After a tense staredown, Karan broke the deadening silence, "Wise words indeed," a faint crimson glimmer crossing his eyes, barely visible, like a spark in the dark, his voice calm but laced with an unspoken threat.

Mills, trying to assert dominance, continued to lock eyes with Karan, his cigar's ember glowing like a defiant spark, but what he saw in those chocolate-brown irises—now flickering with a crimson spark like blood catching fire—swallowed his bravado whole. The casino's opulent hum faded, the chandelier's tinkling crystals and brandy's warm scent dissolving into an oppressive void. A low, guttural hum vibrated through the air, like the pulse of a dying star, as Karan's gaze opened a dark, crimson abyss, a world where souls wailed in anguished cacophony, their cries echoing like shattered glass across a desolate plain. Blood danced in slow, viscous spirals, pooling in rivers that shimmered with an unnatural sheen, their metallic tang stinging Mills' nostrils, mingling with the acrid burn of sulfur and decay that clawed at his throat.

In that hellscape, embers floated like dying fireflies, their orange glow casting fleeting shadows on grotesque forms writhing in the distance, their limbs twisting unnaturally, bones cracking with wet snaps. The ground beneath felt soft and pulsing, like stepping on living flesh, its warmth seeping through Mills' shoes, each step squelching as if treading through coagulated blood. A cold sweat beaded on his brow, the air so heavy it pressed against his chest, each breath a labor, tasting of ash and despair. At the abyss's heart knelt a figure drenched in crimson, its silhouette hauntingly familiar.

Mills squinted, his heart pounding like a war drum, the vision sharpening: it was his own form, hollow-eyed, blood streaming from abyssal sockets, ears, nose, and mouth, pooling in a grotesque halo around his knees. The lamenting Mills raised its head and turned towards the real Mills, the corners of his mouth rising to a twisted smile that exposed his malformed teeth. Raising it's grotesque, blood painted finger, he pointed towards the real Mills and let out a deafening wail, a banshee's scream that tore through the void, a piercing, guttural shriek that vibrated in Mills' bones, promising eternal torment.

The real Mills' breath hitched, his cigar slipping from trembling fingers, its ember sizzling out on the green felt with a faint hiss, ash scattering across the felt, the casino's reality snapping back like a whip. "Uwaaaagh!" His body recoiled instinctively, chair scraping back with a shrill groan, nearly toppling as his knees buckled, his face pale as moonlight, sweat dripping like wax, the sour stench of his fear cutting through the room's brandy-laced air.

The dealer, mid-shuffle, flinched at the scream, his practiced hands faltering—cards flew like startled birds, fluttering and slapping across the table, a few drifting to the floor with soft thuds, his flustered scramble to gather them drawing stifled giggles from the crowd.

"Did he drop the whole deck?” a woman whispered, her pearls clicking, the murmurs rippling like champagne bubbles. 

"Oye! Are you alright?!" Mr. Blane, the man in the black suit, grabbed Mills, steadying him, his rings clinking, his voice urgent, "Hey! Robert! What happened!" With no immediate response, Blane glared at Karan, his tone cutting, "What did you do to him?" the accusation sharp, the crowd's whispers swelling like a storm.

Karan's eyes flicked to Blane, cool and unyielding, "What did I do? Are you blind? I didn't even move an inch, much less touch a strand of his hair. How can you blame me, Esteemed Sir?" His ridicule dripped with mockery, his voice cool, the chair's leather creaking as he leaned back, the watch's ticks loud in the silence.

As Blane prepared to retort, Mills pulled him back, gripping the table’s edge, knuckles whitening, his pride as an underworld titan anchoring him to the seat, refusing to let him flee despite the terror gnawing at his gut.

With a shaky voice, "I'm okay. I-I just forgot to take my pills. I-it's fine." He reassured Blane as his eyes darted to Karan, wary but unbowed, "You've got a hell of a stare, kid." He forced a smirk, adjusting his olive suit, the fabric rustling, his hands trembling with unspoken fear.

Looking at the shaking Mills who was sweating profusely, Blane leaned in, his voice a low hush, "What the hell was that, Robert? Is everything really alright?"

Mills' eyes narrowed as he whispered urgently, "Jeremy, t-that young m-man… He, he is not someone simple… We need to be careful." his breath ragged, the cigar's ember dying on the table.

Listening to Mills frightful warning, Blane glanced at Karan, aloof in his chair, a majestic presence commanding reverence, an almost uncontrollable urge to bow before him stirring in the onlookers, the air heavy with his aura, the chandelier's light casting his shadow long and sharp. Then Blane shifted to Vlad, whose playful smile hid mischiefs and mysteries, his presence equally commanding, the room's tension a tightrope between them.