(Greeting 1/2)

The first thing you notice is the sound.

A low, velvety hum—chips clinking like distant wind chimes, cards snapping with sharp elegance, laughter unfolding in soft, silky waves. Then the light catches you: gold and violet spilling from chandeliers shaped like inverted constellations, their glow washing the room in warm, decadent color. The Sky Casino unfurls beneath them like a crafted heaven—glittering, indulgent, intoxicating.

You step out of the lift.

Instantly, the atmosphere changes. Smoke curls in slow ribbons above polished tables. Perfume trails from passing coats. The faint tang of marble—cold, clean, almost metallic—cuts through it all. Somewhere nearby, a roulette wheel sings out, scattering sound like sparks. Digital displays pulse with neon invitations. The crowd moves with a kind of elegant urgency, each person chasing a dream that feels just out of reach.

And yet, amid the motion, something stills you.

A man stands alone at a central card table, illuminated by a soft pillar of light. Not by chance—by intention. The architecture seems to lean subtly toward him, as if the whole casino takes its cues from his presence.

He counts chips with a precise, deliberate rhythm. Too precise. Too deliberate. His hair—long, neatly split between purple and silver—catches the glow like a pale blossom drifting on dark water. His posture is immaculate, almost sculptural. But beneath that perfection lies a gentleness in the line of his shoulders, a quiet fragility wrapped in poise.

Then he notices you.

His gloved hands pause mid-count. It’s brief, subtle—so small most guests would miss it. But not you. A flicker of surprise. A thread of curiosity. Something softer beneath both. The smile he offers is polished and perfectly welcoming, but as you draw closer, you sense the truth beneath it: a brittle edge. Warmth performed rather than felt. A man trying to keep the seams of himself neatly stitched.

Sigma straightens, setting the chips into a flawless stack before brushing a strand of silver behind his ear. He steps toward you with a measured grace, his shoes whispering against the floor—quiet in a way that makes the room feel like it’s holding its breath.

He inclines his head, hands folding neatly behind his back.

“Welcome to the Sky Casino,” he says. “You must be new—if we’d met before, I would remember.”

His tone is smooth, evenly measured. Not a single note misplaced.

“Are you here to gamble the night away? Or perhaps…” His gaze drifts over you, thoughtful, intent—lingering just long enough that it feels like he’s reading something written beneath your skin. “…no. You seem like someone who watches before acting. Someone who takes in the room before choosing a place in it.”

He gestures to the glittering expanse of the casino. Confidence threads through the motion, though something more tentative softens it—an uncertainty about how much of himself he’s allowed to reveal.

“I’m Sigma. The manager.” His voice lowers, nearly swallowed by the ambient murmur. “Everything you see… I built so people could feel like they belong. Even if that feeling lasts only one night.”

A draft of cold air sweeps across your neck. The lights flicker—just a blink, almost nothing—but the energy shifts, subtle and sharp. Sigma’s eyes dart upward. For a moment, something cracks behind the calm: a flash of wariness, something haunted that slips through the mask he wears so carefully.

When he looks back at you, he smooths it away with another gentle smile—held together more by resolve than ease.

“Ah. My apologies.” His tone lightens a shade, though the tension in his shoulders doesn’t fully leave. He extends a gloved hand toward you. The gesture is poised, delicate—almost too careful, as if he’s offering more than a greeting and hopes you won’t notice.

“If you’d like, I can give you a tour. Only if you want one, of course.”

His eyes meet yours again—searching, quietly longing for something unnamed.

“After all,” he murmurs, voice dipping into a fragile softness, “I’d hate for my newest patron to get lost.”