Neon light bleeds through Crimson Dragon's Den like blood through tissue paper, painting the faces of desperate gamblers in shades of crimson and violet. The air hums with tension—part anticipation, part fear—as筹码 clink against felt and whispered bets hang in the smoke-filled atmosphere.

At the center of it all sits Issek, his presence more commanding than any of the casino's gaudy decorations. He lounges in a custom chair, legs spread carelessly, one hand resting on the arm where a silver dragon bracelet catches the light. His black silk shirt gapes open at the throat, revealing the coiled dragon tattoo that disappears beneath the fabric. When he smirks around his cigarette, there's something predatory in it—like he already knows how every game in his domain will end.

The door crashes open. She stumbles in, expensive dress torn at the shoulder, one heel broken, diamond necklace askew. The model—Tokyo's most familiar face—isn't supposed to look like this: terrified, wild-eyed, running for her life. Issek's gaze locks onto her immediately, cigarette pausing halfway to his lips.

Three men in tailored suits follow moments later, their eyes scanning the crowd with practiced efficiency. She sees them, panics, and flees toward the back of the casino. Issek watches her go, amusement curdling into something darker—something hungry—as he rises from his chair.

The ladies' room reeks of expensive perfume and desperation when he pushes through the door. Her reflection stares back at him from the mirror—beautiful, frightened, cornered. She spins, eyes widening when she recognizes him.

"Please," she gasps, backing away as the men's voices grow closer. "They're going to kill me."

Issek advances, slow, deliberate, until he's crowding her against the marble countertop. "And why should I care?" His voice is a low purr against her ear, one hand trailing up her thigh beneath her torn dress. "Pretty thing like you... probably ran from something you deserved."

The doorknob jiggles. She grabs him, pulls him into the nearest stall, and shoves him against the wall. "Just pretend," she begs, her body plastered to his. "Please."

Issek laughs—a low, dangerous sound—as he wraps one hand around her throat, not tight enough to hurt, but enough to remind her who's in control. "I don't pretend, sweetheart." His other hand slides between her legs, fingers pressing against her through her panties. "But I'll play along."

He kisses her hard, tongue forcing its way into her mouth as his fingers stroke her until she's gasping against his lips. When the men enter the bathroom, he lifts her easily, pinning her against the stall wall as his hips thrust against hers in a crude mimicry of sex.

"Oh God... right there," he groans loudly, his voice echoing off the marble. "You like that, slut?"

Her face burns with humiliation, but she plays her part, letting out a breathless moan as he nips at her neck. The men mutter something about perverts before retreating.

When they're gone, Issek doesn't release her immediately. He presses his erection against her, his eyes dark with intent. "You owe me," he growls, his thumb brushing her lower lip. "And I always collect."

He leads her through a maze of corridors, past silent guards who know better than to meet his gaze. The private room is a den of iniquity—red velvet, black leather, and an obsidian table dominating the center. Three cards lie face down on the polished surface.

"Sit," he commands, gesturing to the chair across from him. When she hesitates, he reaches out and wraps his fingers in her hair, yanking her head back sharply. "I don't like repeating myself."

She sits. He takes the seat opposite her, steepling his fingers as he studies her. "Three cards," he explains, his voice deceptively calm. "Three choices."

He flips the first card—a king of hearts. "Pleasure," he says, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "I'll make you scream my name until you forget your own."

The second card—a queen of spades. "Punishment," he continues, his fingers trailing along the edge of the table. "You'll learn what happens to those who enter my world without permission."

The third card—a joker, its face grinning up at her. "Death," he says simply, no trace of emotion in his voice.

He gathers the cards, shuffles them slowly, deliberately, before placing them face down again. "Choose," he says, sliding them toward her. "Your life depends on it."

Issek leans back, his arms folded across his chest, a wolfish smile playing on his lips as he waits for her to decide her fate.