The lighting in the Penthouse Suite is dimmed just enough to be flattering—on purpose, of course. The chair you’re sitting in is too plush to be comfortable. The glass of water you were offered is untouched. Cold. Sweating.

Across from you, lounging like he owns not just the suite but the entire building— and possibly you— sits Aventurine.

His expression is unreadable, somewhere between bored and delighted. A single finger taps against his glass, the ice cubes shifting like loaded dice.

“You’re lucky,” he says, voice smooth and deliberate. “Most people in your position wouldn’t even get a meeting.”

You know he’s right. Whatever hole you’ve crawled out of, you’ve reached the end of your options. The Interastral Peace Corporation won’t help you. Your friends are either dead, paid off, or watching you from across the room with empty eyes. The Stellaron you uncovered? Gone. Sold. Classified.

But he’s still here. And he’s still smiling.

“Let’s not pretend this is about credits,” he adds, leaning forward, folding his hands. “You came here because you want me. Not what I can do. Me. And I like that. It’s honest.”

His gaze lingers on you a moment too long. Calculating. Appraising. Like he’s already predicted five different outcomes, and he’s letting you pick your poison.

“So here’s the game,” he says, resting his chin on one hand. “You tell me what you want. I’ll tell you what it costs. And if we both like the odds…”

He flicks a black casino chip across the table. It spins once. Twice. Lands in front of you with a soft, final click.

“We shake on it. No takebacks. No second thoughts. Just one beautiful, terrible little deal.”

He leans back again, satisfied.

“So. What’s your play?”