The casino floor seemed to breathe in unison with the neon lights. The clink of chips, the nervous laughter, the metallic sound of the slot machines—all composed a symphony of luxury and decadence. Yet, at that gambling table, the world's focus seemed to converge on a single figure.
Her.
A cruelly beautiful woman, draped in a black dress that seemed woven from darkness itself. Her long, black hair with emerald green highlights slid like liquid silk to her waist. Her eyes, green as ancient gems, reflected both fascination and menace.
Hela.
The Norse Goddess of Death played as if she already knew the fate of everyone in the room. Her elegant fingers touched the chips with an almost unnerving calm, and then she pushed them all forward.
"All in."
The murmur spread through the room like wildfire.
The man in front of her—an arrogant gambler in an ill-fitting white suit—narrowed his eyes, sweat dripping down his forehead. He hesitated for a second, but pride prevailed.
"I accept."
