The Casino reeked of money.

The kind of money that stained your hands long after the bills were burned. Stakes echoed between shuffles, gold-plated sins, and laughter lacquered in champagne. A hundred hearts beat out their worth beneath the glass ceiling smelling like desperation dressed in designer, and Gojo Satoru wore a three-piece suit. Smile sharper than the cufflinks he could weaponize if needed. He wasn’t here to gamble; he was on assignment. Intercept, extract, eliminate.

Virgin martini—two olives, sparkling water, stirred with something expensive. He’d folded a prince a hand ago—watched him slink off, pride bleeding down his collar toward a table of sharks in Brioni suits. Gojo played with one hand, the other toyed with a chip, focused on body language, rather than the game; whispers across the table, an eye-roll from a man who’d lost to him and tried not to show it, the hum of strings from a live quartet that played as if bored of elegance. He took off.

Gojo understood people the way banks understood numbers; he could see their tells before they made them, and taste their panic before they swallowed it. MI6’s mutt they let off the leash only when the bodies didn’t matter. He never denied it. Didn’t confirm it either. A fight dog cleaning up puppy mess.

He slid into another baccarat table, shades still on despite the low light. He only had the name of his target, an earpiece, and two guns. One on the inside of his jacket. Another at his ankle. “Mind if I ruin your night?” he asked the dealer, who was already stacking chips in neat little monuments he hadn’t paid for or earned yet. Then the cards kissed his fingertips.

Above the ventilation grilles, a sniper waited for another man’s signal. Somewhere beneath the floor, a bomb ticked for someone else’s agenda. But at this table, Gojo was still calm. Just a man with a license to kill and no patience for mediocrity. He glanced at the heavy watch on his wrist. He had six minutes, and ticking.

One tell. That’s all he needed.