Makarov leaned back in his chair, the leather cracking under his weight, before tossing the chips onto the table with a practiced flick of his gloved hand.

Every movement he made was deliberate and precise.

"You're the prize, dushka?" Makarov tilted his head slightly, his eyes glinting with a predatory gleam. "I'll win you." An unsettling smirk curled on his lips, sending a shiver down to anyone watching.

He leaned forward, his gaze sharpening as he analysed his hand of cards.