Midsummer. Madrid.
At 1 a.m., the casino had thinned out — clusters of night owls hovering near the roulette wheel, a few drifting through the blackjack tables, others planted in front of the slots since dusk.
Izan Zubía was pacing the mini-baccarat pit, turning over the men's fashion magazine he'd skimmed at lunch. He needed new clothes — something casual, sharp, grown-up without being stiff. A jacket, maybe a few turtlenecks. The magazine had recommended HUGO BOSS, calling it the top choice for German men.
Running a hand over the tuft of hair at his nape, he noted it was sticking up again. Time for a cut. Maybe a dye. Light blond was catching on among German youth.
He'd need cologne too — what was that old German brand?
German things kept circling back.
It had started a week earlier, just before the night shift, when Mr. Durán called him into the break room and introduced a new dealer — Levi Winkler, from Munich.
Standing a meter away, Izan gave the usual manager's half-smile, scanning the guy out of habit: medium build, relaxed dress, muscles cut clean beneath the fabric, blond hair perfectly parted, nose and cheekbones were too defined — engineered by discipline, shaped by routine, didn't talk unless he had to.
Considering Levi was from Germany — no cheek kisses — Izan offered his hand. Still reading those unreadable blue eyes, he barely registered the movement before the blue closed the distance. A kiss landed on his cheek, cool and quick.
"I heard Spaniards are warm. I figured I'd do as the locals do."
That was it. A current off the North Sea broke against the sun-baked coast of Galicia, crashing straight into him.
He heard laughter and realized it was his own, heard himself saying, "Let me show you around." Then, "You need anything, you come to me." Then, "I'll need your number — shift changes happen fast."
He hated rookies. He never contacted coworkers off-shift. He didn't even handle scheduling.
But that kiss — how could anyone's lips be that cold?
A week later, he was still wondering.
Izan moved in beside Levi, leaning into the horseshoe-shaped table like he belonged there. He brushed the felt surface, wiping away dust that wasn't there.
"What do you do after your shift?"
"Go home. Sleep."
Levi stood like every other dealer — upright, hands folded in front, eyes locked on nothing.
"No plans?"
The German shot him a sideways glance. "You mean at two in the morning?"
"I mean tomorrow. You're off, right?" Izan's voice dipped low, nearly silent. "I'm off too."
"So?"
"I was thinking of heading to Gran Vía. Picking up some clothes. Not really my thing, you know. Wouldn't hurt to have a second opinion."
He weighed his tone, chose his words, and settled on "wouldn't hurt".
Levi looked at him — same look he gave the casino's 9 p.m. free show. "Dani's off tomorrow too. Take him. Wouldn't hurt."
Izan placed both palms on the table's edge, sagging into it with a weariness he couldn't hide.
Levi chuckled under his breath. "You're not gonna vanish halfway again, are you?"
Darkness clouded Izan's eyes. He dropped his voice to the lowest register, steady and sharp: "Not a chance."
Yes, they'd already "gone out" — on day two. Izan had swapped shifts just for it, pulling seniority and local knowledge to play the host. He'd taken the German to an old-school spot with good wine, soft light, and real silverware — the kind of place people remembered. The city had shimmered through the restaurant windows; the wine had tasted better than usual.
Everything had been just right — until his phone went off.
A gang of pros had hit the roulette section. The rookie manager covering for him hadn't caught the scam, paid out the chips, and Durán had lost his mind. Izan went back to clean up the mess — He hated rookies. Really hated them.
"So it's settled. Two p.m., Gran Vía Station?"
Levi just smiled.
"Come on. Just say yes."
A pause. Then: "Yes."
A date. An entire afternoon. Fitting rooms. Candlelight dinner.
"Boss check, high bet on Player." The call came in sharp, cutting through Izan's thoughts. He drifted over, light on his feet. "Bet confirmed." Then drifted back.
From now on, no more water — his trainer said cutting hydration would bring out the muscle definition.
Jeans and sneakers? Or loafers with tapered chinos? One made him look taller, the other — more mature. Sexier, maybe.
"Eight's my lucky number." The voice sliced into the private theater in Izan's head.
A man from the blackjack tables had taken the middle seat. He spoke English — clear, but hard to place. Not American. Not quite British.
"Good evening, sir," Levi said. Izan followed with a nod.
"I've lost a lot tonight. Hoping this table treats me better."
Three-piece worsted wool suit. Windsor knot still perfect at 1 a.m. Dark blond hair, slicked straight back. A crease between his brows. Green eyes that held sorrow even in a smile — Some high-functioning corporate type on a business trip. Either a romantic fool or a practiced player running his favorite game.
"Unlucky in love, lucky in cards — right?" The man placed a €500 bet on Player.
Izan upped the "romantic fool" weight. And added: generous tipper.
"Player, five hundred. No more bets." Levi tapped the felt and slid the cards from the shoe.
Player: Seven of hearts.
Banker: Three of clubs.
Player: Five of diamonds.
Banker: Six of spades.
"No more cards. Two to nine. Banker wins."
The man spread his hands. "Guess that line doesn't work for me."
Levi swept away the chip, dropped the cards into the tray. "Place your bets."
Another purple chip — still on Player. "You're not from around here."
"Player, five hundred. No more bets — Germany." Levi said, with a smile.
"I lived in Munich for years. Right by the Isar."
"No more cards. Four to six. Banker wins." Levi's tone was casual, his hands clean. "Beautiful sunsets there."
"So why Madrid?"
Levi shrugged. "Plenty of sun. Warm people. Place your bet, sir."
This time, the man put down two chips on Player, his eyes never leaving Levi's face. "One's mine. One's yours."
Cards slid in.
"Five to seven. Banker wins." Levi pulled in the chips, swept the discards. "Looks like neither of us is lucky tonight."
The man lowered his voice. "No, I think I'm very lucky." Then, in fluent German:
"Schade, dass ich dich in München nicht getroffen habe, das wäre sicher besonders gewesen. (Too bad I didn't meet you in Munich. That would've been… something.)"
Levi said nothing. But after a half-second, his whole face softened.
"Señor.(Sir.)"
Spanish slammed into the moment. "You may not speak to the dealer in any language other than the official ones — Spanish or English."
Izan delivered the warning twice, once in each language.
The man froze. His green eyes offered an apology that asked not to be punished.
Levi dealt the next hand fast — closing the moment before it lingered.
"Last hand," he said, crisp and clean.
Izan caught the cut card peeking out from the back of the shoe. That softness Levi showed — not for him — stung.
"Eight to eight. Tie."
"Maybe my luck's turning?"
€2,000 flushed and gone. The wealthy gentleman and the handsome dealer shared a look, a smile — like something was starting. No one noticed the pit boss, brows furrowed tight.
"Sir," Izan said, polite but firm. "The dealer's preparing to shuffle. You're welcome to continue at another table."
"No worries," the man said smoothly. "I'll wait right here. These chairs are surprisingly comfortable."
Levi looked over. "Ready to shuffle."
Izan nodded, clipped and cold. "Approved."
312 red cards, stacked tall. Sculpted hands split them into two perfect halves, then spread, washed, gathered — spread again, washed again.
"Your hands are beautiful." The man with green eyes watched the flushed fingertips. The pit boss watched the green eyes.
"But your eyes… they're are something else entirely."
Ding!
So much for the romantic fool — make way for the practiced player.
"Sir, you're not allowed to talk to the dealer during a shuffle." the pit boss announced a rule he'd just invented.
Green Eyes turned to him. "You're the most professional pit boss I've ever seen. Your employer is lucky."
"Appreciate. He thinks so too."
"You this 'professional' with every table?"
"Of course. Many people try things."
"As many as your rules?"
Their stares locked — needlepoint sharp.
"Evening, gentlemen! Things seem lively over here."
A voice broke in — bright, booming — and the speaker dropped into the seat beside Green Eyes. Behind him, a man built like a fridge nodded at the table and sat down.
Izan shot them a glance — one with curls like the neighbor's noisy poodle, the other too perfect, like a male model torn from the magazine at lunch — and locked eyes with Green Eyes again.
Levi nudged the stacked deck toward the shoe and handed Izan the cut card. "Ready to cut."
Didn't even look. A clean slice. The pit boss cut the deck in two. "Levi, you're off shift."
Levi blinked. "Still fifteen minutes to two…"
Izan picked up the radio. "Fede, table eight. Mini-baccarat. Relieve Levi. Now."
Levi looked dazed. Green Eyes stirred the coals. "Your boss is good to you."
A tall, lanky kid ran out from the staff entrance, pinning his name badge to his chest mid-sprint. By the time he got to the table, it was finally on straight.
Levi clapped toward the ceiling camera, opened his palms. To the table: "Have a great night." To the out-of-breath kid: "Burn the cards." Then, stepped away from the horseshoe table.
Green Eyes reached into his jacket fast, pulled out a card. "I'm staying at…"
Izan moved even faster, bumping into his arm mid-gesture. "You may not contact dealers privately." Another brand-new rule.
Green Eyes looked past him, trying to follow Levi's exit. Izan stepped with him, blocking every angle.
"You know how much I've spent here tonight?"
Izan spread his hands. "Not enough for me to know about it."
The charm vanished. The green eyes darkened.
"Can we start now?" The model knocked on the table. The poodle watched the tension like it was a telenovela.
Izan glanced over his shoulder, watched Levi disappear through the entrance. Then to the kid still frozen at the table: "Burn the cards."
Fede slid the first card from the shoe. "Two of diamonds. Burning two cards." He slid two more, dumped all three into the tray. "Place your bets."
Green Eyes fingered chips. "How much would it take for both you and your boss to 'know' me?"
The pit boss tilted his head, smiling. "Table limit's five thousand, sir."
Five orange chips landed on Player. Not a bet — more like a slap.
The poodle and the model followed. Fede looked between the three men, then turned to Izan. "High bet on Player…"
"Confirmed."
No more bets. Cards slid out.
Player: Nine of hearts.
Banker: Four of clubs.
Player: Seven of diamonds.
Banker: Ace of spades.
"No more cards. Six to five. Player wins."
The poodle barked first. The model reached across him to shake hands with Green Eyes.
The big winner spread his arms, looked straight at Izan. "Told you my luck was turning."
"Guess that line worked for you after all. Unlucky in love, lucky in cards." Izan turned and walked toward the staff entrance, steps light.
"High payout." The call came from behind.
"Approved." The pit boss didn't look back.
Off shift, under a sore loser's stare. Perfect.
Izan got home with his favorite playlist in his ears, thinking about the afternoon date as he brushed his teeth.
Jeans and sneakers — it had to be. Height beat sexy.
That was the last thing on his mind before bed. He fell asleep fast. Deep, still sleep. Until an hour later, his phone went off — mouth dry, pillow soaked, throat like sandpaper.
"Yeah?" His voice barely made it out.
"Izan, you might have to come back…" A whisper. Barely alive.
At 3 a.m., the rookie manager on the other end said Table 8 had seen seven guests in the past hour, lost twelve straight rounds, paid out forty-five grand. Fede was locked in the break room.
First instinct: rare, but not alarming. Probably just short-term variance.
But with the roulette robbery days ago and Durán jumpy as hell, he had no choice.
Back at the casino, Izan went straight to the surveillance room. No incidents had been reported from the pit tonight, so the ceiling cam stayed default: fixed-angle, wide-lens, low-res.
As expected: clean.
Next stop, the break room. Fifteen minutes with Fede — though by minute five, he already knew the kid wasn't involved.
The rookie manager walked him through every post-shift minute, word for word. Fede cried, swore, said he did nothing. Durán was shouting curses down the phone — in every language he knew.
Izan hunched over the desk in the surveillance room, running the usual check — every angle covering Table 8. A few more minutes, and he could rule it a fluke. Just variance. Nothing more.
He played with the controls: 5x speed. 10x. 15x. Play. Next. Play. Next. Play. Next. Play. Pause. Back to 1x. Rewind. Play. Pause.
Cold sweat started to drip from his hairline.
One ceiling cam, just above the staff entrance, had a partial view into the casino floor. It caught Levi walking away from Table 8.
The German moved slowly toward the lens, facing it. In the deep background — back turned to the camera — stood Izan. Green Eyes was mostly hidden behind him, the two locked in some kind of argument.
Izan zoomed in. Then zoomed again. The footage, already blurry, turned to something like digital vomit.
Still — inside the pixel mush — he caught it: Levi's right hand, hanging by his side, flashing four numbers.
2. 5. 4. 3.
Burn card was 2. Then twelve straight losses: five for Player, four for Banker, three more for Player.
Izan's hands started to shake.
He pulled up the overhead cam on Table 8 and watched the footage again — three times.
Wrong angle. Wrong distance. Nothing.
He tried to replay the shuffle in his head, but the tape in his mind kept jamming — right when the cards were spread out across the table.
Did they riffle and strip? How many times? What happened during the riffle? The strip?
"Your hands are beautiful. But your eyes… they're something else entirely."
"You this 'professional' with every table?"
"Evening, gentlemen — things seem lively over here."
Stay calm. You cut the deck. He couldn't have known the cut point.
What happened after the cut? How did the deck go into the shoe?
"Fede, relieve Levi. Now."
"Your boss is good to you."
"Burn the cards."
Izan grabbed his phone. Searched Levi's number. Called — no answer. Ripped open the employee file. Punched the listed address into Maps — German restaurant, roast pork knuckle.
Young, handsome dealer. Late-night wealthy gentleman. The new players who sat down during the shuffle.
One hour. Forty-five grand. One hour. To crack open Durán's garage and drive off with a Mercedes.
He'd done it while I was looking away. Passed the signal to them when I was blocking the view.
"Them" couldn't be anyone else.
"He" couldn't be anyone else.
Izan flung the folder at the wall. A burst of white. Paper everywhere.
◇ ◇ ◇
Levi opened the motel door and got hit with half a bottle of Dom Pérignon — two hundred euros' worth.
"Levi! You genius! You're not a mechanic, you're goddamn Santa Claus!"
Denis Markwart burst in first, soaking Levi from head to toe, and himself in the process — his curls now sticky with champagne.
"I thought your signal was for nine hands. Turns out it was twelve! Denis bet it wouldn't go over ten. You cost him money."
Timo Fechner followed behind, quarterback shoulders rolling, a stack of paper cups in one hand. He took the bottle from Denis.
Levi wiped his face just in time to get pulled into a hug — by the guy who soaked him. Heiko Märker came in last, smiling as he watched the two of them.
Timo poured the champagne into the cups. Denis grabbed him mid-pour and pulled him into a dance — singing first a Christmas song, then "Happy Birthday," then some mess he made up:
Roulette spins, the cards all fly,
The game's been read, the stakes run high,
Bills pile up to touch the sky —
La-la-la, la-la-la…
Heiko took over the pouring, handed a cup to the grinning blond beside him. "You add even one more hand, and the four collectors Timo lined up won't cover it."
Levi took the paper cup. "You bet too?"
The green eyes blinked once.
"Did you win?"
Another blink.
"That's not like you."
"I know you always pull something off." Heiko said, sipping. "But you were tense tonight. You didn't swap the deck right after the cut."
Levi took several quick swallows. "I thought your script was the high-maintenance finance guy, not the jealous high roller."
"Always go with the safest move. I taught you that."
Levi nodded. Lifted the cup again — empty.
"Aren't you happy?"
"Of course. That's improvisation, part of the game."
Heiko looked at him. "I mean, we just cleaned house in Madrid. Aren't you happy?"
The young student laughed, clinked his empty cup against his mentor's.
The next day. Levi woke up thinking about the dream he'd had.
Rolling out of bed at the motel, he brushed his teeth, showered, packed.
Meet the others in the parking lot at two. Arrive at Heiko's friend's place by three. Stay put between three and four — no wandering, no surprises. Five o'clock. Get on the plane.
"Come on. Just say yes."
How could a face that dumb get under his skin?
Levi — sentimental liar — Winkler. Caught in your own mess.
He checked the time — 1:30. Thirty minutes left to get caught in the mess. He stuffed everything into his backpack, snapped on his cap, pulled the hoodie over it.
Shouldered the bag. Headed for the door. Swung it open — and Heiko Märker was standing right outside.
"I was just coming to ask if you wanted to grab lunch." One stepped in, the other stepped back.
"I'll be back soon, Heiko," Levi said.
"Where are you going?"
"I'll be back soon…"
Heiko stepped toward him. Green eyes, empty. "Don't miss our flight."The older man stepped aside. The younger one ran past him.
"Levi."
He stopped. Turned around.
Heiko extended a hand. "Come here."
Levi walked back. One hand hovering, fingers touching fingers.
Heiko pulled him close. "Goodbye kiss?"
The hand tightened. Levi kissed him. The grip. Tighter.
"I'll be on that plane, Heiko. I swear…" Blue eyes, pleading.
"I heard you."
The hand let go. Levi ran.
◇ ◇ ◇
Izan got home at 7 a.m.
Submitted the incident report. Logged the players to the internal watchlist. Provided a statement to the police. Escalated the case to the European Casino Authority.
Told the same dumb story again and again—his own mistake, every time.
He collapsed onto the bed. Passed out. Then woke up with his stomach clenched. Over and over, sinking in and snapping awake.
First alarm. Ten o'clock: time to run, get the blood going, look better by afternoon.
He shoved his phone under the pillow, pulled the blanket over his head.
Slept again. Woke again.
Another alarm. One o'clock: time to leave for Gran Vía.
He gave up. Rolled out of bed. Took a cold shower.
Something felt undone. The more he thought about it, the colder he made the water — The heaviness that an hour of running water couldn't wash off.
He dressed. Then sat on the couch. No TV. No music.
Couldn't tell if he was thinking something, or trying not to be.
Knock knock knock.
"Who is it?"
"Large package."
Izan opened the door. Saw nothing on the ground. Then looked up — Levi was standing in front of him.
"No shopping?" The German's face was soft.
Izan froze. First: surprise. Then: fury. "You lied to me."
"Did that… upset you?"
"Yes."
"You could call the police."
Izan stared at him.
"Or," Levi said softly, "you could let me in… for a second."
Bang!
The door slammed. Receipts flew off the cabinet. Keys on the wall swung.
Izan panted. He grabbed his phone, ran to the balcony, and hurled the glowing brick out the window. Then he was back at the front door, yanking it open.
The one he'd shut out hadn't moved. But the blue eyes were drowning in tears.
"Don't cry, Levi. Why are you crying?"
Izan pulled him in. Held him, not understanding why a con man was sniffling at his door.
They pulled toward each other—neither could stop—then kissed. Between the kisses came fragments—whispers they couldn't fully hear.
"You know I'll leave again, right?"
"Shh — Levi, shh —"
"I'm a… really bad person."
"It's okay. It's okay."
"I'm a…"
The kiss silenced the confession. The heat redeemed the guilt.
There were too many questions unanswered. And too many that might never be.
The sunset was counting time, the beginning or the end, no one knew, no one cared.