Devil Gambit

Dirga waited.

Fifteen minutes passed, the noise of clinking cutlery and low conversation drifting through the air like mist.

The Echelon wasn’t just a restaurant—it was a polished slab of wealth, a place where even a glass of water probably had pedigree.

Then came the voice—smooth, calculated, almost too friendly.

"Hello there."

Dirga turned. Optik had arrived, sliding into the seat across from him like he’d always belonged there.

"Oh, the match’s over?" Dirga asked, raising an eyebrow.

Optik gave a charismatic grin. "Yeah. I left a little early. They don’t need me for low-stakes fights."

Before Dirga could respond, the waitress arrived—precise, silent, practiced. She placed two dishes on the table.

Tiny dishes.

Dirga stared.