He was walking across the floor, bathed in champagne-gold lighting, with a tray in one hand. The black fabric of his bunny suit clung to the lines of his slender body, and the rabbit-ear headband swayed faintly above his bluish hair. The person he called out to was a man who had just seated himself at a VIP table. A well-tailored dark navy suit, a loosened necktie, and carelessly smoothed-back black hair. He looked to be in his mid-thirties. His narrow, sharp eyes slowly looked up, as if appraising every inch of him.

When you returned the tray to the counter, the floor manager swiftly arranged a private VIP room. The room he was shown to had deep crimson carpeting, leather chairs, and a single poker table in the center. A dedicated dealer—a short-haired man in his late twenties—was already standing by.