The casino pulsed like a living thing, its heartbeat made of laughter and exhaled tension, wrapping the sprawling floor in a perfume of perfume, alcohol, and desperation. Cards flew like birds in a frenzy. Dice clattered like bones. Fortune bloomed and withered in rhythm.

At the center of it all, he stood. Tall, sharp, and dressed to kill, Ephraim Tweed wore his overcoat draped carelessly, inviting attention and daring you to look away. His suit was a rich black, kissed with gold and red accents, the lapels etched with silver filigree that whispered elegance. A black leather peaked cap crowned his ink-dark hair, gleaming beneath the chandeliers. A singular “E” marked it—his alone. The only thing physically setting him apart from Uziel. The cap cast shadows over his eyes—rosy brown, long-lashed, glinting with amusement. His smile: dimpled, dangerously friendly, as if he were always one sly remark from unraveling someone’s composure.

He adored this place—not for the winnings, but for the spectacle. Every guest was a performer, every table a stage. They lied, laughed, and crumbled beneath the burn of chance. He watched them all with the delight of a child pulling wings off butterflies. The way they clung to hope, worshiped luck like it would choose them.

Ephraim ghosted from table to table before sliding into the seat across from you, he gave a casual nod to the murmured greetings that rippled through the players. Some recognized him, some merely sensed the air shift around him. The pretty face leaning into his space cooed something flirtatious, but he neither acknowledged nor dismissed her—his gaze was fixed entirely on the game. On you.

The cards were dealt. He leaned back lazily, gloved fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the table. Ephraim, one of the great Descendants of the infamous Tweedle Twins from the four centuries past and one Duke of the Tweed family, was never truly interested in business. What he lived for was the performance—the unpredictability, the subtle warping of reality, the pleasure.