I started laughing as I descended the stairs—just a quiet chuckle at first, the kind that slips past your lips uninvited when the universe, against all odds, decides to stop resisting for once and finally lean into your particular brand of chaos.
Naturally, it didn’t stay quiet for long. With each heavy step, the amusement compounded, swelling and fermenting until it spilled over into something louder, richer, and far less dignified.
The chuckle became a laugh, the laugh became a bark, and the bark unraveled into full-bodied, unapologetic cackling that rang out against the sandstone stairwell, the kind of sound that likely convinced anyone within earshot that I’d finally snapped and was now spiraling into genuine madness.
The noise took on a life of its own, bounding eagerly through the casino’s open architecture, echoing off its towering columns and gilded hieroglyphics as if the casino itself had decided to join in, amplifying my mirth until it bordered on operatic insanity.
By the time I reached the second floor, I was barely holding myself together. My sides ached from the effort, my breath came in sharp, wheezing bursts, and tears streamed down my face—not from pain, but from the sheer absurdity of what I’d just orchestrated.
I paused at the landing, blinking a few times to clear my vision, and that was when I saw them. My crew. Every last one of them arranged around a low table near the balcony’s edge as if summoned there by fate or narrative convenience.
Plush couches ringed the space, drinks half-finished, cards scattered, the whole tableau so perfectly framed I actually stopped laughing for half a heartbeat—just long enough to appreciate the symmetry of the moment—before my smirk came back sharper and far more dangerous than before.
I crossed the distance toward them at an unhurried pace, wearing the easy confidence of someone who’d just committed psychological warfare and gotten away with it, my boots clicking against the polished stone in a steady, deliberate rhythm, announcing my approach long before I said a word.
Brutus was the first to notice me, his massive frame unfolding from the couch as he stood with a grunt that suggested sitting still for extended periods to be a personal affront to his skeleton.
"You’ve been gone for hours," he rumbled, his eyes narrowing with the particular brand of concern that read as annoyance when filtered through his perpetually grumpy exterior. "What the hell were you doing up there that took so—"
I tossed the heavy coin pouch onto the table.
The sound it made was exquisite. A dense, satisfying thunk—the sound of serious weight meeting solid stone—followed by the unmistakable clatter of chips settling against one another inside the leather. It was the auditory equivalent of a mic drop, and it landed dead center, scattering a few abandoned playing cards and seizing every scrap of attention in the vicinity.
In an instant, the crew descended upon it like starving wolves.
Julius’s hands were the first to move, fingers trembling as he worked the drawstring with the careful delicacy of someone disarming a bomb.
When the pouch opened and spilled its contents onto the table—chips upon glorious chips, neat little towers of obscene value, the total adding up to a clean, unapologetic one hundred thousand crowns—his face cycled through disbelief, awe, and something bordering on existential terror before settling on a shade that suggested his blood pressure had achieved liftoff.
"How—" Julius stammered, his words tripping over themselves in their rush to escape. "How did you—that’s—this is—" His fingers were shaking now, genuine terror mixing with excitement as he stared at the fortune spread before him. "Loona, how did you obtain this amount? Did you rob someone? Murder them? Make a deal with forces that require payment in firstborn children?"
I gave him a smile too self-satisfied for my own good. "Let’s just say I played a very educational game of Old Maid with an elderly gentleman who had more confidence than competence, and when the dust settled, he discovered that hubris makes a terrible insurance policy."
Julius sprang out of his seat with athletic grace that shouldn’t have been possible for someone who’d just experienced shock before vaulting over the table in one fluid motion.
Chips scattered in his wake, clattering and skittering like startled insects, and before I could so much as brace myself, he had me wrapped in a hug so fierce my ribs protested the pressure.
"You’re a genius!" he shouted directly into my ear. "An absolute mastermind! A beautiful, chaotic creature of brilliance and questionable morality!"
"Yes, well," I wheezed, patting his back in the universal signal for ’please release me before my spine files a formal complaint,’ "flattery will get you everywhere, but oxygen deprivation will leave me dead, so maybe we dial back the enthusiasm by about thirty percent?"
Julius released me, stepping back with actual tears forming in his eyes—proper emotional tears, not the comedic kind—and I had to look away before the sincerity made me uncomfortable.
Felix, meanwhile, looked like he was about to faint. His eyes were wide, locked on the chips with his hands gripping the table as if it were the only thing keeping him anchored to reality.
Grisha, lounging on one of the couches with her massive frame taking up roughly three-quarters of the available seating, seemed mildly impressed—which, coming from her, was nothing short of thunderous approval. Her brow lifted fractionally, tusks glinting as she gave me what might’ve been an approving nod.
Willow and Nara were already doing something stupid across from her—specifically, Willow appeared to be trying to balance chips on Nara’s nose while the bunny girl attempted to catch them in her mouth, both of them giggling with the unrestrained joy of people who’d never once been burdened by the concept of fiscal responsibility.
The lesser men—the ten we’d brought from Atticus and Dregan’s operation—gave high praise in overlapping voices, calling me boss with genuine respect, slapping each other’s shoulders, already mentally spending their share of the windfall in ways that would horrify any financial advisor.
After Julius broke free from his emotional moment, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, I raised my voice to cut through the celebration. "As delightful as this group hysteria is, we’re not done yet. It’s time to take down Oberen."
Brutus raised his brow with the skeptical energy of someone who’d learned, through repeated experience, that my plans usually involved far more chaos than strictly necessary. "You have a plan for that?" he asked. "Or are we winging it based on vibes and spite like usual?"
I merely smirked, turning to gesture at one of the lesser men standing nearby. "You. Fetch me a pen and paper. Quickly, preferably before the universe decides to spice things up for its own amusement."
His face flashed with confusion—clearly he’d been expecting combat orders or theft instructions, not stationery requests—but he nodded nonetheless and disappeared into the crowd, already scanning for supplies.
In the meantime, I turned back to address the crew, my hands spreading wide in a gesture that encompassed both the chips and the broader scope of what we were about to do.
"Here’s how this works. We’re splitting the profits evenly among all of you—yes, evenly, before anyone starts doing mental math to see if they can negotiate a larger share."
I paused, making eye contact with each of them in turn. "Your job is simple, conceptually speaking if not in execution. Take your fraction of these winnings, find the snobbiest, richest, most arrogantly overconfident souls currently gambling in this establishment, and bleed them dry. I want you to fleece them so thoroughly their grandchildren will be recovering from the financial trauma."
The others began getting excited then, the energy in the group shifting from celebration to predatory focus as they realized I was essentially giving them permission to cause controlled chaos for profit.
Julius’s eyes gleamed with theatrical mischief. Felix looked terrified but determined. Grisha cracked her knuckles. Even Willow and Nara stopped their nonsense long enough to pay attention.
"One more thing," I added, holding up my hand before they could disperse. "Be smart about it. Use whatever methods work—cheating, psychology, seduction, aggressive bluffing—but don’t get caught. Don’t make it obvious. The moment casino security realizes we’re running a coordinated operation, this whole thing collapses. So keep it subtle, keep it smooth, and for the love of all that’s holy, try not to murder anyone where witnesses can see you."
They scattered then, each of them grabbing their share and vanishing into the casino proper with varying degrees of stealth, already hunting for marks.
But I held Willow back for a moment, my hand catching her wrist before she could follow Nara into the crowd. "You," I said quietly, leaning in close enough that the others wouldn’t overhear, "have a special job to do."
Willow’s face lit up with mischief, her wine-dark skin flushing slightly as she leaned in close, her naked body pressing against my side with an intimacy that ignored the concept of personal space entirely.
"Oh?" she purred, voice rich with implication. "What kind of specialjob are we talking about?"
I whispered my instructions directly into her ear, watching her expression shift from playful, to delighted, to downright devious as comprehension dawned.
When I finished, she giggled—a sound that managed to be both innocent and deeply unsettling—before she slipped into the shadows with the practiced ease of someone who’d mastered the art of not being noticed when it suited her purposes.
Moments later, the man I’d sent for supplies returned, slightly out of breath, carrying a pen and several sheets of parchment he’d apparently stolen from a registration desk based on the official stamps decorating the corners.
He handed them over with a slight bow, clearly unsure what I needed them for but smart enough not to ask questions. I accepted the materials without ceremony, barely restraining the anticipatory thrill coiling just beneath my composure.
With fresh parchment beneath my fingers and a pen ready to bleed intent into ink, I allowed myself a thin, satisfied smirk—because this was it.
It was time to set my plan into motion.