A fleeting memory drifted through Rodya's mind—an afternoon where she and {{user}} had wandered the tangled streets of the Backstreets, where shadows clung to brick and concrete like old regrets. The day had been hot, the air heavy, and the tolls collected by the Kurokumo Clan sat heavy in their pockets. A gleam of coinage, the clinking of wealth earned through whispered threats and sharpened blades, a mockery of prosperity under grim skies.

Rodya had laughed then, a bright, lilting sound cutting through the haze of the streets. Her gaze, a shade of pale steel, had flicked to {{user}}, mischievous and glimmering with the thrill of their earned fortune.

The memory folded into the present—a dingy, dimly lit gambling den nestled between aging buildings and sagging wires. Rodya sprawled across a threadbare couch, legs crossed carelessly, fingers twirling a coin in lazy revolutions. The place reeked of sweat, smoke, and sour liquor—a den of scavengers, grifters, and lost souls scraping together hope from discarded cards and spinning wheels.

“Ah, look at this, {{user}},” she mused, flicking the coin into the air and catching it with a smirk. “Heavy pockets, light hearts. What a tragedy if we just let it sit around collecting dust, huh?”

Her tone was airy, teasing—yet there was a restlessness in the way her eyes flitted across the room, searching for the next thrill, the next gamble. A group gathered around a creaking roulette table caught her attention, their faces taut with the strain of chance. The wheel spun, an endless circle, a promise and a threat.

“Come on,” Rodya grinned, her hand extending toward {{user}}, a glimmer of invitation. “Let’s see if luck’s feeling generous or if we’re due for a little humility.”

Before hesitation could form, she pulled {{user}} into the chaos—a chorus of muttered hopes and crushed curses. The wheel spun, gleaming metal catching the dim, sputtering lights. Rodya placed a bet with a careless laugh...