The offroad vehicle rumbled to a stop outside the Golden Fleece.
Raymond sat in the passenger seat, watching the building through dust-streaked windows. Two stories of reinforced concrete and scavenged metal, paint peeling where sandstorms had scraped it down to bare surface. Neon tubing spelled out the name across the facade—half the letters flickered, one completely dark.
The building lacked grandeur, polish.
The special district on Cyber City's south side drew a different clientele than the polished establishments in the core sectors. This was where money came to spend itself quickly, where no one asked questions, where frontier wealth and stolen fortunes mixed without distinction.
The front passenger door opened. A man stepped out—broad shoulders, tactical vest visible beneath an unbuttoned jacket. His eyes swept the street before he moved to Raymond's door.
A second vehicle pulled up behind them. Two more men emerged, positioning themselves at angles that covered the entrance and the street approach.
The security detail formed a loose cordon.
Only then did Raymond's door open. He stepped out onto the packed dirt.
His clothes fit the role. Clean shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. Jacket that cost more than most frontier workers earned in a month—durable fabric but tailored, practical cut made impractical through style. Boots that had never walked more than necessary. A data-watch on his wrist, expensive model with built-in credit authorization.
He walked toward the Golden Fleece. He didn't adopt the measured pace of someone calculating angles and exits. Instead, he displayed the lazy stride of someone who'd never hurried anywhere.
The entrance lacked doors. Just an open archway with metal detectors built into the frame—crude scanning equipment, the kind that flagged weapons but nothing sophisticated. A guard stood beside it, assault rifle slung across his chest. His eyes tracked Raymond's approach with flat assessment.
Raymond passed through the scanner. No beep.
The guard's gaze lingered for a moment, then dismissed him.
Inside, the casino floor sprawled before him.
The space had been gutted from what was once industrial—high ceiling supported by exposed beams, concrete floor covered in mismatched carpeting that showed traffic patterns in worn paths. Gaming tables scattered without particular order, some occupied, others waiting. A bar ran along the back wall, bottles arranged on shelves that looked salvaged from three different establishments.
Smoke hung in the air. Not cigarettes—something harsher, a local product rolled in rough paper. It mixed with the smell of alcohol, sweat, and the particular odor of too many bodies crowding in inadequate ventilation.
The crowd numbered maybe seventy. Frontier types mostly—mercenaries, traders, scavengers who'd hit good scores. Clothing ranged from functional to flashy, wealth worn where it showed. Loud voices carried across the floor, laughter punctuating conversation, the occasional shout when dice rolled favorably.
Three women worked the floor, carrying drinks. Their clothes marked them as servers—practical, not provocative, weapons visible on their belts because this establishment expected trouble as standard business practice.
Security posts marked each corner. Four guards stood visible, while more certainly watched from the second-level walkway overlooking the main floor. Cameras mounted at intervals—older models but still functional.
Exits include the main entrance, a side door near the bar, a staircase to the second level, and a service access behind the gaming tables.
Raymond caught the automatic assessment and let it settle beneath the surface. His expression shifted—faint distaste at the rough atmosphere, curiosity about the games, the mild superiority of someone accustomed to better venues.
A man approached. Older, weathered face marked by sun exposure and old scars. He wore a vest over his shirt, no jacket despite the air conditioning fighting losing battle against desert heat bleeding through walls.
"First time?"
His tone carried practiced welcome without warmth.
Raymond nodded. He let his gaze drift across the room, then back.
"Heard this place runs fair games."
"Fair enough."
The man's smile showed missing teeth.
"Credit authorization at the bar. Minimum buy-in posted at each table. House takes ten percent on winnings over five hundred."
"Understood."
Raymond moved past him toward the bar. His stride maintained lazy confidence. Shoulders too open. The walk of someone who'd never had to guard his own back.
The bartender looked up as Raymond approached. Thick arms, expression professionally blank.
"Authorization?"
Raymond raised his wrist, tapping the data-watch interface. A holographic display flickered to life—credit balance, authorization codes, identity verification all visible in pale blue light.
The bartender produced a scanner, its casing cracked and repaired with adhesive. He waved it over the watch.
Beep. Green indicator.
"Balance confirmed. What's your limit?"
"Two thousand to start."
Raymond's tone carried casual indifference. Not small money in this district. Enough to draw attention without triggering suspicion.
The bartender's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. Recognition of a player worth noticing.
"Authorized. Tables honor direct watch-transfer. Don't try running credit you don't have."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Raymond turned from the bar, scanning the gaming tables with manufactured interest.
Bored heir looking for entertainment. Careless. Wealthy. Obvious.
The role settled over him completely.
His lips curved into a slight smile.
Time to play.
Raymond approached a card table near the center of the floor. Five players occupied seats, their attention fixed on hands dealt face-down on felt that had seen better years. The dealer—middle-aged woman, scarred knuckles, professional blank expression—tracked his approach with peripheral awareness.
An empty chair sat at the far end.
Raymond gestured toward it.
"Seat open?"
The dealer nodded once. Her eyes flicked to his wrist, noting the data-watch.
"Minimum five hundred. Authorization required before first hand."
Raymond raised his wrist. The watch interface flickered to life. The dealer produced her scanner—newer model than the bartender's, corporate issue rather than salvage. She swept it across the holographic display.
Green light. Soft beep.
"Confirmed. Take your seat."
Raymond settled into the chair. The felt was worn smooth under his forearms, the backing cracked where too many elbows had rested over too many games. He leaned back, shoulders relaxed, the posture of someone settling in for entertainment rather than serious play.
The game was simple enough once he watched two hands play out. Five cards dealt. Betting round. Option to discard and draw replacements. Final betting. Best combination won the pot.
Standard poker variant. Different terminology, slightly modified hierarchy of winning hands, but the core mechanics matched what he'd learned during downtime in a dozen field operations.
The dealer shuffled. Cards snapped against felt in practiced rhythm.
"Antes."
Raymond tapped his watch interface. Five hundred credits transferred with a soft chime. The others matched, chips appearing as holographic markers above the felt's embedded display surface.
Cards slid across the table. Two face-down to each player.
Raymond checked his hand without lifting the cards fully. A pair of low-value cards, mismatched suits. Nothing worth playing aggressively.
The betting started left of the dealer. First player tapped for minimum bet. Second raised. Third folded. Fourth called. Fifth raised again.
Raymond's turn.
He tapped for the call, matching the current bet without hesitation. Not eager. Not cautious. Just playing.
Three more cards dealt face-down. Raymond checked them. Still nothing. His best combination sat at one pair—barely competitive.
Betting resumed. The raises climbed. Two players folded. Raymond stayed in, calling each raise with the same unhurried confidence.
The pot grew. Four thousand credits displayed in holographic numbers above the table center.
Final betting round. The player to Raymond's right pushed hard—fifteen hundred credit raise. Serious money. The kind of move that said either strong hand or aggressive bluff.
Raymond called without pause.
The other remaining player folded, shaking his head.
Cards flipped. The aggressive player showed three of a kind—strong combination, fourth best in the hierarchy the dealer had displayed on a reference panel.
Raymond revealed his pair.
The pot transferred to his opponent. Four thousand credits gone in one hand.
Raymond's expression didn't shift. He leaned back, fingers drumming once against the armrest, then settled in for the next deal.
Wealthy amateur. Playing for entertainment. Not concerned about losses.
The pattern continued. Raymond won two small pots—enough to appear competent, not lucky. Lost four larger ones. His credit balance dropped steadily. Not catastrophic losses. Not the desperate hemorrhaging of someone drowning in bad decisions. Just the slow, consistent bleed of someone playing slightly above their skill level and slightly below their caution threshold.
Forty minutes passed. His balance sat at negative eight thousand from where he'd started.
One of the original players stood, collecting his winnings. The chair sat empty for thirty seconds before a new figure claimed it.
Raymond glanced up.
The man settling into the vacant seat looked comfortable. Mid-forties, clean-shaven, clothes that split the difference between functional and expensive. His shirt was quality fabric but practical cut, his jacket tailored but not ostentatious. The kind of outfit that said money without screaming it.
He raised his wrist for authorization. The dealer scanned. Green light.
"Good evening, gentlemen."
His voice carried easy confidence. Not aggressive. Not deferential. The tone of someone accustomed to being welcomed at tables like this.
The dealer began the next hand.
Raymond played the same pattern. Conservative calls, occasional raises on mediocre hands, losses accumulating with mathematical precision.
The new player won the third pot after joining. Clean victory, strong combination played without excessive aggression. Professional approach.
Two more hands passed. Raymond lost another three thousand. His balance dropped to negative eleven thousand total.
The new player won again. Smaller pot this time, but his technique showed experience. He bet with measured escalation, reading the table's rhythm, knowing when to push and when to fold.
The hand after that, Raymond drew decent cards. A straight—third best combination. He bet accordingly, raising with confidence that wasn't entirely manufactured.
The new player stayed in. So did one other.
The pot climbed to six thousand.
Final reveal. The other player folded immediately. Raymond showed his straight.
The new player flipped his cards. Full house—second best combination.
The pot transferred. Raymond's apparent confidence had cost him another six thousand on a hand he should have won against weaker competition.
Total losses: seventeen thousand credits.
The new player stacked his winnings with practiced efficiency. Then he glanced at Raymond, something that might have been sympathy crossing his features.
"Rough run."
Raymond shrugged. He kept his expression neutral—faint frustration, but not devastation. The look of someone who could absorb the loss.
"Cards fall how they fall."
"True enough."
The man's attention returned to the table as the dealer prepared the next hand. But something in his posture had shifted. Awareness. The kind a hunter showed when noticing promising prey.
Three more hands played out. Raymond won one—small pot, barely dented his losses. Lost the other two.
Balance: negative twenty-one thousand credits.
The man won twice more. His stack of holographic markers climbed steadily, glowing above his section of felt.
He played well. Not perfect. Not the mechanical precision of someone counting cards or working an angle. Just solid fundamentals executed with years of practice.
After the last pot settled, he leaned back in his chair. His fingers drummed once against the armrest, a gesture almost identical to Raymond's earlier tell. Then he turned his head, meeting Raymond's gaze directly.
"First time in the district?"
Raymond nodded.
"That obvious?"
A slight smile touched the man's lips.
"The watch gives it away. Core sector issue. We see them occasionally, but not often at tables like this."
He gestured vaguely at the casino floor—the peeling paint, the mismatched carpet, the frontier atmosphere.
"Usually, visitors with that kind of credit authorization stick to the main strip establishments."
Raymond returned the smile. Self-deprecating. The expression of someone caught playing out of their depth.
"Heard this place runs fairer odds."
"It does."
The man's smile widened fractionally.
"Though fair odds don't mean much if the cards don't cooperate."
"Noticed that."
The dealer began shuffling for the next hand. The man watched the cards snap together, then stood. He collected his winnings with a tap of his watch interface—thirty-two thousand credits transferred in a soft chime.
He turned to Raymond.
"Buy you a drink? Least I can do after taking that much off you."
His tone carried friendly concern. No mockery. Just the camaraderie of one player to another after an evening at the tables.
Raymond hesitated. Not long—just enough to appear like someone weighing the offer.
Then he stood.
"Why not."
The man extended his hand.
"Carlos."
Raymond accepted the handshake. Firm grip, brief contact.
"Reese, John."
"Pleasure. Come on—bar's got better selection than you'd expect."
Carlos moved toward the back of the casino. Raymond followed, maintaining the lazy stride, the careless posture.
Hook set.
The bar occupied the back wall—salvaged wood counter, mismatched stools, bottles arranged on shelves that showed three different construction styles. Carlos claimed two seats near the corner, away from the main traffic flow.
The bartender approached. Same thick-armed man who'd authorized Raymond's credit earlier.
"What're you drinking?"
Carlos gestured to Raymond.
"Guest's choice."
Raymond scanned the bottles. Most labels were unfamiliar—local distilleries, frontier breweries, the kind of product that never made it to core sector establishments. He pointed to a mid-shelf bottle, amber liquid inside.
"That one. Two."
The bartender poured without comment. Two glasses, three fingers each, no ice. He slid them across the counter and moved away.
Carlos raised his glass.
"To better cards next time."
Raymond touched his glass to Carlos's. The liquor burned going down—harsh, unrefined, but potent.
They drank in silence for a moment. Carlos set his glass down, fingers still wrapped around it.
"So John, what brings you to the south district? Not the usual destination for visitors with core sector credit."
Raymond shrugged. He let his gaze drift across the casino floor, the gesture casual.
"Wanted to see the city. Real city, not whatever sanitized bullshit the tour companies sell."
"Fair enough."
Carlos took another drink.
"Family money?"
"Father's."
Raymond's tone carried the casual dismissiveness of someone who'd never earned anything themselves.
"What's he do?"
"Arms dealer. Kirak sector."
Raymond delivered it flatly, then took another drink. Like it was nothing. Like saying his father sold weapons was equivalent to mentioning any other trade.
Carlos went still for half a second. Then his fingers drummed once against his glass.
"Hence the security detail."
He gestured with his glass toward the casino entrance. Raymond turned his head.
The two men who'd formed the cordon at the vehicle stood near the doorway. Not inside the casino proper, but visible through the open archway. They maintained positions that covered both the entrance and the floor, eyes scanning with professional regularity.
Raymond's jaw tightened. The expression came naturally—frustration that didn't need to be manufactured.
"Father's paranoia."
He turned back to the bar, shoulders tense.
"Made enemies over the years. Now I can't go anywhere without them hovering."
His gaze stayed fixed on his glass.
"It's fucking exhausting."
Carlos studied him for a moment. Then he signaled the bartender for another round.
"Must be suffocating."
"You have no idea."
Raymond's voice carried genuine frustration. He leaned forward, elbows on the counter.
"Can't go anywhere without permission. Can't do anything fun."
He gestured vaguely at the casino.
"This is the most freedom I've had in months. And even here..."
He trailed off, glancing toward the security detail again.
The bartender refilled their glasses. Raymond drank faster this time. The alcohol settled into his system, warming his chest.
He let his posture loosen. Shoulders dropping. Elbows resting heavier on the counter.
Time passed. The afternoon bled into evening. The casino's lighting shifted—dimmer, warmer, the kind of atmospheric change that encouraged longer stays and looser credit authorization.
Carlos ordered food. Small plates—fried vegetables, spiced meat on skewers, flatbread. They ate while talking. The conversation meandered. Carlos asked about Kirak. Raymond provided vague details, painting a picture of wealth built on weapons contracts and government connections. A father too busy making deals to notice his son. Money solving every problem except the ones that mattered.
Carlos shared stories from the district. Local politics. Gang territories. The informal economy that operated beneath official oversight. His tone carried the easy knowledge of someone who understood how frontier cities actually functioned.
By the time full darkness settled outside, they'd moved from the bar to a booth in the VIP section—second floor, overlooking the main casino floor. The space offered better seating, quieter atmosphere, and most importantly, separation from the general crowd.
The security detail had followed. They positioned themselves at the top of the staircase, thirty meters from the booth but maintaining line of sight.
Raymond slumped in his seat. Four drinks in now—or appearing to be. His speech patterns had shifted. Slightly looser. Words coming faster. The careful enunciation slipping into something more casual.
"Never lets me do anything. Just money and guards and 'stay safe, John.'"
Raymond's voice took on a mocking tone, mimicking paternal concern.
"Like I'm going to break if someone looks at me wrong."
Carlos leaned back, swirling his own drink. His eyes tracked from Raymond to the guards and back.
"Sounds lonely."
"It is."
Raymond laughed. Sharp, bitter sound.
"Can't make real friends. Can't go anywhere interesting. Can't do anything without them."
He gestured toward the security detail with his glass. Liquid sloshed but didn't spill.
Carlos studied him. The assessment carried sympathy. Understanding. The voice of someone who recognized control when he saw it.
"Must make it hard to enjoy the city."
"Haven't enjoyed anything since I landed."
Raymond's voice carried genuine frustration now. Not entirely manufactured. The role demanded commitment, and some part of him understood the cage he was describing—different context, same fundamental restriction.
He drained his glass and set it down harder than necessary.
"Just once, I'd like to see what this place actually offers. Not the sanitized tour. Not the approved establishments."
He met Carlos's gaze directly.
"Real entertainment. The kind those two wouldn't approve of."
Carlos's expression shifted. Decision forming behind his eyes.
"I know places."
His tone dropped lower. Conspiratorial.
"Off the main routes. Where core sector credits spend well and questions don't get asked."
Raymond leaned forward. Eagerness bleeding through the alcohol haze.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Carlos glanced toward the security detail. They stood at attention, eyes on the booth, posture radiating professional vigilance.
"But your shadows there won't let you just walk out."
Raymond's expression darkened. He slumped back in his seat, frustration evident.
Silence settled between them. Carlos finished his drink, ice clicking against glass. Then he set it down with deliberate care.
"VIP section has a service exit. Back stairs down to the alley. Staff use it for smoke breaks."
He met Raymond's gaze.
"If you wanted to slip out for a few hours..."
Raymond's eyes widened. Not much. Just enough. The look of someone presented with possibility.
"They'd notice. Eventually."
Carlos shrugged.
"But by the time they figured out you weren't in the bathroom, we'd be three blocks away. You'd have your fun. Get back before dawn."
Raymond stared at him. The internal calculation visible on his face—weighing risk against desire, caution against opportunity.
The alcohol made the decision easier. Or appeared to.
"Fuck it."
He pushed himself upright. The movement carried slight instability. Not falling-down drunk, but definitely impaired.
"Show me."
Carlos stood smoothly. He moved toward the back of the VIP section, away from the staircase where the security detail maintained their watch. Raymond followed, his gait carrying just enough unsteadiness to sell the performance.
The service door sat recessed into the wall, unmarked except for faded lettering in a language Raymond couldn't read. Carlos pushed it open without hesitation.
Stairs descended into darkness. Emergency lighting provided minimal illumination—enough to navigate, not enough to see clearly.
They moved down quickly. Carlos leading, Raymond following close behind.
At the bottom, another door. Carlos cracked it open, checked the alley beyond, then pushed through.
Night air hit them. Cooler than inside, carrying the smell of trash and distant cooking fires.
The alley stretched empty in both directions.
Carlos turned left without breaking stride. Raymond matched his pace, leaving the Golden Fleece and its security detail behind.
Everything's aligned.