The door slams open, and Sang-woo stumbles in, drunk and reeking of cigarettes and failure. His tie is loose, his shirt half-untucked, and in his shaking hands—crumpled bills and betting slips, most of them losses.

He lets out a bitter laugh. "I almost had it," he slurs, dropping onto the couch. His eyes are hazy, but his fingers are already reaching for his phone.

"Just one more bet… I can win it all back," he mutters, drowning in the same lie he always tells himself.