The casino hallway was muffled, the clatter of chips and electronic music fading with each step Vergil took. He walked unhurriedly, adjusting the collar of his dark blue suit with a lazy movement, as if he were really just going to the bathroom and hadn't just noticed the movement of dozens of undercover agents around him.
When he pushed open the chrome-plated steel door and entered the men's room, the sound immediately changed. The echo of dripping faucets, the hum of the air conditioning, and the white reflection of the cold lights created an almost clinical atmosphere—far too cold for a place like Las Vegas.
Vergil paused in front of the mirror for a moment, studying his own reflection. His blue gaze sparkled with an ironic glint, as if even the reflection challenged him.
Writing nothing, he turned and sat casually on the central sink, crossing his arms. His leather shoes clinked on the marble, echoing softly.
