Brettski peeled five crisp $100 bills from his wallet and slapped them on the green felt with a grin that masked equal parts excitement and dread.
“Only five hundred?” Brandino scoffed, leaning back in his chair like a seasoned Vegas vet. He twirled his chip stack with a flair that made Brettski’s buy-in look like lunch money.
“You boys ready for chaos?” Robby chimed in, fanning out a deck for the first of many shoes. His eyes glittered. The man had the aura of a magician on the brink of a trick—except the rabbit was your paycheck and the hat, a swirling storm of double downs and insurance bets.
The first few hands were textbook. Brettski played tight, counting cards in his head with the concentration of a man doing mental surgery.
Brandino played with reckless abandon, splitting tens, throwing side bets like darts at a carnival. Robby? He was the dealer tonight—and he relished every draw, flipping cards with showmanship that would make a croupier blush.
Three shoes in, the table was pure anarchy.
Chips flew like confetti. Brettski’s stack dwindled, then surged back with a perfectly timed blackjack. “Back in the fight!” he hollered, slapping Brandino on the shoulder. Robby smirked. “You sure you’re ready for the next one?”
“Hit me!” Brettski barked on a hard sixteen. The table froze. Robby’s hand hovered over the shoe.
“Against a six?” Brandino whispered, incredulous.
“It’s a gut play,” Brettski replied, his eyes locked on the table, the edges of reality blurring into green felt and fluorescent lights.
Robby dealt the card face down. “Let’s see what fate thinks.”
The table leaned in, breath held. Brettski reached for the card, heart pounding.
And just as his fingers brushed it… the screen went black.