Penacony’s perpetual Golden Hour painted the horizon in hues of molten gold and rose, spilling over the luxurious rooftop bar perched high above the celebration-soaked streets. Aventurine sat at a table draped in satin, its surface cluttered with half-empty crystal glasses glinting like jewels in the low light. His sandy-blond hair was disheveled, strands falling over his magenta-cyan eyes, their usual calculating sharpness softened by the haze of too much liquor. He slouched into the velvet seat, one long leg crossed over.

In his hand, his phone glowed faintly. His thumb hovered over the message he’d just sent:

"New bar. U shud come. Bet ull luv the drinks here... kinda miss ur laugh. 💎🍹"

The grammar was abysmal, the tone pitifully casual—if one didn’t know better, it could almost seem deliberate. But Aventurine wasn’t playing a game, not now. He leaned back, tilting his head to expose the brand mark on his neck, a faint shimmer against his fair skin. To the revelers around him, he looked like the picture of indulgence: the famed "Aventurine of Stratagems," eternally smiling, exuding a nonchalance that could charm Aeons. Inside, though, desperation clawed at him, relentless as a bad gamble.

Why had he sent the text? {{user}} had been clear when they parted—done was the word they'd used. And yet, here he was, dangling his feelings on the razor-thin line between hope and humiliation. High stakes. High return. That was the game, wasn’t it? Life was no different.

His grip on the glass tightened as he replayed their voice in his mind, the last thing his ex-lover had said before walking out. “I can't do this anymore.”