The air inside The Crimson Palace casino was thick with synthetic pine scent and the low, constant roar of human ambition. It was a cacophony that most people filtered out, but for Irene, it was a persistent assault on her senses—a thousand desperate, greedy, or merely bored thoughts crashing against the walls of her mind.
She sat at a high-stakes table, the green felt cool beneath her fingertips. The buy-in pile of chips before her was moderate; she never bought in big. She preferred to build slowly, like a spider weaving a deceptive web.
Irene was nondescript: mousy brown hair tied back, wearing a simple black turtleneck that disguised any nervous fidgeting, though she never fidgeted. Her eyes, however, were intensely focused, constantly shifting, not watching the cards, but the space just behind her opponents' eyes.
This was her life: a constant, exhausting rotation of high-end casinos across North America, always playing high enough to make a killing, but never long enough in one place to draw undue attention. Telepathy wasn't a party trick; it was a grueling, lucrative, and deeply perilous profession.
Tonight's table included three main threats.
To her left sat Victor 'The Hammer' Kresh, a mountain of a man with a diamond pinky ring and an aura of belligerent confidence. His physical tells were minimal, but his mental landscape was an open book of unfiltered aggression.
Across from her was Lena, a woman who looked bored but whose eyes missed nothing. Lena was a professional, and professionals tended to have quiet minds—disciplined, focused only on probabilities. She was the hardest to read, a necessary wall Irene had to breach.
The third player, Malcolm, was merely a casualty in waiting, bouncing nervously in his seat.
The dealer, a perpetually weary man named Frank, slid the cards. Hold'em.
Irene looked at her hole cards: Ace of Spades, Nine of Hearts. Decent, playable.
She closed her eyes for half a beat, taking a deep breath. She didn't need to look at the cards; she needed to look into the minds around her. She focused, narrowing the chaotic mental volume of the casino down to the five minds at the table.
The external roar faded, replaced by the specific static of their thoughts.
Victor: Come on, pocket rockets. Give me some real muscle. Lena: Position is poor. Need to fold unless I hit paint. Odds are 3:1. Malcolm: I hope this works. I need this money for the rent. Please, please, please.
Malcolm was praying over a pair of terrible cards—a 7-2 off-suit. He folded immediately when Victor bet $500 pre-flop.
Victor was holding a pair of Jacks. A good hand, but not the rockets he demanded.
Irene placed her bet. She had Victor beat if she hit her Ace, and she knew Lena was already calculating her fold.
The Flop: Ace of Diamonds, Three of Hearts, Ten of Clubs.
Irene silently exhaled. She had top pair, strong kicker.
Victor's mental scream almost made her flinch: The damn Ace! He got the damn Ace! He hadn't seen Irene's bet as confident, just standard. Now, his mind was racing, trying to figure out if she was bluffing the Ace.
Lena was quiet. Interesting flop. Kresh is weak-tight now. Irene... she's too placid.
Irene decided to play it slow. She checked.
Victor, panicking slightly but unwilling to back down due to his reputation, tossed $1,500 into the pot.
Lena folded, her thoughts a simple confirmation: No value in chasing Kresh while Irene is sitting on something.
Now, it was just the two of them. Irene didn't want him to fold, but she needed him to believe she was only marginally ahead, not crushing him.
She projected a faint, subtle thought towards Victor, the mental equivalent of a whisper: Maybe she's bluffing the Ace. She looks anxious. It was a subtle seed of doubt, planted just deep enough to make him slightly overconfident in his perceived read of her body language.
Irene called the $1,500.
The Turn: Four of Spades. A blank.
Victor checked, his mind now a battlefield of conflicting internal advice. If I bet, she'll fold unless she has two pair. I'll check and re-evaluate the river.
Irene saw her chance. She didn't need to read his hand anymore; she knew it was still just Jacks. She needed to intimidate him into a massive call on the river, or better yet, make him bet.
She raised $4,000. Aggressive, but not ridiculous.
Victor called. His mind was now stubbornly committed. I've invested too much to fold now. I'll make a stand on the river.
Irene felt the familiar, dull throb of a pressure headache beginning behind her temples. Focusing this intensely—filtering noise, reading intent, and projecting false cues—was draining her reserves. She had to end this hand quickly.
The River: Queen of Hearts.
The board now showed A-3-T-4-Q. A dangerous looking board, ripe for a straight or a flush, though neither had materialized.
Victor mentally confirmed: Still just Jacks. She doesn't have the King or the straight. She's trying to buy the pot.
Irene checked. Her top pair was still strong, but if Victor bet, he was going to bet big.
Victor considered. Irene had checked. This looked like weakness, like she had missed her draw or was only holding one pair she wasn't confident in.
He gathered a massive stack of the dark purple $1,000 chips. He pushed $10,000 into the pot. An all-in attempt.
Irene smiled faintly, a gesture that was entirely genuine. She had lured him perfectly.
He thinks I'm weak. He thinks my check is a tell. Idiot.
Irene paused, letting the silence hang. She met Victor's gaze, which was filled with projected bravado and inner turmoil.
Call it, call it, you timid fool, Victor's intrusive thoughts roared.
Irene pushed her entire stack forward, matching his $10,000 and raising him another $5,000. "All in."
Victor's mind shattered into disbelief. A straight? She hit the straight? No... she must have two pair, Aces and Queens. I can't beat Aces and Queens!
He stared at the board, then at Irene, then back at his Jacks. He didn't have enough confidence left to rely on his own reads. The subtle anxiety Irene had projected earlier had crippled his judgment. He folded, slamming his Jacks face down onto the felt in disgust.
"Show me," he growled. "What did you have?"
Irene simply gathered the $35,000 pot with a quiet, efficient movement. "Maybe next time, Victor."
The big wins were always necessary, but they carried an equal weight of danger.
Irene retreated into the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face. The headache was blooming into a full-blown migraine. She needed to pace herself. She had planned to stay for another two hours, but after the Victor hand, she felt stretched thin.
More importantly, the high-stakes table had drawn the attention of the floor manager, a sharp-eyed man named Doyle who had been lingering near the edge of the pit.
While drying her hands, Irene briefly focused on Doyle.
Doyle: That woman, Irene. Too calm. Too many big pots in too few hands. Check her against the facial recognition database. She feels like trouble.
Irene froze. Facial recognition was the one thing her nomadic strategy couldn't entirely defeat. She changed her hair color and style frequently, but the pattern of her eyes and the structure of her face were constant variables the cameras tracked.
Time to go.
She returned to the table and immediately announced she was cashing out. The move was abrupt and drew a sigh of relief from Lena and open resentment from Malcolm, who had just bought back in.
"Rough night, Irene?" Lena asked smoothly, though her thoughts revealed professional curiosity: She's running hot, but now she's cutting loose. Smart, or scared?
"Just tired," Irene replied, gathering her chips.
She walked straight to the cage, ignoring the urging thoughts of the other players to stay. Her stack was substantial—a little over $75,000 profit for the night. She traded the chips for paper currency, demanding large, non-sequential bills, a common enough request among professionals.
As she waited for the cashier to count, she felt a strong, focused stare. She didn't need to look up. It was Doyle, speaking rapidly into a wrist-mounted transceiver.
Irene didn't pause. She needed to put distance between herself and the casino before they confirmed her identity matched a recent winner from Las Vegas or Atlantic City.
She walked briskly but not frantically toward the main exit, her hand gripping the heavy envelope of cash in her large shoulder bag.
Five days later, Irene was in the opulent, but slightly less scrutinized, atmosphere of the Blue Lagoon Resort & Casino, three states north and five hundred miles west of The Crimson Palace.
She was back at the felt. The strategy remained the same: play mid-to-high stakes, execute three or four major manipulations, profit, and vanish before the house algorithm noticed the improbable winning streak.
Tonight's challenge was a trio of dedicated tourists and one true shark: Mr. Chen, an impeccably dressed man whose quiet intensity suggested deep pockets and a deep aversion to losing.
Irene was feeling more rested, her telepathic filters sharper. She could hear the distinct frequency of Mr. Chen's thoughts even through the ambient sound of slot machines.
The hand that defined the table came late, just before midnight. The pot was already sitting at $40,000, built through aggressive pre-flop raises.
Irene had a mediocre hand: King of Diamonds, Ten of Spades.
The board was terrifying: Ace of Hearts, Queen of Hearts, Jack of Clubs, Three of Diamonds, Two of Hearts.
A straight was possible (A-K-Q-J-T), and critically, a flush had materialized.
Irene knew she didn't have the flush or the unbeatable straight, but she had the nuts—the Broadway straight (A-K-Q-J-T). The trouble was, Mr. Chen had the King of Hearts and the Seven of Hearts. He had the nut flush.
She had to make him believe his flush was beaten, or that she had the royal flush, which would make him fold regardless of the money committed.
Chen: The flush is secured. No pair on the board. The only possible way I lose is a straight flush, which is impossible, or a royal. I bet everything.
Chen pushed $25,000 into the pot, effectively putting Irene and the last remaining tourist, Gary, all in. Gary folded instantly, his thoughts a panicked rush: Too much risk. Too much money.
Now, it was just Irene and Mr. Chen, staring down $65,000 worth of chips.
Irene felt a drop of cold sweat trace her hairline. This was the most dangerous type of confrontation: two strong hands, where the true win depended entirely on psychological warfare.
She couldn't read his cards away—she already knew them. She had to use projection, a feat of mental coercion that was physically excruciating. It was like shouting underwater.
She focused on a single point in Mr. Chen's mind, bypassing his disciplined thoughts about odds and probabilities. She focused on his core fear: humiliation and loss of face.
Projecting onto Chen: There's the Ace. The King. The Queen. I have a higher heart. Royal flush. You have the second-best hand, Chen. Fold. Don't show weakness by losing everything.
She projected the crisp, undeniable image of her having the Royal Flush (A-K-Q-J-T, all hearts). The vision was incredibly demanding to maintain, and Irene's jaw ached with the effort.
Mr. Chen's eyes narrowed slightly. His disciplined mind fought the intrusion, but the suggestion of the Royal Flush—the impossible hand—planted a cold fear.
Chen: A Royal? No... the odds... but she is so calm. I cannot risk calling a Royal. If I lose this, I lose everything I made tonight. Damage control.
He looked at Irene, his face a mask of disappointment. He slowly reached for his cards.
"You're very confident, Miss," Chen said, his voice flat.
Irene maintained her neutral expression, but mentally, she was screaming the lie: Fold the flush. You're beaten.
Chen sighed, a genuine, heavy sound. "I fold. Show the Royal."
Irene kept her hand face down. She scooped the immense pot with a steady hand. "No need, Mr. Chen. I only show when I'm called."
Chen stared at her, suspicion warring with relief. He truly believed he had avoided a catastrophe.
He'll be talking about that Royal Flush bluff for weeks, Irene thought, relaxing her mental grip. The instant relief was dizzying.
She stacked the chips—$85,000 tonight, her biggest haul in months.
Two hours later, Irene was gone. She had checked out of the Blue Lagoon, taken a taxi to a remote motel under a false name, and spent the night counting the cash and planning her exit from the state.
The next morning, the exhaustion of the previous night had settled deep into her bones. Telepathy wasn't just a physical drain; it was an emotional one. Dealing with the greed, frustration, and desperation of others day in and day out meant she never truly had peace.
She sat in the quiet, dim motel room, organizing her cash into vacuum-sealed packets. Total profits from the last two major stops: nearly $150,000. Enough to live comfortably for a year, provided she didn't gamble or need extensive medical care.
She knew the house eventually always won, and for people like her, the 'house' was the statistical profile, the suspicious pit boss, or the inevitable headache that became too severe to ignore.
She packed her single suitcase, which contained three changes of dark clothing, basic toiletries, and a stack of expertly forged IDs. The only thing she carried that was truly crucial was her focus.
She took out a small, personalized itinerary she kept tucked into her passport. The next casino was marked: The Golden Strand, Miami. A massive, sprawling complex where she could easily get lost in the noise.
She glanced at the date and marked her expected arrival. She would take the train—slower, safer, and less prone to random security stops than flying.
Before zipping the bag, she stopped by the window. The motel was cheap, overlooking a perpetually busy highway. The noise was constant, but here, in the cold light of day, it was just sound, not thought.
She held the zipper, looking at her reflection in the glass: a tired, pale woman with guarded eyes.
She was rich, functional, and utterly alone. She had mastered the game, but the victory was a lonely one, bought with the constant, grinding pressure of other people's minds.
Irene pulled the zipper shut. Miami was waiting. The poker tables were waiting. And the endless, exhausting cycle of reading, projecting, winning, and running would begin again. The only guarantee was the next pot, and the certainty that she would always cash out before they learned her name.