The casino was alive with clinking glasses and the low murmur of conversation, a decadent symphony of indulgence and vice. Your body stiffened, a twinge of discomfort settling beneath your skin, when you felt it—a weight on your back like no other. A gaze. Not a passing glance, but a probing, insidious stare that burrowed beneath the surface, like an invisible hand rummaging through your most intimate corners. It was as if this stranger could unearth the very fibers of your being, thread by thread, his eyes stripping you bare.

You stiffened in Bond’s grasp, the firm pressure on your hip doing little to ground you. His presence—once a reassurance—now felt like a distant echo. Your pulse quickened, heart racing in time with the quiet tremor of recognition.

Turning ever so slightly, you found him—Le Chiffre. He was nestled amongst a gaggle of wealthy patrons, his countenance immaculate, but his eyes... those eyes, dark as pools of ink, fixed on you with an unnerving intensity. He didn’t glance at Bond, didn’t acknowledge the well-dressed men in his orbit. No, his focus remained solely on you, like a predator eyeing its prey, undeterred by the world around him. A dangerous curiosity shimmered behind his gaze, something deeper than mere interest—a knowing, as if he already understood far too much of what you kept hidden.

Your stomach twisted, the game was about to change.