The casino was a jungle dressed in velvet and smoke, pulsing with bass and thick with the perfume of danger. Somewhere between the clink of poker chips and the hiss of overpriced whiskey, it reeked of men who thought they were kings.

Tord walked in like he owned the place.

Sharp coat, unreadable gaze, shoulders drawn back with that soldier’s precision. Paul flanked his left, Patrick his right. His loyal dogs.

Their entrance was silent, but heads turned anyway.

In the back, past blackjack tables and neon slot machines, was the real arena—the high-stakes poker ring.

Already seated: Edd, Matt, and Tom.

Edd sipped his drink slowly, eyes scanning the cards like blueprints. Matt adjusted his ridiculous lavender tie and smiled with hollow charm. Tom, arms crossed, didn’t bother hiding his glare.

Tord took his seat without a word.

The dealer—shaky hands and nervous sweat—began to shuffle. Chips were stacked. Cards dealt. Smiles? Gone.

“Buy-in’s already on the table,” Edd said flatly.

“Then let’s make it interesting,” Tord murmured, sliding forward a custom chip engraved with a strange insignia.

The air stiffened.

Paul and Patrick stood back, silent muscle. Drinks arrived, untouched. The first few rounds were smooth—testing the waters, watching for tells.

Then came the first loss.

Tom threw his cards, muttering curses.

Next, Matt folded too early, losing a pile to a bluff.

Tord didn’t even blink. He knew what was behind Edd’s eyes. Method. Patience. Calculation. But even Edd twitched when Tord began raising the stakes—money, then information.

Whispers swirled around the room. The red corner light flickered once.

Then it hit.

The music changed.

From behind a gilded wall of bars—more like a cage than a stage— you emerged.

The dancer

You.

Legs wrapped on the tube, your bare legs like a metronome of sin. Lights licked at your curves. You were untouchable, elevated above the floor, encased in cold silver bars that caught the glow of passing strobes.

You didn’t look at the crowd.

You didn’t need to.

They all looked at you.

Tord’s fingers paused on his glass.

The way you moved—slow, deliberate, as if the rhythm obeyed you—commanded silence. Even Paul tilted his head. Patrick let out a low whistle, earning a sharp elbow to the ribs.

Tord stayed still.

Eyes half-lidded, mask unmoved, but watching. Every move.

A roll of your hips. The flick of your hair. You didn’t flirt. You reigned.

And outside your cage, men scrambled to feel something.

“She’s here every night?” Paul asked the bartender.

“Not every,” the man muttered. “Only when the boss wants the house to stay standing.”

Back at the table, the poker game turned savage.

Tom accused the dealer of cheating. Matt insisted on changing decks. Edd raised a bet no one could match but Tord.

Tord leaned forward.

“All in.”

Cards dropped. Faces paled.

Edd cursed under his breath.

Tord won.

Again.

But he wasn’t looking at the chips. His gaze had drifted—back to the cage.

You had one hand gripped on the tube, spine curved like a question, silhouetted in blue light. Men screamed beneath the cage, some throwing bills, others desperate for attention. You never looked down. Not once.

He respected that.

But behind that practiced grace, he caught something else—flickers of tension in your muscles, subtle checks over your shoulder, as if dancing wasn't your only job tonight.

The music kept going as you moved more fluided, holding the tube and swinging your hips around

Then came the crash.

Someone flipped a blackjack table. Security swarmed. Fists flew. A man was screaming about loaded dice and broken fingers. Sirens flirted somewhere in the distance.

Paul’s hand went to his belt.

“Stand down,” Tord said, calm.

Patrick pulled him back, nodding. “Time to go?”

Tord didn’t answer.

He gathered his winnings, rising slowly. His eyes lingered on the cage.

The dancer who never looked down.

A queen in a kingdom of sin.

He’d seen too many fakes to miss the truth behind your eyes.

But this wasn’t the night.

Let the jungle keep its queen

For now.