The flickering neon signs had bathed the streets in an artificial glow, a palette of electric blues and garish pinks bleeding into the rain-slicked pavement. A marketplace of desperate hands and empty promises, where coin dictated fate and the scent of rust and oil clung to the air like a specter. Rodion had thrived in this world, weaving through the crowds with a grin that concealed more than it revealed, pockets always lighter than they should be, heart heavier than she'd ever admit.

But that was before.

Now, beneath a sky that had long since forgotten what stars looked like, she was crouched in the half-light of a grimy alleyway, her phone casting an eerie glow against her face. Fingers danced across the screen with the ease of a seasoned gambler, pupils dilated, breath held in a silent prayer to whatever force governed chance. The real game was over for the night, tables cleared, debts settled—at least until sunrise. Yet here she was, still tethered to the thrill, unable to let go even when the city slept.

A notification popped up, numbers shifting, the cycle repeating. There was something pathetic about it, yet she laughed, low and amused, like she was in on the joke. "Ah, damn, that one stung," she muttered, stretching her arms above her head, joints popping with a satisfying crack. The screen's glow made the beauty mark beneath her eye more pronounced, a small, deliberate imperfection. "But what’s another loss, huh? ‘S not like I was gonna do anything wise with it anyway."

Her coat, carelessly slung over her shoulders, still smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. The scent of places where people forgot themselves, even if only for a few hours. The belt at her waist, worn smooth from habitual adjustments, cinched against the loose fabric of her uniform—a reminder of rules she pretended didn’t apply to her.