The Prototype

60. Sin City Royale

TEMPEST 

The soft, rhythmic click of my heels against the polished marble echoed like a slow, deliberate heartbeat down the east wing hallway. Each measured step carved into the silence, a steady proclamation of my presence. The gown clinging to me like an accomplice, the midnight-black fabric shimmering faintly with each movement, the intricate beadwork woven across the material catching the dim light above and scattering it into subtle glimmers—a thousand tiny stars draped over my skin.

The slit along my left thigh, a calculated rebellion, cut high enough to offer fleeting glimpses of golden-brown skin. The air licking against my exposed flesh, cool, tantalizing, almost daring. The detached lace sleeves wrapped snugly around my arms, a contrast of delicacy and boldness, as if stitched with the very essence of me—something beautiful, something untouchable, lethal.

My hair cascading in deliberate waves, each strand traveling down my back like silk spun from the night itself. Loose curls framing my face, grazing the curve of my jawline, a stray tendril resting against my collarbone, an unintentional imperfection that only made the perfection of my presence all the more devastating.

My eyelids carrying the weight of night—the smoky drama of onyx shadows blending into softened hues of charcoal, tiny pearlescent stones shimmering against my brow bone, delicate embellishments cradling my gaze like constellations. I didn't need a mirror to know the power I wielded with every deliberate blink, every slow sweep of my lashes.

I pressed my lips together, the matter crimson lipstick a smooth, velvety contrast against my skin, leaving the faintest taste of rebellion on my tongue. The intoxicating scent of Lost Cherry clinging to me—sweet, decadent, but with an edge sharp enough to cut if someone gets too close. The delicate ruby earrings swaying as I moved, their drops of red brushing against my skin like whispered warnings, catching the light in flickers. A black diamond choker resting cool against my throat, a contradiction of elegance and defiance.

The towering black stilettos on my feet feeling like weapons, each step a precise, deliberate strike against the marble floor. The subtle gleam of the designer emblem etched into the soles catching the dim light, an unspoken declaration—sophistication veiled in dominance.

The scent of cigars and whiskey thickening in the air as I approached the grand double doors of Marcellus's exclusive casino room. A prelude. A warning. A whispered invitation to step into the lion's den. Anticipation curling in my chest, a slow, tightening coil that refused to release. The air in the hallway heavy, charged with unspoken promises of wealth, vice and sin.

Two guards flanked the entrance, broad shoulders stretching the limits of their tailor black suits, their faces carved from stone. Their expressions blank, eyes cold, assessing, daring me to hesitate. I inhaled, catching the faintest traces of cigar and cologne beneath the cloud of smoke and liquor that seeped through the doors. They didn't speak, but their presence alone carried a clear message—this was no place for the weak.

One guard stepped forward, his massive hand pushing against the door's ornate gold handle. The heavy mahogany creaked faintly as it parted, the sound breaking the stillness like the opening note of a symphony. As the doors parted, the world within unfolded before me, like hell was opening up from Earth itself.

The casino stretched out before me, far larger than it appeared from the outside. A cavernous expanse of decadence and debauchery, bathed in golden light and the heady scent of sin. The chandelier overhead—monstrous—crystal shards catching the light in violent, dazzling brilliance, spilling gold and fire across the mahogany tables draped in deep crimson and black. The floor beneath my heels was carpeted in blood-red velvet, soft as sin, muffling the lethal click of my stilettos.