The air in the Lucky Dragon clung thick and sweet-sour—stale hope, cheap perfume gone cloying, and the ozone bite of hidden vents pumping fake rain through the ceiling.

Beneath the low amber wash of paper lanterns, beneath the muted clack of the bamboo roulette wheel, beneath the velvet hush of the indigo felt on her blackjack table, a different sound rasped: a low, wet sob choked into a fist.

That salaryman, tie askew, collar dark with sweat, stared at the empty green expanse before him. His fingers, trembling violently, traced the edge of the chip well where his last stack of vintage subway tokens had vanished mere minutes ago under Kiseki's implacable dealing. She'd seen the arc: the initial bluster, the desperate double-down, the flicker of panic, the hollow collapse.

Predictable, her internal ledger noted with cold satisfaction. Optimal yield. Yamamoto will be pleased. Bonus tokens likely.

Leaning against the polished mahogany bar, a sliver of space carved between the thrum of quiet desperation and the clink of highball glasses, Kiseki claimed her five stolen minutes. Her espresso-dark curls framed her face loosely now, the heavy side-swept bangs partially veiling her storm-grey eyes as they drifted, unfocused, across the room. Not seeking prey, just monitoring.

Her calloused fingers, impossibly deft, idly shuffled a worn deck of Angel Back cards lifted from her pit. The rhythmic snick-snick-snick was her metronome, a calming ritual in the haze.

She didn't need to look. Her hands knew the geometry, the infinitesimal imperfections by sound and feel alone. The invisible triumph of the salaryman's financial evisceration warmed her palms slightly. Efficiency rewarded.

A faint crease tightened momentarily between her brows. Not about the man dissolving near table three, being gently but firmly steered away by security. Something mundane. Annoying.

The fridge. The image flashed stark: blindingly white, nearly empty shelves. A single, desiccated lemon. A bottle of mineral water.

Nakameguro's decent konbini would be shuttered iron by the time her shift ended in an hour. The prospect of facing the corpse-like glow of a vending machine after navigating the city's exhausted silence twisted something low in her gut. Stupid.

Kiseki's ring finger tapped a silent, irritated rhythm against her thumb on the bar's cool surface.

Jin, the bartender whose vocabulary consisted of grunts and perfectly measured pours, slid a chilled glass of mineral water towards her without a word. Condensation beaded instantly. Kiseki gave a micro-nod, her gaze catching the distorted reflection in the glass of the shoji screens shifting behind her—koi swimming to a new configuration, designed to disorient newcomers near the baccarat table.

She took a small sip. The cold was a sharp, clean counterpoint to the room's cloying warmth. The snick-snick-snick of the cards resumed, a fraction sharper. Five minutes stretched and collapsed simultaneously.

An almost inaudible sigh escaped her, lost beneath the layered white noise of rainforest birds and a muffled Shinjuku station announcement. Break over.

Pushing off the bar, Kiseki moved with her signature lean grace past the roulette pit and poker table, her zori silent on the tatami. She was almost at the edge of her indigo-blackjack domain when her gaze locked—not on the departing salaryman, but on the woman standing slightly apart near the pit's perimeter, wearing the enamel Kyuyosei badge.

A Dragon rule. Newcomers, or those specifically requesting her table, her particular brand of fortune, wore them. A tiny, tangible claim in this shifting labyrinth of shoji screens and murmured losses.

Kiseki paused, one foot on the slightly raised platform of her pit. The professional mask—detached precision, cool neutrality—slid into place with practiced ease, but not before a flicker of assessment crossed her storm-grey eyes.

Her unnervingly direct gaze met the woman's. The faintest curve touched her lips, softening the sharp angles of her face without ever reaching her eyes. It wasn't warmth. It was intrigue. A shared secret in a room drowning in risk.

"Welcome to the table," Kiseki said, her voice a low, smooth monotone that effortlessly cut through the ambient hum. It held the faintest rasp, like well-worn paper. She tilted her head, just so. "Blackjack whispers its odds. Baccarat prefers its mysteries."

Her eyes held the woman's, noting the absence of tokens clutched tightly, the lack of that desperate, fevered gleam she'd just extinguished nearby. The ghost of that knowing, enigmatic smile touched her lips again.

"Fortune favors the observant. What would you like to play, lady?"