The Shroud

The shining black Bentley glides into a vacant slot among the stacked rows of luxury cars, the underground parking lot awash in sterile fluorescent light.

Inside, a man in a black evening suit scrutinizes his reflection in the rearview mirror—cool, toneless ocean-blue eyes staring back at him.

He brushes a careful dab of fingers through his thin brown beard, gives his short hair a quick comb, and then adjusts the mirror back into place with quiet satisfaction.

He steps out, shuts the door, and locks it with the remote key before slipping it into his jacket pocket.

As he exits the parking lot, the chill of an October midnight breeze in Las Vegas wraps around him.

He lifts his gaze to the monstrous casino looming ahead—blaring golden brilliance, proud and unyielding, devouring the darkness, the sunken of the night with its radiant arrogance.

Rolling his shoulders to ease the tension in his sinews, he straightens his spine and climbs the grand steps.

He crosses the threshold into the resplendent anteroom of Casino River Reign, a space alive with clinking glasses, buzzing voices, and flickers of gilded opulence.

"Good evening, sir. Welcome to Casino River Reign," the assistant at the cashier's desk greets.

"Good evening," he replies flatly, retrieving a slim black leather wallet from the inner pocket of his jacket. He pinches out a black credit card and hands it to her.

"Chips. Twenty-five million dollars."

"Certainly, sir." She smiles and processes the request.

---

With a calm, collected air, he enters the VIP room, accompanied by personnel carrying a tray stacked with plaques worth twenty-five million dollars.

Conversations quiet as he approaches the lone high table in the center of the room. Half the seats are already occupied by players.

The cards are being shuffled and blended under the pit manager's watchful eye.

He lowers himself onto chair number seven and offers a tight, professional smile to the others seated at the table. The attendant sets the tray of chips before him, wishes him luck, and exits.

"In good spirits tonight, Mr. Green," says the tall, slender supervisor with a familiar smile.

"Indeed," Nicholas Green returns, nodding with restrained politeness to the man across from him.

"I wish you a good fortune."

"I appreciate it."

"Would you like any drinks, sir?" a waitress behind him asks.

He glances up briefly. "Dry martini. Neat."

"Certainly, sir." She disappears toward the bar nestled in the left corner of the lavish room, which gleams with gold and deep red ornamentation.

Nicholas raises his gaze to the scarlet ceiling.

A massive crystal chandelier twinkles above the red high table rimmed in green. The velvety chairs and plush carpet echo the same hue, like the wash of a blood-red sea.

The waitress returns with a V-shaped glass of martini, garnished with a skewer of olives.

He leans back, sips.

The bitter tang glides over his tongue, but he doesn't flinch. His sharp gaze roves the room, sweeping across the other players.

He recognizes each face—he's studied them. Business tycoons. Crime lords. Power-brokers. This is their turf, their time.

The domain of the elite—a playground of wealth and risk.

And he—assumed to be one of them—a steel industry magnate fallen on hard times, now looking to reverse his fortune in the grandest game of the year: the annual high-stakes baccarat event of the Western Hemisphere.

The chair beside him—number six—draws back.

A woman with scarlet lips and a practiced smile sits down and extends her hand. "Pleasure to see you here, Nicholas."

Rachel Beckham.

Wife of a multi-millionaire. Perhaps here to prove her golden spoon hasn't rusted yet.

Nicholas gives a nod, sets his glass down, and shakes her hand. "The feeling is mutual, Mrs. Beckham."

Suddenly, the massive metal doors open.

Three unsmiling men stride in, demanding a sharp shift of attention and silent reverence in their wake.

Behind them, staff carry trays laden with plaques. Heads turn. Eyes gleam with envy.

The pit manager and supervisor hurry to welcome them.

Nicholas's eyes harden.

Lukas Ito—tall, with drooping eyes and black hair. Jordan Evans—blond buzz cut, cold blue eyes.

And then—Sam Ishmael.

Ishmael walks with heavy, calculated steps, his presence casting a pall of tension across the room.

His gaze briefly skims over the seated players—until it collides with Nicholas's.

A muscle ticks in Nicholas's jaw. His fists clench, veins straining, but he reins in his breath and offers a stiff nod.

The ten players, along with the banker, sink into their seats as the game of baccarat begins.

Ishmael takes the Banker's chair and, with ritualistic precision, cuts the slab of cards prepared by the pit manager. He slots the six packs into the glass-and-metal shoe. The manager waits for his cue.

Ishmael leans in and murmurs instructions.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the stakes are made. A five million dollars." The pit manager announces.

A tense exhale circles the table.

Unsurprisingly, the opening bet from the casino's owner wouldn't be anything less.

The man in seat number one taps the table.

"Accepted," Lukas Ito grins.

As more players accept, the game begins.

The high table becomes a battlefield—one of cards, silence, and pride.

---

Cigarette smoke thickens the air. Perfume clashes with sweat and alcohol. The tension coils tight.

The player's minds are littered with curses after each losing bet—and a silent encore after every win.

Ishmael's dark eyes scan seat number eight—a man in his forties hunched over his cards. James Perez, gun magnate. Greasy hands shield his cards like secrets.

His plaques have dwindled. Yet he persists, chasing that final sliver of hope.

He flattens his hands and looks up. "A card," he says, tone clipped.

Ishmael reveals his own: a seven of spades and an ace. Count—eight.

The banker slides a card toward Perez.

The man swallows as he flips it—eight of hearts.

A disappointed murmur escapes the table.

The pit manager reveals Perez's original hand: a king and a five. Total—five.

Ishmael wins again.

Perez pushes forward his last two million in plaques. He's out.

The plaques are added to the mountain—ninety-two million and counting.

Rachel Beckham has five thousand left. She's already stopped playing, the realization settling heavy: her golden spoon is tarnished.

Beside her, businesswoman Xia He folds with her remaining half-million.

The rest fall, one by one, save for a few.

Still standing: Lukas Ito, businessman John Cali Antony on seat three, Ishmael himself—and Nicholas, now holding forty million in profit.

The room grows quiet. Faces pale.

Then: "A raise of forty-five million," announces the pit manager.

Silence.

No one dares.

"The bank is met," Nicholas declares, pushing forward his plaques. All eyes swing to him.

Ishmael doesn't blink. He simply deals.

Two cards for each. The pit manager delivers them with elegant precision.

Nicholas slides the cards toward himself.

Fingertips barely graze the velvet, slow, deliberate.

The room holds its breath.

He lifts the edge—just enough to see the red ink bleeding up.

He flips them over—four of hearts and five of diamonds.

A nine. Natural.

Eyes whip to Ishmael.

He reveals his cards—queen and nine of spades.

A tie.

Groans ripple around the table.

"An equal," the pit manager says, collecting and discarding the cards.

The door swings open.

Zev—tall, tan, dressed formally—walks straight to Ishmael.

He leans in and whispers.

Nicholas sees it. The shift. The flicker of emotion in Ishmael's eyes—the first tonight.

Ishmael rises, smoothing his palms on the table. His voice remains even.

"It was an honorable venture with our distinguished guests. With your indulgence, I retire for the night."

With a final nod, he leaves. Zev follows him out.

The room exhales, the pressure lifting.

"What could be that urgent?" Jordan Evans murmurs.

Lukas Ito smirks. "He's got a wife worth more than money."

---

"Mr. Sam."

Nicholas's voice echoes down the white-and-gold hallway. Ishmael halts before the elevator.

Nicholas strides toward him.

"It was a pleasure meeting you. I'm Nicholas Green." He offers his hand.

Ishmael stares a beat, then shakes. "It was a good game," he says, voice low and rough.

Nicholas nods, smiling thinly.

The elevator doors open. Ishmael steps in with Zev.

As they vanish behind the closing doors, Nicholas's expression collapses.

What remains is a demeanour so darkened and morose, a man swallowed in a cavernous void.

He heads to the restroom, loosening his tie, unbuttoning his collar.

He stumbles to the sink, slaps the faucet open, and splashes cold water on his face.

Gripping the sink, knuckles bone–white, he swallows hard, louring at the stranger in the mirror—breathing ragged and uneven.

Then—with trembling fingers—he peels off the false beard, betraying him brutally better at the clean shaven jaw reflecting in the mirror.

Rhett with a tightened jaw glaring back at him.

His jaw clenches.

And then—he punches.

Glass shatters. Shards fall like rain.

Blood beads from his knuckles, trailing down his arm, soaking the sleeve of his black blazer.

But the burning in his chest, and the crimson spinning in his mind—numb him, colourblind him to the worldly hurt.