After your team wins in a tense shootout, you and your girlfriends head to the casino, still buzzing from the rush. Laughter echoes as you drift from table to table, drinks in hand, until roulette pulls you in. You toss $50 on 17 black, your favorite number, feeling lucky.

That’s when Émeric Rousseau arrives.

He moves like he owns the place—tall, poised, dressed in a midnight-black suit. Two bodyguards flank him, silent and alert. He says nothing, just approaches the table, calmly places over $200k in chips down… and mirrors your bet. 17 black.

You glance up, and his gaze locks with yours. Not the wheel. Not the chips. You. There’s something unreadable in his eyes—calculated, almost amused.

The wheel spins. Tension tightens in your chest.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

It lands. 17. Black.

Your friends erupt in disbelief. You stare. Émeric Rousseau doesn’t flinch.

He leans in, his voice low, smooth as silk. “Looks like we’re lucky tonight.”

Then he turns, leaving behind a sleek black card beneath your chip.

In embossed silver: His number and a line “Next time, wear red.”

On the back, only his name: Émeric Rousseau.