I gazed down at the scene before me, drinking in every last detail with the kind of attention usually reserved for examining fine art or potentially lethal contracts.

There sat Baron Cornelius Worthington the Third—still gloriously naked, still decorated with the crusty evidence of his earlier humiliation, and still somehow managing to make that ridiculous pompadour defy both gravity and good taste despite everything it had been through tonight.

His triple-braided beard hung limp and sad, those golden beads catching the light in a way that screamed "I used to have dignity" while his current position whispered "but that was several poor decisions ago."

He was sitting cross-legged on the polished floor, and opposite him sat a man I'd never seen before, commanding attention in that particular way some people just did—the kind of man the space itself had silently voted protagonist, relegating everyone else to mere background characters.

His clothes were deceptively simple—dark pants that fit well without being showy, a brown vest over a crisp white button-up shirt, and a lighter tan coat that had the lived-in quality of something actually worn rather than displayed.

Nothing flashy, nothing screaming for notice—yet somehow the entire outfit whispered, "Yes, I'm important, and no, I don't need to prove it to you."

His face was angular, all sharp lines and interesting shadows, with brown eyes that sparkled with the particular kind of mischief that suggested he found most things in life deeply amusing. His brown hair was styled with a careless sweep to one side, the longer section brushing his chin in a way that screamed "effortless" while quietly admitting to at least twenty minutes in front of a mirror and a very complicated relationship with pomade.

He too was seated cross-legged, mirroring Cornelius's position, but surrounding him was an entire mountain of golden crowns. Not a pile. Not a stack. A geographical feature made of currency, rising from the floor like he'd somehow conquered the concept of wealth itself and forced it to bow at his feet.

Between them sat a low table, clearly positioned for them to rest their elbows on while engaging in whatever contest had drawn this crowd.

Cornelius was sweating buckets, fat droplets racing down his flushed face and plunging onto his vast belly, carving shiny little rivers through the crusted remnants of his earlier disgrace like flash floods through an ill-fated valley.

Every eye in the room had fallen on him with the weight of collective anticipation, his entire body trembling with barely contained emotion—rage, humiliation, desperation, all mixed together into a cocktail of suffering that was honestly beautiful to witness.

The man across from him leaned back slightly, his posture radiating the kind of smug confidence that came from knowing you'd already won before the game even started, and gave Cornelius a grin that could only be described as absolutely wicked.

Then he leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand, and began speaking in a voice pitched to carry across the entire room.

"You know, Cornelius—can I call you Cornelius? I feel like we're close enough now that you've lost to me once already—I'm starting to think maybe strategy games aren't your strong suit." His grin widened, flashing teeth so white and perfect they probably had their own fan club. "But hey, that's okay! Everyone has their talents! Yours is apparently... well, I'm sure we'll discover what it is eventually. Might take some extensive searching. Maybe some professional consultation."

The crowd adored it, laughter rippling through the assembled nobles like a wave.

The man continued, clearly enjoying himself. "I mean, let's review your performance, shall we? You just threw rock. Classic, reliable, the thinking man's choice. Except I threw paper, which, and I cannot stress this enough, beats rock. Written in stone, if you'll pardon the pun"

Cornelius's face cycled through an impressive spectrum of purples that any paint catalog would proudly name things such as "Apoplectic Plum," "Rage Aubergine," and "Imminent Stroke Violet."

"And so here we are, Cornelius. You're down one round. And this next throw? It matters. Win it, and we're tied. Lose it, and I claim victory. The pressure must be immense. I can see it in your eyes, Cornelius—you're thinking. Really thinking hard. Possibly the hardest you've thought about anything in your entire life. The gears are turning, smoke might be coming out of your ears soon, and you're trying to figure out which choice will finally, finally let you claim victory against the terrifying game of chance and skill that is—" he paused for dramatic effect, "—roshambo."

He wasn't even being cruel. Not truly.

The man's tone was light, playful, laced with an almost fond amusement, like he was ribbing an old friend over drinks rather than publicly dismantling a rival. The teasing lilt in his voice carried no venom, just pure, effortless enjoyment.

And that, somehow, made it so much worse for Cornelius. After all, you can't muster righteous fury against someone who's clearly just having a delightful time at your expense.

Cornelius suddenly erupted, his arm shooting out to point an accusatory finger at the man with enough force that his whole body wobbled.

"You're cheating!" he bellowed, his voice cracking slightly. "There's no other explanation! Nobody wins this consistently without cheating!"

The man laughed—not a polite chuckle or a restrained snicker, but a full, genuine belly laugh that made his shoulders shake with mirth. "Cheating? My dear Cornelius, you wound me! How exactly does one cheat at roshambo? Do you think I've trained my fist to transform mid-throw? Developed psychic powers for rock-paper-scissors supremacy?"

The crowd was eating this up, some doubling over with laughter while others called out encouragement.

"There's no cheating in a game like roshambo. It's pure game theory, psychology, and occasional dumb luck. You throw your shape, I throw mine, and the universe decides who deserves victory."

I nodded along as he spoke. Roshambo. Also known as rock-paper-scissors, the most elegant expression of random chance humanity had ever devised.

I ran through the mechanics in my head—two players, three options each, outcomes as clean and merciless as a coin flip, yet somehow capable of spawning endless strategic depth for those who took it too seriously.

Rock beats scissors by crushing, scissors beats paper by cutting, paper beats rock by... covering it? The logic had always been slightly suspect on that last one, but who was I to question tradition.

Each round, you threw your hand gesture simultaneously with your opponent—no takebacks, no hesitation, just pure commitment to whatever choice your brain decided was correct in that split second. Best two out of three typically, though variations existed for the truly committed.

It was a game that came down to luck and psychology, reading your opponent's patterns, predicting their predictions of your predictions in an infinite recursive loop of strategic guessing that ultimately meant you were just making random choices and hoping for the best.

My curiosity rose in full as I watched them, bright and impossible to ignore, as I melted into the crowd with the practiced nonchalance of someone who absolutely belonged here and definitely hadn't just snuck past security while naked and dripping.

The stranger leaned back slightly, clearly preparing for another round of theatrical teasing. Just as he did so, the crowd began responding with increasing enthusiasm. They started shouting a name—voices overlapping, building in volume until it became a chant that echoed off the low ceiling.

"Lloyd! Lloyd! Lloyd!"

I nearly choked on my own spit hearing that name, the syllables clicking together in my brain like puzzle pieces forming a picture I should have recognized immediately.

Lloyd Altera.

Lloyd fucking Altera.

One of the most popular individuals in the Velvet Chambers according to Iskanda's extensive briefings, a man whose reputation preceded him like a herald announcing royalty.

He was a widely regarded estate developer, famous for being the one to design many of the staple brothels throughout the city—the ones that set trends rather than followed them, the establishments that other brothels tried desperately to emulate. Hell, he'd even worked on a few in the pantheon over the past couple of years.

But more than that, he was an icon. Adored by the masses, respected by nobility, the kind of person whose opinion could make or break a business overnight.

He'd recently become a traveling sponsor—someone who visited various brothels personally, rating them based on criteria known only to him, and potentially promoting the ones that met his exacting standards.

Getting Lloyd Altera's sponsorship was like getting blessed by a deity who actually showed up and did shit rather than just accepting prayers and ignoring you.

A thousand possibilities ran through my mind like excited puppies chasing their own tails, but one stood out among them all, glowing with the intensity of a divine revelation delivered via brick to the face.

I may have just struck gold.

Cornelius, who'd been quivering with suppressed rage this entire time like a teakettle about to whistle, suddenly slammed his meaty hand down on the table hard enough to make the whole thing jump.

"Another round!" he demanded, his voice shaking with emotion. "I demand another round! This isn't over!"

Lloyd's expression shifted into something almost gentle, which somehow made his words even more condescending than his earlier mockery. "And another round you shall have. But Cornelius, my friend, remember that if I win, this will be your last round. Those are the rules, clearly stated before we began. Best two out of three. So consider this is your final chance to salvage something from this encounter—dignity, perhaps? Though admittedly, you didn't have much of that to begin with."

Lloyd placed both hands on the table, his posture shifting into something more serious despite the grin still playing at his lips. "Ready?" he asked.

Cornelius nodded, his jaw set with grim determination, sweat dripping steadily now.

"Rock!" Lloyd called, both fists rising in perfect sync. "Paper!" The room leaned in, breath held, the tension thick enough to chew. "Scissors!"

The crowd roared the finish with him—"SHOOT!"

Their hands flew—Lloyd threw paper, his hand flat and steady. Cornelius threw rock, his fist trembling slightly.

Paper covers rock.

Lloyd wins.

The crowd exploded—nobles howling and leaping like they'd just witnessed the upset of the century, coins and jewels clinking as bets were frantically settled, one overexcited lord actually hurling his wine glass into the air with zero regard for where it shattered.

Lloyd threw his head back and laughed—loud and booming, the kind of laugh that came from genuine delight rather than cruel mockery—and the room instantly followed suit, as if they'd all been waiting for his cue to let loose.

Laughter cascaded through the space, bright and contagious, sharp whistles cutting through the cheers while others shouted Lloyd's name with unabashed admiration.

"Take my wife Llyod, she's yours!"

"Marry me!"

"No, marry me!"

"Fuck marriage, just take my money and spit in my mouth!"

Cornelius's face went through an entire sunset's worth of color changes before settling on something approaching eggplant. Then he surged to his feet—or rather attempted to, the maneuver involving several grunts, a wobble, and at least two false starts before his substantial bulk finally achieved something resembling vertical—and the moment he did, he erupted into defensive fury.

"I meant to play scissors!" he shrieked, "My hand slipped! That doesn't count! I want a do-over!" Several voices from the crowd immediately called out his obvious lie.

"Bullshit!"

"Accept the loss with grace, man!"

"You threw rock, we all saw it!"

"Stop embarrassing yourself!"

The crowd turned on him with the merciless efficiency of pack animals sensing weakness, their mocking calls blending together into a symphony of schadenfreude that would've made any philosopher weep at humanity's capacity for collective cruelty.

Cornelius stood there for a moment, wobbling slightly, his braided beard swinging with each heaving breath. Then he turned and stormed off, pushing through the crowd with all the grace of a drunken elephant navigating a china shop.

The crowd howled at his retreat, laughter following him like a pack of hyenas chasing wounded prey.

Lloyd stood as well, and the way he moved—fluid, confident, commanding attention without demanding it—made it clear why people were drawn to him. He made a grand show of it, gesturing like some circus ringmaster about to introduce the show's main event, his arms spreading wide to encompass the entire room.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Nobles of distinction and questionable decision-making!" He grinned, spinning slowly to address the entire crowd. "Does anyone else wish to step to the challenge? Test their luck against the undefeated champion of roshambo?" He paused for dramatic effect, letting the question hang. "And let me remind you all of the prize!"

He gestured at himself with both hands. "Anyone—and I mean anyone—who manages to beat me in best two out of three will receive my personal sponsorship for their brothel! I will visit, review, and promote your establishment to my entire network! Your business will be featured in my next publication! You'll have nobles lining up around the block!"

The crowd murmured with interest, eyes lighting up with possibility.

"All you need to do," Lloyd continued, his voice dropping into something more intimate despite still carrying, "is provide a small entry fee of one hundred golden crowns to face me. One hundred crowns for the chance at sponsorship that could earn you thousands. Seems like a fair bargain to me!"

My grin spread so wide it actually hurt my face.

This was too good to be true. It had to be. The universe didn't just hand you opportunities this perfect, wrapped up with a bow and delivered directly to where you were standing.

If someone like Lloyd—Lloyd Altera, the Lloyd Altera—were to sponsor our brothel, it would be absolutely monumental. We'd go from "struggling theater in the slums with zero clients" to "hottest new establishment everyone's talking about" in the time it took Lloyd to put pen to paper.

I knew with absolute certainty then that this was exact type of opportunity I'd been waiting for all along.

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