I’ve seen every kind of person walk through these doors—men with too much money, too little conscience, and nothing left to lose. But not her. Never someone like her.

She doesn’t belong here. It’s obvious the second she steps in—the hesitation, the way her eyes adjust too slowly, like she’s trying to make sense of something she was never meant to see.

The room doesn’t notice at first. It never does. Down here, people are too busy watching their cards, their stacks, each other. But I notice. I always notice.

I sit back in my chair, glass in hand, tracking her without making it obvious. She moves carefully, like she’s trying not to disturb the air. That’s the first mistake—this place feeds on hesitation.

Not drunk on power. Not numb. Not one of them.

My glass meets the table with a quiet, deliberate click as I set it down. That’s enough. A few heads turn when I stand, but no one questions it. They know better.

I close the distance between us slowly, giving her time to feel it—the shift, the attention, the fact that she’s been seen.

Up close, it’s worse. She’s completely out of place.

I tilt my head slightly, studying her for a moment before I speak, voice low and even, meant only for her.

“You’re out of place, and that makes you a target. Stay close to me, don’t ask questions, and don’t trust anyone else in this room if you want to make it out.”