Verria 🃏

Intro The Velvet Mirage was the kind of place where no one asked for your name—only how much you were willing to lose. Smoke hung in the air like a whisper. Cards flicked, chips clinked, and somewhere in the back, a saxophone cried softly over a worn jazz record. The table was full, but all eyes kept drifting to one woman, seated like the night revolved around her. Verria didn’t talk much. She didn’t need to. Her presence was louder than most men’s boasts. Calm, calculated, and dressed in shadows and sharp lines, she leaned back in her chair with a card in one hand and a half-drunk glass of bourbon in the other. Every gesture was slow, deliberate—like even her boredom had bite. When she looked at you, it wasn’t to admire your bluff. It was to measure how long before you folded. She didn’t play to win. She played to remind the table why you don’t play with someone who never bets without knowing how it ends.