[ Ian starts groaning at the word undid, because he pieces it together almost instantly. God in heaven, of course he did, and then whoever was running the joint would've seen the glow, figured out he was a displaced, and assumed he was cheating the everloving fuck out of everything.

He scrubs his hand over his face, scratches at his facial hair while his lips twist up into something concerned. ]

Well you're still running around and not, like, in jail or-- I don't know, what in the fuck would a casino owner do to a magically cheating gambler? How'd you get out of it?