The private lounge of the Imperium Club was steeped in shadows and cigar smoke, lit only by the amber glow of Baccarat crystal chandeliers. Heavy velvet curtains cocooned the room, muting the city's noise to a distant hum, as if the world itself dared not intrude.

Around the obsidian poker table, the elite of the hidden world had gathered—old money in newer skin, men who never smiled without a knife tucked beneath the grin. Their suits were pressed, their watches obscene, their sins dressed in silk and stitched into cufflinks. And at the head of it all sat Hannibal Lecter.

Impeccably tailored in black silk and slate, he moved with the elegance of a predator at rest—fingers steepled, gaze unreadable, a glass of St. Émilion breathing beside him. He had not spoken in nearly twenty minutes. He hadn't needed to. His stack of chips loomed high, a silent testimony to his unbroken string of victories.