The pot was growing.
Ethan watched the tech billionaire across the table with the detached intensity of a predator. The man, in his mid-40s, was an amalgamation of controlled gestures and deliberate pauses—a performance of calmness honed for boardrooms and keynote stages. But here, under the subtle pressure of high-stakes poker, the cracks were beginning to show. His stillness was too rigid, his smile too practiced, and his bets too large for the cards he held.
Ethan could see it now, plain as day: a bluff.
The billionaire had raised aggressively pre-flop, his hand trembling slightly as he pushed forward a stack of gold-rimmed chips. It was a move designed to intimidate, to force out weaker players. But Ethan had stayed in, calling with steady deliberation. The flop—a ten, seven, and three, rainbow—offered little for most hands, but Ethan’s pocket jacks had him comfortably ahead.
When the turn brought a queen, the billionaire’s play became even more erratic. He fired off a bet that seemed less calculated and more like a demand for compliance. The room was quiet save for the occasional clink of glasses and the low hum of murmured conversation. All eyes were on the two of them now, the tension thick as the billionaire sat motionless, his jaw tightening.
Ethan leaned back slightly, giving himself a moment. It wasn’t just the cards or the betting patterns. It was the billionaire’s entire demeanor—how he glanced too quickly at Victor when placing his chips, as if seeking approval. The subtle hitch in his breath when Ethan matched his bets. The billionaire wasn’t playing the table. He was playing for the audience.
And Ethan wouldn’t let him have it.
When the river card fell—another three—it solidified Ethan’s decision. The board didn’t help his opponent, who had nothing but his misplaced confidence. The billionaire, undeterred, shoved forward a final bet, a stack large enough to make most players fold out of fear.
Ethan let the silence hang for a moment, the weight of the chips a palpable presence in the air.
“Call,” he said finally, his voice calm but firm, pushing his stack forward.
The billionaire hesitated, his face betraying the briefest flicker of doubt. Slowly, he turned over his cards: eight-nine suited. A busted straight draw. Nothing.
Ethan flipped his pocket jacks, their quiet dominance speaking louder than any quip ever could.
The room’s atmosphere shifted as the hand resolved. The billionaire leaned back in his chair, letting out a forced laugh that landed awkwardly in the charged silence. “Well, I guess even disruptors need a little luck,” he said, his voice a touch too loud, as if trying to reclaim the upper hand.
Ethan said nothing, letting the moment settle. His hands moved efficiently as he pulled the pot toward him, stacking the chips with deliberate care. He just doubled his stack after just a couple of hours. He glanced at the host.
Victor hadn’t reacted immediately. Instead, he watched the hand play out with an unreadable calm. Now, as the billionaire pushed his cards toward the muck with a resigned smile, Victor’s expression shifted ever so slightly. His lips curved into a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. It wasn’t the smile of a man impressed by a good play. It was the smile of someone who had just watched another piece fall into place.
But it wasn’t Ethan that Victor was looking at. Victor’s gaze flicked to Vera. She sat by the dealer’s position, her posture poised and immaculate, her attention seemingly fixed on reshuffling the deck. Yet Ethan noticed the way her hands moved—methodical but slightly slower than before. She didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge Victor directly, but something in the air between them seemed charged, as if an unspoken signal had passed.
“Impressive,” Victor said finally, his voice clear and smooth. He turned back to Ethan, locking eyes with him. “You’re a man who knows how to seize opportunities.”
The words landed with weight. Compliment? Warning? A challenge? Ethan couldn’t tell, and that lack of clarity was what made it so unsettling. It wasn’t just the words, either. Victor’s tone was too precise, his demeanor too calculated. Ethan’s mind replayed the shift in Victor’s expression, the glance at Vera, the faintest pause in her movements.
Around the room, the other players exchanged glances, pretending to be engrossed in their drinks or chip stacks. The billionaire muttered something under his breath and reached for his glass, gripping it tightly enough to leave faint smudges on the pristine crystal.
Ethan glanced briefly at his winnings, then back at Victor. This wasn’t just poker. It hadn’t been for a long time.
The game, Ethan realized, was just the surface. The real stakes were still hidden, waiting to reveal themselves.
***
The last hand resolved, and the table’s energy began to shift. Conversations grew louder, drinks were refilled, and a few players pushed back from their chairs, their enthusiasm tempered by dwindling stacks. Ethan sat quietly, stacking his chips, his mind still turning over Victor’s reaction during the game.
Victor stood suddenly, his chair scraping softly against the floor as he rose. “Gentlemen,” he said, his voice cutting through the ambient noise with practiced ease, “thank you for a memorable evening.”
He gestured toward the server standing by the door and murmured something inaudible before turning to Reed. “Ethan,” he said, his tone warm but deliberate, “a word?”
Ethan glanced around the table, noting the flickers of curiosity in the other players’ expressions, before standing. Victor motioned toward the door. “Join me for a drink. I have something I’d like to discuss.”
Without waiting for a response, Victor began to walk toward the hall, the confident stride of someone who assumed compliance. Ethan followed, curiosity and caution battling for space in his thoughts. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a casual toast to the evening’s events.
***
The poker room’s noise faded behind them as Victor led the way to a quieter part of the mansion. They stopped at a door, and Victor opened it himself, gesturing for Ethan to enter. Inside, a fire burned low in a sleek, modern hearth, its light reflecting off rows of bookshelves and the leather-bound volume of Faust that caught Ethan’s attention.
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Victor handed him a glass of whiskey and gestured to the chair opposite him. “Tell me,” he said, settling into his own seat, “what do you think separates the good players from the great?”
Ethan took a slow sip, feeling the warmth spread through his chest. “Discipline, adaptability, patience. Poker’s not about being perfect. It’s about reading people and making fewer mistakes than they do.”
Victor’s smile curved, faint and deliberate. “Spoken like a true professional. But let me ask you this—if perfection were possible, would it still be poker?”
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “You’re talking about GTO, aren’t you?”
Game Theory Optimal play—the holy grail of poker strategy. A theoretically perfect approach where every decision is balanced and unexploitable. A human can only approximate it, but a computer can achieve it with mathematical precision. Most serious players nowadays spent hours studying GTO lines.
“GTO’s just the baseline,” Ethan finally said outloud. “Poker isn’t chess. It’s about exploiting your opponents. Also, it’s not really possible for a human to play GTO”.
Victor’s smile widened, and he leaned forward slightly, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “That’s the beauty of progress, Ethan. Rules reflect the past, not the future. Imagine a global stage—an invitational tournament with the best players in the world. Humans, autonomous AI, and hybrids competing in the ultimate test of skill and innovation.
“You’re saying the future belongs to machines,” Ethan said finally, his tone neutral. His mind wandered briefly to a few recent poker AI projects he heard of. Libratus had been enough to crush top pros in heads-up poker. Over 120,000 hands, it had methodically outplayed them by following GTO principles—making no mistakes and punishing theirs. Then came Pluribus, which had raised the stakes. In six-player no-limit hold’em, it didn’t just play unexploitable poker; it exploited human patterns mid-game. Bet sizes, timing tells, overplays—it had dismantled multi-player tables with a precision no one saw coming. Ethan had followed these breakthroughs with both fascination and unease.
Victor leaned back slightly, his glass catching the light. “Not quite. The future belongs to those who can merge human instinct with machine precision. My AI doesn’t just calculate—it learns from its human partner. It adapts, enhances, complements. Together, you’d be unstoppable.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened slightly as he set his glass down. “And you want me to test it? In this tournament you’re planning.”
“Not just test it,” Victor said, his voice soft but sharp. “Be the face of the hybrid revolution.This isn’t just about poker, Ethan—it’s about what happens when humanity and technology finally align.”
Victor reached for a sleek, leather-bound folder resting on the table beside him and slid it across to Ethan. “Before we go any further, I’ll need your signature on this.”
Ethan glanced at the document, already knowing what it was. “Non-disclosure agreement,” he muttered, flipping through the pages.
Victor smiled faintly. “Naturally. What I’m about to show you isn’t public. Yet.”
Ethan didn’t hesitate. He signed the document, his curiosity outweighing his reservations. Victor retrieved it, gave a single nod, then stood, crossing to a minimalist cabinet against the far wall. When he returned, he was holding a small, rectangular case.
“This,” Victor said, opening the case and setting it on the table, “is the Cognitive Edge Interface.”
Ethan leaned forward, his gaze locking onto the device. It looked deceptively simple: a patch no larger than a playing card, its surface smooth and metallic, with faint geometric patterns etched into it. It wasn’t tethered to anything—no wires, no visible connections. Instead, a small green LED pulsed faintly at one corner.
Victor watched him closely. “The CEI is wireless,” he said, his tone calm but deliberate. “The patch adheres to your body, anywhere discreet. It uses micro-needles—barely noticeable—to create a neural connection. Once applied, it communicates directly with the interface through a secure, real-time link. No cables, no external modules. Seamless integration.”
Ethan’s eyes flicked to the micro-needles glinting faintly on the underside of the patch. The sight triggered a faint, visceral memory—a time when he’d worn a glucose-monitoring patch for weeks during a high-stress period in Vegas, trying to regulate his energy levels for long sessions at the table. The sensation had been strange at first, but he’d adapted quickly, barely noticing it after the first few days.
Victor gestured at the patch. “It reads your neural activity, interprets your thought processes, and offers optimized decisions based on real-time data. In poker, hesitation and error cost you everything. With the CEI, those variables disappear. Your instincts remain intact, but they’re sharpened—refined into perfect execution.”
Ethan leaned back, his eyes still fixed on the device as he folded his arms. The words made sense. Real-time assistance wasn’t uncharted territory; it was just a step further. He glanced up at Victor, his expression steady. “Sounds useful,” he said evenly, his tone giving nothing away. His lips curved slightly. “And dangerous.”
Victor chuckled, his voice low. “Only if you’re afraid of winning.”
Ethan let the words hang for a moment, letting Victor’s confidence settle in the air between them. Finally, his gaze flicked to the Faust on the shelf, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips. “So, what’s next? I sign the contract in my own blood?”
Victor chuckled, his laugh low and deliberate. “E-sign will suffice.”
***
“You can take take three days to think it over,” Victor said, his tone measured. “The contract is straightforward, but the devil, as they say, is in the details. You’ll find everything spelled out—terms, expectations, contingencies. My legal team prides itself on precision.”
Ethan arched an eyebrow. “I’ll be sure to give it a close read.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” Victor replied, setting his glass down on the table with care. “You’re not the type to make impulsive decisions, Ethan, and I respect that. This isn’t a game for amateurs.”
Victor’s smile deepened, faint but deliberate. “But before you go”—he gestured toward the door—“there’s something I’d like you to see. A gift, of sorts. Call it… an extension of my trust.”
The phrasing was casual, but Ethan caught the slight pause, the deliberate weight behind “trust.” He rose, adjusting his sleeves, masking the unease curling in his gut. “Lead the way.”
Victor didn’t move. Instead, he nodded toward the server standing quietly in the shadows, her posture straight and professional. “She’ll take you.”
Ethan glanced back at Victor, but the man had already turned his attention back to the fire, as if the conversation had concluded the moment the words left his mouth. Whatever this “gift” was, it wasn’t something Victor planned to explain. Not here.
With a small exhale, Ethan followed the server into the hallway, his footsteps muffled against the thick carpet as the crackle of the fire faded behind him. Behind the closed doors they passed, muted laughter and low voices spilled out, punctuated by soft gasps and quiet moans. The air was thick with the cloying scents of expensive cologne and something sweeter, muskier, that made his stomach tighten. Whatever Victor was hosting tonight, it wasn’t just poker.
“This way, sir,” the server said, stopping at a pair of double doors at the end of the hall. Her smile was polite, professional—but there was something else in her eyes. Amusement? Pity? Ethan couldn’t tell.
“This is for you, on behalf of Mr. Cho,” she added before stepping aside and leaving him alone.
Ethan hesitated. The handle was cool under his palm, the metal smooth and unyielding. He pushed the door open.
The room was vast, awash in the soft amber glow of candles. Their light spilled over the surfaces like liquid gold, pooling in the corners and catching on the gleaming glass of the far wall. A low couch in the center reflected the flicker of flames, its edges sharp against the fluid warmth of the space.
And in the middle of it all stood a woman’s bare form, her skin luminous against the dim expanse. She faced the window, her silhouette outlined by the faint light beyond.
“Come in,” she said, and Ethan recognized the voice.
It was Vera.