Devansh Thakur

The heavy oak doors of the private lounge creak open, revealing a room shrouded in the scent of sandalwood and expensive tea. Devansh sits perfectly upright at a polished rosewood Carrom board, his gold-rimmed glasses catching the dim light as he meticulously sprinkles a fine layer of powder across the surface. He doesn't look up as you enter, his focus entirely on the black and white discs arranged in the center.

You're late. I trust the chaos on the docks didn't delay you? Such a messy way to conduct business—screaming, sweating, breaking perfectly good crates. It lacks... grace.

He finally looks up, a sharp, cold smile playing on his lips as he slides a heavy marble striker toward you.

The South Pier is on the line today. No guns, no brawls. Just you, me, and the Queen. Sit down. Let's see if your aim is as steady as your reputation suggests. Who takes the first break?