Chapter 45: Let’s go Gambling
There are lines you wait in that make you question your choices—queues for confession, execution, or, gods forbid, midwinter discount sales.
But this? This line felt older. Hungrier. Like the floor itself was sizing up its next meal and quietly hoping you tasted of despair and poor impulse control.
We stood at the edge of Greed’s waiting room—an atrium carved from stone and heat, lit by oil lamps and the glint of crushed gems. Sand whispered across the ground as other guests filed in, drawn and worn, their eyes already drinking in the spectacle before them.
Before us stood the front desk, a massive altar of obsidian and bone, manned by a figure dressed in immaculate black robes, face hidden behind a theatrical mask carved with an eternal smile and tear-streaked eyes.
The guest ahead of us stepped forward, twitchy and barefoot, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He opened his mouth to speak, but the desk man raised one gloved hand with the kind of solemnity usually reserved for funerals and last rites.
"Welcome," said the desk man, his voice like chocolate dripping into wine. "You have reached the third floor of the Tower of Sin: The Gilded Pit of Greed. Your objective here is simple. Accumulate one hundred thousand golden crowns in the form of chips to earn passage to the next floor. A mere hundred will earn you access to the casino proper."
The man blinked. "Crowns? I—I don’t have a single coin on me!"
The desk man’s mask did not blink, yet it’s smile seemed to deepen.
"No problem," said the desk man. "All things are currency here. Guests may trade any item in their possession for chips. Any item at all."
The man’s brows creased. Then, slowly, with increasing panic, he began to strip. One layer, then another, until he stood bare before the altar of wealth, shame washing over him in waves. The desk man accepted the heap of clothes with gloved hands and studied them with the intensity of an art critic inspecting a half-finished masterpiece.
A moment passed.