After purposefully losing the round, Yuki put on a show— hands raking through his hair, a long breath like he'd just lost his last dollar, then pushed back his chair with a subtle grunt. It was the signal. Luke, who'd been standing a few distances away, caught it instantly. In response, he casually drifted toward another section of the casino— confirmation that their target wasn't anywhere in this quadrant.
Yuki veered toward the lounge near the tall glass windows, lit a cigarette, and let the bitter smoke curl between his fingers.
Outside, the lights of Las Vegas flickered like a broken promise— rows of idle cars, oversized screens, and the ever-changing hues of casino signs bleeding into one another.
There was no way Matcha hadn't come here tonight. That's what the intel said.
