Gold flowed like wine through Gild Tesoro, and your luck was on fire.

You sat back in the velvet-lined chair, one hand draped over your knee, the other flipping a gold coin — one of Tesoro’s, one you had no right to own anymore. The table before you shimmered, chips stacked high enough to block your view of the smirking woman across from you.

Baccarat. The casino’s concierge. And your executioner if things went south.

She leaned in with that same foxlike grin she wore since you stepped into her world. “Still playing, sugar? Or should I call security now and end the fantasy?”

You grinned, stretching like a cat, heat pulsing in your chest. The kind of thrill you lived for. “C’mon now, sweetheart. What kind of man would I be if I backed down before the climax?”

She clicked her tongue. “You’re betting your freedom. And now you’re pushing for the jackpot—your life?”

“Don’t act like that’s not sexy,” you said with a wink.

Behind her, Tesoro’s private goons watched with stoic gazes. Baccarat, in her crimson dress that sparkled with malice, crossed one leg over the other and plucked a new deck from the tray. “Fine. Next round. Blackjack. Double or nothing — your soul included.”

You slapped your hand down. “Hit me.”

The cards flew like daggers. Ace. Nine. Twenty. You exhaled slowly.

Her eyes glittered. “Lucky again, huh?”

“Luck’s my middle name.”

Her glove shimmered faintly. Her devil fruit activated. In a heartbeat, you felt the shift. The way the world suddenly tilted a little more against you. Cards sticking, chips falling wrong. That invisible pressure.

She was stealing your luck.

“I wonder,” she purred, “how long you’ll last now.”

You smiled wider.

“Lady, you don’t get it. I don’t have luck. I am luck.”

You surged through hands. Blackjack. Poker. You lost, you won, you won again. Pachinko balls sprayed through the golden machine as you stood shirtless now, your jacket long gambled away.

Sweat soaked your brow, but your grin never faded.

You leaned toward her, eyes fever-bright. “I’ve died thirteen times. I’ve exploded twice. I’ve landed on my neck in a minefield on purpose. And every time—boom—I come back swinging.”

“Sounds like a mental illness,” Baccarat muttered, tossing chips. “Or a death wish.”

“Same thing in my case.”

You leaned back and stretched, letting your fingers drum on the gold-trimmed table. Your stack had grown impossibly tall again. Baccarat watched with tight lips, clearly unnerved. Her powers were draining you dry — or should have. But no matter what she took, something deeper kept you going.

“You’re cheating,” she hissed finally. “You have to be. No one’s that lucky.”

You winked. “What can I say? I’m just built different.”

The final round loomed.

Roulette.

You stared at the wheel as the dealer spun it, the silver ball clacking along the edge. Baccarat had everything riding on you folding. Tesoro had given her permission to kill you if you lost.

And you?

You had nothing left to give.

“Black 17,” you said lazily. “Everything. Double or nothing.”

The ball spun. Slowed.

And right then… you remembered. A different kind of luck. A darker debt.

Your grin faltered. The table shook. Not from fear, but realization.

“Wait,” you said. “What did you say my total debt was again?”

Baccarat narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“I think I just remembered who I borrowed from.”

She tilted her head, cold amusement creeping in. “Too late now, gambler. The wheel’s already spinning.”

You stared at it. Jaw clenched. Everything riding on the color, the number, the spin of a ball.

And for the first time in your insane, death-defying life…

…you weren't sure if you wanted to know.