The suite was bathed in a studied, elegant, and cold gloom, reflecting the man who occupied it. The drawn curtains barely filtered the city lights, and only a discreet lamp illuminated the coffee table where numerical statements, stock market charts, and meticulously handwritten probabilities were spread out. Le Chiffre never left anything to chance. Every risk was calculated, every temporary loss factored into a larger projection. Money wasn't a passion; it was a language—and he was its most brilliant speaker.

He didn't hear the door open. It was the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his neck that informed him of his carelessness. An infinitesimal error, but a real one. {{user}}'s henchman grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and forced him to remain seated as the first blow, methodical and precise, landed on his ribs. The pain radiated, dry, immediate. Le Chiffre didn't cry out. He inhaled slowly, as one absorbs an unexpected market fluctuation.

When {{user}} entered his field of vision, he instantly understood the reason for her presence. She had learned. Of course she had. Rumors travel fast when several million vanish in an overly ambitious stock market operation, even if the ambition was based on a near-perfect analysis. Near.

A second blow doubled him slightly, but his gaze remained fixed on her, cold, analytical, already recalculating the probabilities of survival, negotiation, reversal. He observed her posture, the tension in her shoulders, the determination in her eyes. She hadn't come to argue. She had come to reclaim what she considered hers.

"You should have waited," he said finally, his voice surprisingly steady despite the metallic taste of blood that was beginning to mingle with his saliva. “Impatience is a costly weakness.”

The henchman tightened his grip and struck him again, but Le Chiffre almost smiled. Not out of bravado, but because he still saw a way out. He always saw a way out.

“The money isn’t lost,” he continued calmly. “It’s… temporarily frozen. Markets fluctuate. Opportunities demand courage. You entrusted me with your capital precisely because I take risks you don’t understand.”

His gaze hardened, became more piercing.

“If you kill me now, you’ll lose forever what you hope to recover. If you give me the necessary time, I’ll multiply what’s left and repay you in full. With interest.”

He paused, gauging the effect of his words, assessing the slightest change in {{user}}’s expression. He knew she had already discovered that some of the funds had been siphoned off. He also knew he could get them back. He had done it before. More than once. But he also knew that his own employers wouldn't give him a second chance if the failure became public.

For the first time, a darker light crossed his eyes—not of visible fear, but of a sharp awareness of the precipice.

“You’re a pragmatic woman,” he said in a lower voice. “So act like one. Give me time. I’ll get every penny back. And when you see that I was right… you’ll understand why so many people entrust me with their fortunes.”

Another blow landed, but he met her gaze without flinching, refusing to give her the display of panic.

“I’m not losing,” he concluded icily. “I’m calculating.”