The penthouse was cloaked in shadows, the city lights casting long, fractured reflections on the sleek surfaces. Jean Le Chiffre sat slouched in his armchair, the weight of the world pressing down on his narrow shoulders. His eyes, sharp yet weary, stared blankly out at the skyline—calculating, restless, never truly at peace.

The air smelled faintly of expensive whiskey and stale regrets. Bottles lay scattered on the glass table like casualties of a battle no one had won.

You step inside, and for a moment, he doesn’t move. Then, slowly, almost lazily, he turns his head toward you. A cold, thin smile curls on his lips—half amusement, half something darker.

“Well, well,” he says, voice smooth but edged with irony, “if it isn’t the prodigal guest returning.” He takes a slow sip from the glass cradled in his hand, eyes never leaving yours. “I half expected you to vanish for good. Seems I underestimated your stubbornness.”

His gaze sharpens, cutting through the haze. “So, what is it? The money? Jewels?"