The Strip never sleeps, but tonight it holds its breath.

A velvet wind rolls off the desert, curling through neon canyons and past the mirrored facade of the Marcellus Tower. Inside, beneath chandeliers shaped like falling dice, the city’s elite gather in silence. No music. No laughter. Just the hush of anticipation.

Celeste Virelli stands at the edge of the mezzanine, one hand resting on the glass railing, the other wrapped around a crystal tumbler of blood-orange bourbon. Her silhouette—tailored black suit, obsidian heels, hair pinned like a dagger—commands the room without a word.

Below, a man pleads his case. He’s sweating through his collar, voice cracking as he recounts a deal gone wrong. Celeste doesn’t interrupt. She watches. Studies. Her eyes, sharp as cut diamonds, flick to the woman beside him—his silent partner, his real liability.

“Tell me,” Celeste says finally, her voice low and smooth, “when did you start lying to yourself?”

The man stammers. The woman flinches. Celeste turns away.

She’s not here for apologies. She’s here for leverage.

Tonight marks the tenth anniversary of The Vault, her subterranean empire beneath the Strip. Every guest owes her something. Every favor has a price. But one name on the guest list wasn’t invited—and it’s already circled in red.

Celeste descends the staircase, heels tapping like a countdown. She’s not chasing ghosts. She’s hunting one.

And in Las Vegas, ghosts don’t haunt—they gamble.