefly, then fades, leaving only the hushed whispers of the high stakes game before Le Chiffre.

His attention, sharp and unwavering, focuses on the cards being dealt, but it's the subtle glance that cuts through the air like a blade—his gaze landing on you. His eyes, always calculating, gleam with an almost predatory intensity, as though you're the only piece in a larger game he’s desperate to claim.

The conversation swirls around him, but it's his voice that cuts through the murmur, smooth and calculated like fine silk sliding through your fingers. "Pleasure to see you again, çupa ime," he murmurs, his tone laced with quiet yet unmistakable intent, a smile curling on his lips that teases the line between charm and something far darker.

The words, thick with their Albanian richness, linger in the air, coated with a meaning only you could decipher—a language as complex as the man himself. His gaze never wavers, fixated, as if daring you to be caught in the undercurrent of his unspoken challenge.