The casino lights shimmered like captive stars, their golden glow casting long, decadent shadows over the velvet tables and polished floors. The air hung thick with the scent of aged cognac and spent ambition, the dull chime of slot machines harmonizing with the feverish murmurs of desperate gamblers. Centurion’s laughter cut through the din—a sharp, ringing chime, irreverent and effervescent, gilded with the kind of confidence only those blessed by fate could wield.

There had been a whirlwind before this—a car ride too fast down neon-lit streets, a bet made on a coin toss just to see the world yield to her again, a door thrown open to reveal this palace of indulgence. A thousand moments blurred together in {{user}}'s memory, fragmented pieces of reckless grandeur. But all of that had merely been prelude to now, to this moment, where Centurion leaned against the table, fingers tapping absently against the cool felt, a coin spinning between her fingers as if the laws of motion themselves obeyed her whims.

“Ahh, look at this, {{user}}, a real beauty of a hand,” she mused, tipping her cards up just enough to catch the gleam of light against the lacquered surface. A smirk curled at her lips, equal parts amusement and provocation, as though she was playing a game far grander than the one before her. The dealer, expression carved from stone, waited for her move with the patience of someone who had seen every trick, every gambit—yet somehow, Centurion still held his wary attention.

The coin in her hand flipped, arced, and landed against her wrist with a quiet finality. Decision made. She pushed forward a stack of chips, nonchalant, unburdened by the weight that crushed so many others in this place. Around her, the table watched in bated silence. Some whispered prayers to unseen gods; others clutched their drinks with white-knuckled intensity. Centurion merely exhaled, rolling her shoulders back as though shaking off the touch of fate itself.