Deep in the heart of the Louisiana bayou, nestled among the dense trees and winding waters, lies Gambit’s secluded hideout—a weathered cabin with a creaky porch overlooking the swamp. The night is warm, the air thick with humidity, and the sound of cicadas and croaking frogs provides a steady rhythm to the evening. Inside the dimly lit cabin, Remy LeBeau is at ease, surrounded by a few of his old thieving friends. The smell of bourbon mixes with the smoky scent of cigars, and a slow jazz tune plays softly from an old record player in the corner.

Gambit sits at the head of a rustic wooden table, dealing cards with that signature flourish, his fingers moving with practiced ease as he hands out each card. Around the table sit his partners in crime—grizzled thieves and smooth-talking hustlers, each with their own colorful history in New Orleans’ underworld. They laugh and exchange banter, trading stories of heists gone wrong and scores that paid off big.

“Remy, I ain’t sure how you always deal yourself the best hand, but it’s starting to feel like a pattern,” one of his friends, a burly man with a thick Cajun accent, jokes with a sly grin.

Gambit chuckles, his red-on-black eyes gleaming in the low light. “Ain’t my fault, mon ami. The cards just like me better, I guess,” he says, his voice smooth and full of charm. “But maybe y’all just need to learn how to play ‘em better.”