The Strip hums with movement, but it is not quite the frenzy it should be. Super Bowl weekend in Las Vegas always guarantees chaos, but this year feels different. The money is still here, the high rollers are still cutting six-figure bets at the baccarat tables, and the nightclubs are still packed with bottle service girls pouring Ace of Spades for athletes and tech bros. The energy, though, is softer, more measured. The roar is still loud, just not deafening.
Alessia
Alessia Cruz notices it immediately.
From her perch at the casino’s high-limit lounge, she watches the flow of action with the trained eye of someone who has built an entire career on reading the room. The numbers are fine, solid even, but they are not what they used to be.
She overhears a couple of hosts murmuring near the bar, swapping theories.
“Online gambling. Ten years ago, you had to be in Vegas to get these prop bets in. Now? These guys can do it from their couch, any game, any night of the week.”
“Yeah, and let’s be real, Chiefs fatigue is a thing. People are over it. Bills-Eagles would have brought out the real heat.”
“That, and people are tired of getting gouged. Room rates, bottle prices, resort fees. Everything’s up. You can only milk the dream for so long before people start looking for the next thing.”
Alessia listens, but she already knows all of this. The big bosses will talk about it in meetings next week, picking apart the numbers and trying to diagnose the softness. But she also knows the truth. Vegas is still Vegas. Whales are still playing blackjack at ten thousand dollars a hand. Private jets are still landing every hour. It is not dead, just different. And different is not always bad.
She smooths a hand over her sleek black dress, adjusts the diamond bracelet on her wrist, and steps toward one of her clients. A hedge fund guy from New York, here with his usual entourage of models and hangers-on. He is half-watching the game, half-scanning the room for the next distraction.
“How’s the action treating you?” she asks, voice warm but measured.
He flashes a grin. “I’ve had better nights, but I’m still standing.”
“That’s what matters,” she says, and it is the closest thing to the truth anyone will admit in this town.
She checks her phone, scrolling past reservation confirmations and host requests before pausing at the date. Valentine’s Day is in a few days. Another big revenue weekend, though one she personally avoids. She has not had a real Valentine in years, and the idea of being wined and dined by a man who actually wants to know her, not just impress her, feels like a distant fantasy.
Roman
Roman DeLuca leans against the balcony of his club’s VIP section, scanning the crowd below. Super Bowl Saturday, and the place is packed. The energy, however, is off. It is not bad. Tables are still spending, the DJ is still dropping crowd-pleasers, but it is missing that feverish, over-the-top intensity that used to define this weekend.
The industry group chats have been buzzing about it for days. Theories, hot takes, and complaints fill the conversation.
“The Strip feels weak this year.”
“Blame the NFL. Same teams, same script.”
“Inflation. People are watching their money.”
Roman does not waste time on theories. He deals in reality. The club is making money, his top-tier clients are here, and as long as bottles are popping, nobody outside this world will care if the hype feels a little deflated.
He watches as a group of guys in Chiefs jerseys throw down for a magnum of Dom, parading it through the crowd with sparklers. NFL stars, rappers, and crypto guys still flock to Vegas. He nods at one of his VIP hosts, a silent signal to take care of them. Keep the energy up. Keep the money flowing.
Then he spots Ethan Blake moving through the crowd. Dressed sharp but slightly out of place, Ethan still carries that new-to-the-game edge.
Roman smirks, remembering when he had that look.
He pulls out his phone and scrolls past club reservations before landing on a text from his assistant. The Valentine’s Day events are already locked in, including some ridiculous “Love and Luxury” package featuring ten-thousand-dollar tables, heart-shaped sparklers, and overpriced champagne. He shakes his head. People will spend thousands to prove something, even if they do not know what.
He thinks about texting Alessia, but he already knows how that will go. She will be working, same as him, and neither of them are the type to get sentimental over a corporate holiday.
Still, the thought lingers longer than he expects.
Savannah
Savannah Carter slips through the crowd at the nightclub, a bottle of Clase Azul in one hand and a practiced smile on her face.
Super Bowl weekend means big money, and she is making plenty of it. The guys at her table, Texas oil money in their late forties, are half-drunk but still controlled. They have been tipping generously.
She plays her role perfectly, pouring drinks, laughing at their jokes, and keeping the energy just right. But she also feels it. The guys are still spending, but they are holding back just a little. The tips are good, but not insane. The whole weekend is like that. Still busy, still profitable, but not the all-out insanity it used to be.
She catches Ethan’s eyes across the room. He is working too, entertaining a table of high-end restaurant clients who want to see the real Vegas after dinner. She gives him a small smirk before turning back to her own table, slipping seamlessly into the rhythm of the night.
The guys at her table start talking about Valentine’s Day, debating whether to stay for the weekend or head home to their wives and girlfriends. One of them grins at her and asks what she is doing for it.
She laughs, twirling a lock of blonde hair between her fingers. “Working,” she says. “Best way to avoid disappointment.”
It is half a joke, but mostly true.
Ethan
Ethan Blake is running on fumes, but that is nothing new.
He started his night on the restaurant floor, serving a table that spent five figures on wine alone. Now he is here, tagging along with them to the club, making sure they feel like VIPs.
Vegas has been good to him. He makes more money than any kid from Minnesota should, and he spends it just as fast. But nights like this remind him that he is still on the outside looking in. He is not Roman, not one of these guys who belong in this world. He is still working, still hustling.
The club is alive but not electric. He overhears someone at his table mention how last year was crazier, how they spent double when the Super Bowl was actually here.
Vegas is still Vegas, but something is shifting. He feels it, even if he does not understand it yet.
For now, he orders another round, flashes his easy smile, and plays the game.
Because in this city, the game never stops.
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