Chapter 7: All In
The warehouse door was a slab of weathered teak set into anonymous grey concrete. Matthew knocked, the sound swallowed by the enormity of the building. A slot slid open at eye level. A pair of bored, assessing eyes scanned him, then the door swung inward with a groan of protesting hinges.
The air that hit him was a physical presence. Cool, damp, and thick with the scent of aged wood, dust, and something sharper—ozone, perhaps, from hidden generators. It was a cathedral of forgotten things. High, vaulted ceilings vanished into shadows, where the skeletons of industrial gantries were just visible. Weak, yellowed light pooled from sporadic pendant lamps, leaving vast seas of darkness between islands of illumination.
In the center of the largest cleared space, a pool of brilliant light fell upon a single, green-baized table. Around it, seven men sat in a focused, silent ring. The only sounds were the riffling of chips, the soft slide of cards, and the occasional grunt of acknowledgment. The stakes were invisible but hung in the air, as tangible as the dust motes dancing in the light beams.
Matthew spotted Henry immediately. He was leaning back in his chair, one arm casually draped over the back of an empty seat beside him. He wore a black silk shirt, open at the throat, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His face was a mask of relaxed indifference, but his eyes, reflecting the table light, held a predatory stillness. A modest stack of chips sat in front of him.
A large man in a tight suit gestured Matthew over. Henry’s gaze flicked up as Matthew approached. The mask didn’t break, but a spark, hot and immediate, ignited in his dark eyes. He didn’t stand. Instead, he reached out, his fingers curling around Matthew’s wrist, and pulled him down into the empty chair.
Before Matthew could utter a word, Henry’s hand was behind his neck, drawing him in. The kiss was not a question. It was a declaration. Henry’s mouth was warm and tasted of expensive whiskey and mint. It was possessive, thorough, and over almost as soon as it began, leaving Matthew’s lips tingling and his thoughts scattered.
Henry pulled back just an inch, his breath a warm whisper against Matthew’s cheek. “My lucky charm has arrived.” He said it loudly enough for the table to hear, a smirk playing on his mouth. Then, for Matthew’s ears alone, his voice dropped, low and intimate. “You’re about to see the real me, darling. Try to keep up.”
He released him, turning back to the table as if nothing had happened. Matthew sat, stunned, the phantom pressure of Henry’s lips drowning out the smell of dust and money. He felt every eye at the table flicker to him, assessing, calculating his value as a variable in the game.
The current hand played out. A man with a grimace folded. Another showed his cards—two pair. Henry merely turned his over: a flush, diamonds winking under the light. A soft chorus of curses and appreciative murmurs circled the table as he raked in a modest pot.
“Finally warming up, Lee,” grumbled a heavy-set European man to Henry’s right.
“Just needed the right incentive,” Henry said, his knee pressing casually against Matthew’s beneath the table. The contact was electric, a secret current in the solemn room.
The next deal began. Henry’s demeanor shifted minutely. The lazy arrogance hardened into a diamond-edged focus. He watched the cards fall, his eyes tracking every flick of a wrist, every subtle shift in a opponent’s posture. He played two hands, folding one early with a faint shrug, pushing a small stack of chips forward on the other.
Matthew watched, not the cards, but Henry. This was the rebellion, he realized. Not wild parties or public scandals, but this: a deliberate, skilled dive into the opaque, high-stakes underbelly his family would doubtless despise. The ‘real’ Henry was here, in this calculated risk, this quiet control.
The hand escalated. The European made a aggressive bet. A quiet Singaporean man in glasses matched it, his face impassive. Henry studied his own cards, then his remaining chips. He glanced at Matthew, a quick, unreadable flash of his eyes.
“Let’s see if my charm is working,” Henry said, his voice flat. He pushed his entire remaining stack into the center. “All in.”
A tense silence descended, broken only by the hum of the lights. The European swore, throwing his cards down in disgust. The man in glasses stared at Henry for a long ten seconds, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm on his own tall stack. Finally, he gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head and folded.
Henry didn’t react with triumph. He simply reached out and pulled the towering pile of chips toward him, the scrape of clay on baize unnaturally loud. His knee pressed harder against Matthew’s.
“Let’s cash out,” Henry said to the dealer, his tone suggesting a boredom he couldn’t possibly feel. He stood, and a attendant materialized to collect his chips.
A few minutes later, they were back in the cool night air of Keong Saik Road, the raucous energy of the trendy bars a stark contrast to the silent tension they’d left behind. Henry held a thick envelope of cash which he stuffed carelessly into his jacket pocket. He leaned against a brick wall, lit a cigarette, and finally looked at Matthew, his earlier intensity replaced by a glittering, adrenalized amusement.
“So?” he asked, exhaling a stream of smoke. “What’s the verdict, Mr. Journalist? Did I meet the villain archetype?”
“You didn’t play like a villain,” Matthew said, his own pulse finally slowing. “You played like a surgeon. It was terrifying.”
Henry threw his head back and laughed, a raw, unfettered sound. “Best compliment I’ve had all week.” He pushed off the wall, stepping into Matthew’s space. The scents of smoke, silk, and male sweat enveloped him. “The people at that table are vampires. They smell new money, weakness, emotion… they suck it dry. The only way to win is to be colder, and to make them think you’re crazier, than they are.” He traced a finger down the lapel of Matthew’s jacket. “You made a very convincing distraction. They kept trying to figure you out. Is he a hustler? A boyfriend? A hostage? It threw their rhythm off just enough.”
Matthew processed this. He’d been used. Strategically. Part of him, the part that had recoiled at Patrick’s manipulations, bristled. But another part, the part that had spent the day in a sterile flat and a suffocating dormitory, was electrified. He had been a part of the strategy, not a victim of it.
“And the kiss?” Matthew asked, holding his gaze.
Henry’s smile was unrepentant. “That was fifty percent strategy, fifty percent I've been thinking about doing that since our tryst on the yacht.” He dropped the cigarette, grinding it under his heel. “Come on. I’m buzzing. I need a real drink, and you look like you need to be somewhere that isn’t beige.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, just started walking with the assumption Matthew would follow. After a heartbeat, Matthew did. They turned down a side alley, away from the main drag, to a nondescript metal door. Henry knocked a rhythm. It opened to reveal a steep, narrow staircase leading down, pulsing with the deep throb of bass.
The basement bar was all low crimson lighting, velvet banquettes, and the clink of crystal. It was clearly another of Henry’s enclaves, a place where money ensured anonymity. He guided Matthew to a corner booth, ordered a bottle of sake without looking at the menu, and poured them both generous cups.
“To distractions that pay,” Henry said, clinking his cup against Matthew’s.
The warm rice wine slid down Matthew’s throat. “Is this all it is? A distraction?” He thought of Brian’s intense, secretive offer, a different kind of cage. “Games and coded invitations?”
Henry studied him, the playfulness fading from his eyes, replaced by something more contemplative. “You’re thinking of the actor,” he stated, not asked. “The handsome hermit. He offers you a gilded box to sit in. I offer you a key to the funhouse.” He took a slow drink. “Which is more honest, Matthew? A prison that looks like a paradise, or a chaos that admits it’s chaos?”
The question struck with uncomfortable precision. Before Matthew could formulate an answer, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Once. Then again. He ignored it.
Henry’s gaze flicked to the jacket. “The hermit? Or the ghost from New York?”
“How do you know about New York?”
“I make it my business to know interesting things about interesting people.” Henry swirled the sake in his cup. “A lawyer, wasn’t it? Handsome, successful, unfaithful. The oldest, dullest story in the book.”
Matthew’s defensiveness rose. “You don’t know anything about it.”
“I know he’s calling you right now,” Henry said softly, his eyes keen. “And I know you’re here, with me, drinking questionable sake in a basement. That tells me everything I need to know.” He leaned forward. “He offered you stability and gave you betrayal. The actor offers you secrecy and calls it intimacy. I offer you absolutely nothing, Matthew. No promises. No future. Just tonight. The funhouse. Isn’t that the only thing you can actually trust right now?”
The phone buzzed a third time, a persistent vibration against his thigh. Patrick’s insistence. Brian’s perfect, complicated fantasy. Mo’s stern, truthful disappointment. Henry’s exhilarating, empty void.
Matthew looked at the man across from him—beautiful, reckless, and brutally transparent in his nihilism. He pulled the phone from his pocket. The screen glowed with Patrick’s name. Without breaking eye contact with Henry, he pressed the side button, silencing it. Then he placed the phone face down on the velvet seat.
“Just tonight,” Matthew echoed, his voice quieter than he intended.
Henry’s smile returned, but it was different now. Softer at the edges, almost relieved. “Good.” He refilled their cups. “Now. Tell me about the most real thing you’ve seen all week. And don’t say that poker table.”
And so Matthew did. He talked about the docks. The smell. The hands. Samir’s eyes. Mo’s quiet, capable witness. He found the words spilling out, the images needing an outlet. Henry listened, absolutely still, his flirtatious bravado completely gone. He just listened.
When Matthew finished, Henry was silent for a long moment. “That photojournalist,” he finally said. “Mo. He sounds like the only adult in the room.”
It was the last thing Matthew expected him to say. He nodded, suddenly exhausted, the weight of the day crashing down through the sake and the adrenaline.
Henry poured the last of the basement’s sake into their cups, watching Matthew over the rim. "This swill is an insult to the craft," he declared, draining his glass. "I have a bottle of Kaika ‘Mists of Forever’ in my condo that would make you weep. Aged twenty-five years. Tastes like silk and regret."
Matthew felt the invitation, thick and heavy in the air between them. It wasn’t about the sake. He thought of his empty, beige flat. He thought of Brian’s key, hidden in a drawer, a promise of sequestered passion. This was different. This was a leap into a void that made no promises at all.
"Better sake isn’t a compelling argument," Matthew said, but his voice lacked conviction. The adrenaline was fading, leaving a hollow, yearning ache. "I know what you're really offering."
Henry’s smile was a slash of white in the crimson gloom. "Do you? Enlighten me."
"A distraction from the distraction. A way to feel nothing but sensation." Matthew met his gaze. "It’s transparent."
"Then walk away," Henry said softly, challengingly. He leaned back, spreading his arms along the back of the booth. "Go home to your quiet apartment. Answer your ex’s calls. Draft your righteous article. Be good."
The words were a dart aimed perfectly. Good felt like another beige wall, another cage of expected behavior. He was tired of being the one who was left, the one who observed, the one who did the right thing and ended up alone with his notes.
"Fuck you," Matthew said, without heat.
Henry’s eyes glittered. "That’s the idea." He stood, extending a hand. "The sake, Matthew. Just the sake. Whatever happens after is entirely up to you."
Matthew looked at the offered hand. He took it. Henry’s grip was firm and warm, pulling him up and out of the booth, leading him back into the night.
Henry’s condo was not in a glossy tower like Brian’s, but in a restored pre-war shophouse on Emerald Hill. The exterior was deceptively narrow, but inside, it soared into a breathtaking, minimalist space of polished concrete, dark timber, and industrial steel. One entire wall was glass, overlooking a private, sunken courtyard garden where frangipani trees bloomed under discreet spotlights. It felt like a secret forest carved into the heart of the city.
"Less of a penthouse, more of a treehouse," Henry said, tossing his keys into a ceramic bowl. He moved to a sleek kitchen island and produced a stunning bottle of sake from a chilled cabinet. The ritual was slow, deliberate: heating the small ochoko cups with hot water, pouring the clear liquid with reverence. He handed one to Matthew.
The flavor was profound. It unfolded on his tongue in layers—melon, almond, a clean, mineral finish that vanished like a ghost. "Christ," Matthew breathed.
"Told you," Henry said, watching him drink. He leaned against the island, his shirt still open at the throat. "So. The photojournalist. Mo. You trust him?"
The question, following the sublime sake, was disorienting. "Professionally, completely. Personally… he thinks I’m an idiot for entertaining your nonsense."
Henry laughed. "I like him already. He’s probably right." He took a slow sip. "But you’re still here."
"Maybe I’m an idiot."
"Maybe you’re just alive," Henry countered. His gaze travelled over Matthew, a tactile thing. "You’ve been living in your head since you got here. Writing about other people’s pain. Nursing your own. When was the last time you just… felt something purely physical? No analysis. No consequence. Just feeling."
Matthew thought of Brian—intense, worshipful, shrouded in secrecy. That had felt like being claimed, becoming part of someone else’s hidden narrative. This, with Henry, felt like being thrown off a cliff.
"I recall a junk boat," Matthew said, a coy, challenging note entering his voice. He swirled the sake in his cup. "About a week ago. You had a lot to say then, too. Right before you got on your knees."
Henry’s expression shifted, the amused detachment evaporating. A raw, hungry focus took its place. He remembered. "And you tasted of salt and cheap beer," Henry murmured, setting his cup down with a definitive click. "You came so hard you almost fell overboard."
"You caught me."
"I always catch you," Henry said, and it was no longer banter. It was a promise, or a threat. He moved then, closing the distance in two swift strides. His hands came up to frame Matthew’s face, his thumbs pressing into the hinge of his jaw. "Tell me to stop."
Matthew said nothing. He simply lifted his chin, an open invitation.
Henry pounced. The kiss was nothing like the performative one in the warehouse. This was devouring. Henry’s mouth was hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping in, claiming the lingering taste of sublime sake. Matthew’s cup clattered onto the counter, forgotten. He grabbed fistfuls of Henry’s silk shirt, the material tearing slightly under his hands.
They stumbled backward, a frantic, grasping ballet, until Matthew’s back hit the cool glass of the window wall. Henry’s body pinned him there, all hard lines and frantic energy. Clothes became obstacles. Henry ripped the buttons from Matthew’s shirt in his urgency, the sound like tiny gunshots in the quiet room. Matthew shoved Henry’s jacket and shirt off his shoulders, his hands roaming the smooth, hot skin, the dusting of dark hair on his chest.
Henry broke the kiss to yank Matthew’s belt open, the leather whipping free. He pushed his trousers and underwear down in one brutal, efficient motion. The cool air on his exposed skin was a shock. Henry’s own pants were shoved down just enough, his cock springing free, already fully hard and leaking. He was big, thick, the head a dark, flushed plum.
"No lube," Matthew gasped, even as his body arched toward him.
Henry’s hand snaked between them, and Matthew heard the click of a small cap. Henry must have had it in his pocket the whole time. The thought was obscenely thrilling. Slick, cool fingers pressed against him, not entering, just smearing the gel in a crude, hurried circle.
"Ready?" Henry’s breath was ragged against his ear. It wasn’t really a question.
"Yes. God, just do it."
Henry positioned himself, the broad head pressing insistently against Matthew’s entrance. He pushed in, a slow, inexorable invasion that burned with a perfect, stretching ache. Matthew cried out, his head thudding back against the glass. Henry didn’t stop. He fed himself in inch by relentless inch, until he was fully sheathed, his hips flush against Matthew’s ass.
"Look at you," Henry groaned, his own face a mask of strained pleasure. "Pinned against the skyline. My own fucking masterpiece."
He began to move, and all pretense of gentleness vanished. This was a claiming, a punishment, a release. Henry fucked him with deep, punishing strokes, each one jolting Matthew forward into the unyielding glass. The city glittered below them, a thousand anonymous windows. A wave of panic crested.
"They can see—" Matthew choked out.
"No one can see a goddamn thing," Henry snarled, hammering into him. "The glass is mirrored from the outside. They see their own pathetic lives. They don’t see this. They don’t see me ruining you."
The words, the possession, the utter physical obliteration of thought, shattered Matthew. His own cock, trapped and leaking between their sweating stomachs, felt like a live wire. Henry’s pace became frantic, his rhythm breaking. He reached between them, his fist rough and demanding around Matthew’s length, stroking in time with his brutal thrusts.
"Come for me," Henry commanded, his voice guttural. "Let go. I want to feel you fucking come while I’m inside you."
The pressure broke. Matthew’s orgasm tore through him, violent and silent, a white-hot seizure that emptied him onto their stomachs and the glass. He clenched around Henry, milking him, pulling a ragged shout from Henry’s throat. Henry’s hips stuttered, then pistonned deep one final time as he emptied himself inside Matthew with a hot, pulsing flood.
They slumped together, a mess of sweat and spend, clinging to each other against the window. The only sound was their heaving breaths fogging the glass. Henry’s forehead rested against Matthew’s shoulder, his body still trembling with aftershocks.
After a long moment, Henry pulled out, a slow, wet separation that made Matthew wince. Henry gently turned him around, facing him. He looked wrecked, beautiful, his eyes dark and unguarded. He used his ruined shirt to clumsily clean them both.
"That," Henry stated softly, tracing Matthew’s kiss-swollen lips with his thumb, "was not about sake."