Everything proceeded forth comfortably. Hours after returning to their suite, Kieran received word from Gregory that the agents were ready to act at his behest and accompany him.

However, Kieran asked that they go ahead without him. With their departure soon upon them, he had no time to focus on a task like that.

The agents could easily accomplish it without fail.

Kieran slipped out while the suite bustled with activity, the team packing and scampering back and forth. He looked up, watching the darkening sky, its pale blue gradually shifting into a blend of orange, red, and darker tones.

An enrapturing vista spanning as far as Kieran could see.

But the night’s encroachment signified a shift in the city’s activity. Though far some debaucherous red light districts where even the lowliest of improper acts occurred, Minence City was not an innocent place.

Of course, it wasn’t. It housed something like Caelum Lenders. It was bound to be the nest of far more insidious, immoral places.

‘Damn, Weasel. I always found you to be odd. How can you be a hermit… who carries himself like a scoundrel.’

He possessed a fatal flaw for all the skills that the young man had. Weasel couldn’t resist houses of sin. As long as his vices were understood, tracking him wasn’t hard.

Kieran had been casually searching the shadowy part of the network, sifting through countless cryptic, innocuous ads until he found several notices highlighting the date of a big event.

That event was held in one of the city’s biggest casinos, part of a criminal ring and the linchpin of a grand enterprise.

“House Laviosha.”

Kieran looked into the distance. There, he could see a building standing proudly. Despite how far he was, he could easily describe the ostentatious structure.

Designed to mimic a long-standing and fabled citadel, it had chiseled steps tapered into a narrowed entryway. Those steps connected to a circular driveway where a valet would lead vehicles to an underground parking space, surrounding a large fountain spewing crystalline water.

The more the sky darkened, the more pale lamplights lit up, illuminating the streets in a way that attracted more attention to House Laviosha.

If Weasel was anywhere in Minence City, it had to be in a robustly active venue of shadiness like this.

Roughly an hour later, Kieran was stopped at the top of the steps, flagged by the doorman standing behind a marble podium.

“Pardon me, sir. But do you have an invite to this event? You’re not exactly… dressed for it.”

Pretentious disgust rose in the man’s eye as he scrutinized Kieran’s slovenly attire. Not at all like the black and white formal wear detailed in the notice. Unfortunately, the suit Kieran had brought along was… damaged from his bout with Daedric.

Attempting to wear that was even worse than appearing in distressed black jeans and a simple white tee.

“A wardrobe issue outside of my control. But I promise you, this can speak for itself.”

With a few casual taps and swipes, Kieran brought up his personal banking balance with enough digits to make the entitled man’s eyes pop.

He cleared his throat and stepped aside, hoping a profligate son had stepped foot upon these cursed premises.

“My apologies. How very rude of me to stop you. You’re more than welcome here. Please enjoy the night, my good sir.”

Kieran disregarded the man, walking past him. Past the grand glass doors, he walked beneath a grandiose chandelier and up another set of stairs that spiraled in opposing directions.

The left led to mostly unmanned floors where all the unimportant and moderately important guests gambled on machines or scantily observed tables. The odds were disgustingly—almost criminally—low, so no high-rollers approached that area.

The right was where the money to be made existed. It was the playing ground of the high rollers, a nesting pool of VIPs. A card had to be purchased to obtain access on this side. And that happened at the top of the right staircase.

It was an intelligent ploy to get gamblers to show they had the funds to be here. And an even more cunning way to secure income that might be lost to ridiculous bids, effectively neutralizing the night’s cost or leaving them in the black at the night’s end.

Morning? It fit.

Those kinds of events tended to run into the hours of delinquency where the sun just barely began cresting.

“Welcome to the entrance of the Floor of the Daredevils. To gain entry, you’ll need to pay the fee. It’ll be a small amount of $50,000.”

Kieran lowered his gaze after briefly scanning the glass behind this seemingly elderly man, a head full of thick white hair. He wouldn’t complain about the price, but calling that a small fee was… a tactic.

He knew it was.

Exploitative trickery. It indirectly challenged the newcomer’s pride and status. Should they complain about the fee, only one fate awaited the gambler seeking greater thrills.

They’d be excused after being publicly shamed, effectively making them a laughingstock of this world of thrilling misadventures.

The fee was paid, and Kieran received a sleek black card with a red devil icon branded in the center.

Once inside, Kieran scanned the area properly. People mingled, and sexual tension passed back and forth in innuendos. They argued, accusations wildly flung around the large den of gambles.

But some tables were silent—a raw atmosphere of expensive tension.

‘If you’re that slippery little guy Weasel… with your skill set, where would you be?’

Stepping through the crowd with tentative steps, Kieran observed everything as it became perceptible.

He ignored the high-stakes slot machines. Those were too unpredictable and easily rigged in the favor of the House. It was a challenge, but not the kind Weasel liked. Too much uncertainty existed with that game.

He ignored the public poker tables too. It was usually the main attraction, and as a hermit, Weasel hated the company of a large, ever-growing crowd.

The choices were quickly narrowed down to anything private.

‘Did he like roulette?’

That was a game of chance… of exorbitant chance. Predicting the outcome was a mountain of a task. The red, the black… green! So many possibilities and too much stress.

It was discarded as well.

That left two options in Kieran’s mind.

Private poker games and private blackjack—the rooms where House Laviosha made its ludicrous amounts of money. Normally, Kieran wouldn’t mind stepping into those kinds of environments, but this was chosen favorite of many affluent names.

Could he control himself if he ran into a name he despised? He didn’t know and truly didn’t want to take the risk. But he needed to. That was the issue.

His gut gnawed at him, telling him Weasel was in these very walls, enjoying the decadence of this environment.

‘Let’s take a page out of his book.’

Closing his eyes, Kieran withdrew a coin from his pocket.

‘Heads, we’ll go poker. Tails, we’ll go blackjack.’

The sonorous clink of the coin launched from Kieran’s finger echoed faintly. It rotated violently in the air, the orientation of the faces wholly invisible. During its descent, Kieran opened his eyes and snatched it out of the air.

At that exact moment, something almost fate-induced occurred.

A furious howl of outrage erupted in the gambling den.

“Check him pants! He’s cheating, dammit. I know he is. This is why I hate poker. I can’t tell with you people. I blubbering hate you! Check him pants. I demand it.”

Kieran smiled, his expression amused and nostalgic. He knew that style of complaining. It knew no end, and it was actually a weaselly exit strategy.

Being thrown out and walking out were two different scenarios in the gambling world. One signified the lack of restraint, the other of cowardice.

A gambler prone to impulse was easy pickings. Or so they said.

Seconds later, the same outraged voice came in a torrent of insults. ．

“Learn how to move your **ing face, you damned statue. Let me find something to read! Do you want to be poor by the night’s end? Then do as I tell you and give me your blubbering tells, you twit!”

When they finally had enough of the complaining rodent of a man, security inside the high-stakes private poker room escorted him out.

The man had deep-set green eyes, burning with rage, covered by large glasses, its lens thin and circular. His physique was strange, resembling an orangutan in that he was spindly and frail, but his belly bulged.

Just as Kieran remembered him in the beginning.

‘I’ve found you, Weasel.’

“Unhand me. I don’t want or need you touching me. Off! Get them off me!”

A gruff voice came, annoyed by the constant nagging.

“You are not permitted into any of the poker rooms. Either find your fill elsewhere or be escorted off the premises entirely.”

The wiry Weasel snatched his shirt and readjusted his glasses, glaring at the stout man.

“I will do just that! Off to blackjack, I go.”

As Weasel walked across the gambling den, Kieran followed, mirroring his every move like an undetected wraith. The floor bustled with activity, making the need for cover nonexistent. He simply needed to meander through the crowd.

Sure enough, he arrived at the private blackjack area seconds after Weasel.

“I can’t tell people… but I can sure as hell tell cards—count them. Hehehe. Do you think I like poker? No, I love blackjack!”

A glance at the coin in Kieran’s hand revealed a joke.

“It’s tails.”