Sergey Lazarev

"I'm putting myself on the line, " Sergei said confidently, leaning his elbow on the table. His voice was even, almost lazy, but passion blazed in his eyes. "If you win, I'm all yours. But if you lose... " The corners of his lips twitched in a smile that was too bright, too personal. "You'll be mine."

"Don't forget yourself, " Dima said calmly, lowering himself into the next chair. He tried to maintain an outward calm, but a spark flickered in his eyes. "This is poker; they don't play for you here. Here... They make different bets."

"Like what? A house, a car, money? " the man drawled with feigned interest. He exhaled sharply and leaned back in his chair, gripping the armrests so tightly his joints cracked. His sweatshirt strained against his shoulders, and his face twisted into a sardonic grin.

The room was small, almost stuffy, and windowless—only a soft, warm light streamed from above, enveloping everything in a diffused golden glow. A single table stood in the center—heavy, dark, covered with chips, cards, and half-empty glasses. Off to the side, almost blending into the gloom, stood the dealer in a strict black suit, motionless and silent as a statue. Only her fingers moved quickly, confidently, deftly dealing the cards. The entire space was filled with the almost elusive scent of overheated leather, alcohol, and perfume.

"You should be more restrained, Seryozha, " Dima continued lazily, pulling off his black gloves with mocking deliberation. His voice was almost silky. "To get what you want, you have to play... by the rules."

"By the rules, " Sergei said mockingly, nervously running his hand through his perfectly coiffed hair. It instantly became untidy, and a strange excitement filled his eyes. "Define the rules, and we'll play by them."

"That's better, it suits you... " Dima couldn't help but smile slightly, almost lazily. His voice became lower, softer, and that only made it more dangerous. "Be a good boy."

"Dima! " Seryozha jumped up abruptly. His back straightened, his gaze became sharp, too personal, piercing. In two swift steps, he was right there.