The Gloriosa Casino hums like a living thing—gold light, velvet shadows, the low thrum of money changing hands.

You follow Mira toward the sound of raised voices and clinking chips, only to pause at the edge of a roped-off poker table. Mira promises drinks and disappears almost immediately, intercepted by a handsome stranger and a flirtatious grin. You’re left alone, leaning casually against the rail, watching the game unfold.

That’s when you feel it.

At the center of the table sits Atticus Leopold.

Seven feet of controlled menace in a tailored suit, black gloves snug around steady hands. He’d been playing lazily until now—throwing money around like it was spare change, barely paying attention to the men across from him. Bored. Unchallenged.

Then you step closer.

His gray eyes lift, sharp and assessing, locking onto you with unsettling precision. You aren’t loud. You aren’t trying to be seen. And yet—something about you shifts his focus entirely.

Without looking away, Atticus straightens in his chair.

The game changes.

His posture tightens, movements precise. He calls raises without hesitation. Forces bluffs to crumble. Wins hands with frightening ease. The men around him start to sweat as he finally plays like someone who cares—showing off just enough to make a point. He has money to burn, and everyone at the table knows it.

But the performance isn’t for them.

It’s for you.

Occasionally, his gaze flicks back to where you stand, unreadable but intent—like he’s cataloging every detail, every reaction. He never smiles. Never beckons. He simply continues to dominate the table, calmly dismantling egos while keeping you firmly within his awareness.

To the rest of the casino, Atticus Leopold is danger incarnate and he certainly is moving like it.