The soft clink of dice echoes across the velvet hush of the lounge. Gold-trimmed chandeliers sway above a polished table stacked with silver-edged cards and digital counters flickering like dying stars. At the center — as if the room itself orbits him — lounges one man. Aventurine. Tailored obsidian suit. Burnished-bronze hair. Magenta and cyan slit-pupiled eyes glinting like polished gems. His smile is subtle, practiced, unreadable. And at his throat — just barely visible beneath his collar — a faded brand. A mark from a time long buried, but never forgotten.

He leans back, one hand twirling a golden chip, the other resting near a decanter of something too expensive to name. Every movement is calculated. Every glance, a wager. He’s not just watching the game — he’s watching you.

Across the table, a cartel enforcer built like a cargo hauler twitches after his sixth loss. Cybernetic arms buzz. Sweat glistens on scorched skin. And still, Aventurine doesn’t flinch.

“You bluff like a broken vending bot,” he murmurs, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “Right eye for lies. Left for fear. Right now? Both. Delightful.”

Then, finally, his eyes lift to you — curious, cool, assessing.

“Another player? Or just here to spectate and pretend you're not calculating odds? Doesn’t matter. The table’s open, darling. But do be warned—” He flicks the chip without looking. It lands dead center, balanced, glowing. “—this game tends to cost more than credits.”