Winning? That’s just the appetizer. Losing—that’s where every gambler eventually lands.

And honestly, it doesn’t matter what kind of game you’re into. If you gamble, that ending’s pretty much written in stone.

Name’s Gordon Lake, owner of several game rooms. This is my bread and butter.

I’ve seen it all—what goes on under the table, shady tricks, every kind of hustle in the book. Years of watching people sink in quicksand, barely anyone ever climbs out intact.

I’ve watched millionaires throw away fortunes, end up scrubbing by delivering parcels or guarding buildings in the city. I’ve seen picture-perfect housewives get dragged in, stripped clean—dignity, body, sometimes even life. Dignity? Please. Once you’ve lost at the table, you couldn’t trade your pride for pocket change.

When I sat down to write all this, my mind was flooded with too much. Didn’t even know where to begin.

So I’ll just take it slow—one person, one story at a time, whatever comes to mind.

My first game room? Set up shop in a sleepy little northern town. Housing was dirt cheap. Twenty-some grand, and you could buy a two-story house with a mortgage option.

Back then, my cousin Eli Whitmore was a real estate developer in the area—hooked me up on credit. I got a place for just under seventeen grand. Wholesale.

Eli was well-connected with both the locals and higher-ups. So once he made a few calls, I dropped in six mahjong tables and opened the doors.

I kept things simple on the ground floor—cleaned it out for regulars to hang out. But the second floor? That’s where the real setup was. Per Eli’s instructions, I added private rooms, a metal staircase for separate access, and loaded the place with surveillance cameras.

His rule was clear: ground floor’s all yours, he doesn’t care. But the second floor? That’s his domain. As long as I kept an eye on the table and made sure no one was cheating, skimming rake from the games, it was good. I got 10% equity.

Only real boundary? Stay off the table. No exceptions.

Eli knew I had skill. If I ever sat down to play, this place would be toast.

I agreed. No problem there.

To keep things smooth downstairs, I hired Flora Nelson. Local girl. Paid her three grand a month. She handled cigarettes, drinks, change—whatever the guests needed.

I had my hands full upstairs.

Next night? The place was popping. Five out of six tables were full from the jump. The last one lit up not long after.

Around 9 PM, Eli’s setup on the second floor was locked and loaded.

It was my first real encounter with big-league gambling. Everything I’d seen before that? Child’s play.

They were playing something super common in our area—kind of like Pai Gow with cards. Locally, we call it “Big Ten Push.”

Banker deals cards to four positions: Dealer, Outer Gate, Heaven Gate, and Earth Gate.

Players can bet on any door except Dealer.

Payouts are even odds—bet a hundred, win a hundred.

My job was to take rake—200 bucks per door, I pulled 10 bucks.

Dealer that night was a woman—easy on the eyes and moved like a pro.I’d seen her a couple of times before—Sophie Graham, my cousin Eli Whitmore’s accountant, also the one who handled his company’s cash.

Next to her sat a girl with sharp little tiger teeth handing out money, someone I didn’t really know at the time. Later I found out her name was Blair Martin, the company’s cashier.

That night, the second floor was absolutely packed.

People were shoulder to shoulder around the big table—easily twenty or thirty of them. It was so crowded some couldn’t even get their chips on the table. The energy was crazy, way beyond expectations.

Each hand, the table was flooded with cash. Most pots started at five, six thousand. Some hit twenty or thirty grand. Insane, right?

To someone unfamiliar, those stakes might sound cool, but here’s the real deal: every hand they played, I got a cut—anywhere from three hundred to fifteen hundred just from rake.

Doesn’t sound huge? Now multiply that by a hundred hands per night. Maybe two or three hundred. Do the math. That’s in a tiny county town, mind you—not Vegas.

This is why the house always wins. Forget beating the players—just skimming off the top adds up fast.

And eventually, those regulars, the diehards, they’d be drained dry. Like getting their blood drawn out little by little.

The very first one we bled dry? I remember it clearly—Autumn Sinclair, that stunning woman from town.

Why do I remember her so well? Well… let’s just say, you get the idea.

That night, they played until dawn.

The winners? Gone long before sunrise—quiet as ghosts.

Left behind were five or six guys, all losers. Bloodshot eyes, hanging on, tossing in tiny bets, still clinging to a shred of hope.

By dawn, the biggest bets were barely five hundred. Most just two or three hundred.

Sophie was done. She didn’t even bother dealing anymore, just shot me a look.

I got it right away.

I turned to the last few players and said, “Alright folks, sun’s up. Let’s call it here. We’re not shutting down, just taking a break. Come back tonight if you still feel lucky. But for now—let’s eat. My treat. Even the dealer gets hungry, yeah?”

They weren’t dumb. With what little cash they had left, climbing out of the hole was impossible. They shoved in their last chips, reluctantly wrapping up their night.

I cracked open the windows, finally letting out the thick cloud of smoke that’d built up all night.

Then I led them down to Dong Laishun, the best spot in town. We ordered ten-plus dishes and a few crates of beer.

It’s sort of an unspoken rule around here—when the game ends, whoever’s still standing gets fed. Doesn’t matter if you won or lost.

Winners feel like kings. Losers, at least, don’t feel completely abandoned. Little things like this—some warm food, a little kindness—make the beat sting less.

While eating, I was chatting about the madness from last night, still dishing out food for everyone, trying to lighten the mood.

Just as I sat down and picked up my chopsticks again, I felt this tingle along my calf—light, teasing.

I froze.

Somebody was playing footsie under the table.

I looked up, and there she was—Autumn Sinclair, locking eyes with me, a sly smile curling on her lips before she calmly went on eating like nothing happened.

No need to guess what that meant.

Seriously, unless you're made of stone, no guy says no to that kind of invitation. Especially not me—I was never the “gentleman” type.

So under the table, I nudged her back with my foot.

Just like that—easy, discreet—something unspoken and risky was agreed upon, right there at the dinner table.