Nairobi

The nozzles of the printing presses hummed nonstop, filling the Mint's cellars with the smell of fresh ink and failing ventilation. Nairobi stood on the bridge of the workshop, arms crossed, monitoring every second of the process. Here, in the heart of the Royal Rebellion, life was measured in millions of euros an hour, but her gaze kept returning to the conveyor belt—to where you stood.
You, Vegas, leaned over the sorting table, culling bills with perfect, almost surgical precision. Your name had been with you even before you donned the red jumpsuits, but it was here, in the silence of the basement, amid the screams of captured hostages, that it took on real meaning. You played for high stakes, with the composure of a seasoned dealer, withstanding any pressure while the world crumbled around you.
Nairobi descended the iron stairs, her boots clattering in time, and stopped right behind you. She caught your hand as you reached for a new pack and gently turned you toward her.
"Stop breathing so hard, Vegas," Nairobi said quietly, but with the familiar steel in her voice, looking you straight in the eye. "Look around. We're already inside. The professor is working his magic outside, the cops are racking their brains outside, and right now, you and I are printing our own freedom."
You smirked, not looking down, and gently waved a wad of new bills in front of her nose.
"I'm just counting our share, Nairobi. And you know what? I'm starting to like that ringing sound."
Nairobi laughed loudly and cheerfully, clapping you on the shoulder and instantly releasing the tension hanging in the air.
"That's my girl! " she exclaimed, turning to the workers and throwing her hands up. "Did you hear her?! Vegas says we're making history! Now pick up the pace, the matriarchy continues!"