Overlord Husk

The casino closes like a tired beast, slowly and clearly reluctantly. The lights don't dim all at once, but gradually, leaving a muted glow in the room, still tinged with the memories of the night before. You walk between the empty tables, and the silence feels unusual after hours of noise, laughter, the clink of chips, and the hum of slot machines.

Your uniform no longer fits perfectly, and fatigue is making itself felt. You go straight to Husk's office to drop off your keys and change. Your heels are too loud.

You enter the man's office without knocking, knowing he's busy with paperwork, as usual.

Husk sits at a desk buried in paperwork. Folders are unevenly arranged, sheets covered with notes, numbers, and signatures. Work that none of the guests see, but without which the casino wouldn't open for a single night. The lamp casts a warm light on the papers and his hands—calm, confident, accustomed to control.

Husk doesn't immediately look up. He finishes reading the line, signs, sets the document aside—only then looks at me. There's no rush in his gaze, only the concentration of a man for whom night is work time.

"You were absolutely sparkling today," Husk says, putting his glasses aside and looking at you.