In the surveillance booth of a Las Vegas palace of neon and greed, Security Chief André leaned on the console, sleeves rolled to show a scorpion tattoo that promised trouble. His eyes swept the wall of monitors, hawk-sharp—every cheat caught meant another bonus. Motivation kept him wired.
Something snagged his gaze: a dice table. Not the game—the player. A skinny white guy slumped like he was about to nap. He bet with his eyes closed, head pillowed on his arms, then would snap upright and shove his entire stack onto one number.
And win. Every damn time.
Hand after hand, the dice landed exactly where the man wanted. Towers of chips climbed into seven figures, then eight.
André narrowed his gaze, hunting tells—the dealer's wrists, the player's fingers, the air between them. Nothing. Just his own eyes going hot with strain.
A runner came back shaking his head. "Boss, ran his ID—nothing. Checked traffic cams. No entry, no exit. It's like he spawned in the casino."
Before André could reply, the owner lumbered in. A bear of a man in a tailored suit, cigar parked between fingers like sausages. He pointed the cigar at the screen.
"André, why am I hearing about this now? That's eight figures walking off my floor."
André swallowed. "Thought we'd let him walk, then… handle it outside." He dragged a thumb across his throat.
The owner shook his head. "Already tried. Every house on the Strip has. Same guy. No dirty play we can prove. Soon as he leaves—vanishes." He leaned closer, voice dropping. "Before he disappears, bring him to me. I want to know how he calls every roll."
He paused in the doorway. "And André—be ready for anything."
Down on the floor, the "skinny white guy" looked half-dead with boredom. Only the mountain of chips in front of him gave the game away.
Li Feng had been at it for days—spirit slipping free mid-shake to peek inside the cup. He'd laundered his Edge City haul into clean checks, skimmed enough walking cash to bankroll a country. Now the stack looked big enough to guarantee him a meeting upstairs.
He rose, chips in hand, and aimed for the cashier. A check, not a transfer—that would bait the hook. A retrieval team would follow, he'd turn them, and then he'd ask the real question: who in Vegas could source fissile material.
The script flipped early. Three blocky silhouettes boxed him in before he reached the counter.
Li's mouth curved. Impatient. Bold move, muscling a whale in front of half the floor.
André stepped in, coat open just enough to flash the grip of a pistol. His smile was all courtesy. "Sir, the boss would like a word."
Perfect. Time saved was time earned. Li set the chips on the marble counter without a glance back.
André flagged the cashier. "Convert to a check. Hand it to him when he leaves."
Then, with two refrigerators flanking him, he herded Li into the elevator.
The doors closed. Li snapped his fingers.
Three pairs of eyes glazed, went placid.
"Your boss have a line on nuclear material? Devices? Feedstock?" Li asked.
The muscle shook their heads. André, though, coughed up the truth. "He's connected to a former Soviet broker. A guy who can get… that."
Li's grin sharpened. Finally. Half the Strip skimmed, and at last, bingo.
"Then take me," he said lightly. "Now."
The elevator chimed open. Moments later, André rapped at a heavy office door.
Li didn't wait for an invite. He kicked it off its hinges and strode to the desk. "You can get me a device or the fuel?"
The owner had expected a cheat to scold. Instead he got a shark-eyed stranger with a wrecked door behind him. His thumb found a switch beneath the desk. Footsteps thundered outside.
"We're businessmen," the owner said with a brittle smile. "We don't—"
"I'll give you a moment." Li flicked his wrist.
A bead of fire spun to life in his palm, then zipped to the shattered frame. The remains of the door atomized into glittering ash.
Gunmen surged in, muzzles flashing. A curved shield blossomed around Li, drinking the storm. He lobbed a fireball underhand. It hit the lead shooter center mass and roasted him on the carpet.
The others kept their triggers down, pale with terror.
Li sighed. He reached with something colder. The dead man's soul ripped free, then slammed back into his charred husk. The corpse sat up, blinking, puppet-still.
Li turned back to the owner. "How long to get what I want?"
He nudged the desk with his boot. "And kill the alarm. I prefer light music to heavy metal. Otherwise…" He tipped his chin toward the revenant. His grin showed teeth. "I'll mince you, bring you back, and let you die again. And again. Long night ahead."
The owner's hand trembled over his chest as he fumbled the alarm off. "I—I don't know. I have to call my friend."
Li's brow creased.
"I'll call now," the man blurted, scrambling for his phone.