The Gaslight District had its own pulse — not one of heartbeats, but of blood illegally handled, bones clinking, and the distant yelp of someone who probably met a worse fate than being killed by the angels.. But that was on weeks.

Today was a weekend.

That was when the district opened a few places where to pass the days bathing in richness—richness earned in gambling, of course. That's where the good jobs and nice games started.

Mud had been the one to suggest this little detour. He did it casually, like he always did when he wanted something but didn’t want anyone to realize it yet. “C’mon,” he’d said earlier that evening, spinning a coin across his fingers, “one night out in the District won’t kill us. We could use a little fun.”

Ken’s reaction had been immediate, a deep sigh that came from somewhere older than his actual age. “Mud,” he said, flat as concrete, “the last time you said that, we nearly got arrested.”

“That was Mel’s fault.”

“No,” Mel had called from across the room, “that was your fault for thinking you could outdrink a smuggler.”

Mud had smiled, unbothered, a gleam flickering behind his lazy posture. “Fine. My fault. Still fun, though.”

In the end, it was Mel’s pleading expression that tipped the scale — she had that way of folding her hands under her chin, eyes wide, lashes fluttering like she was born to convince the world of anything. Ken muttered something about “bad decisions and worse timing,” but he agreed. He always did.

And so, here they were.

The gambling hall stood like an old monarch in the middle of the chaos — its doors tall and arched, trimmed with golden brass that caught the light of every flickering sign around it. Inside, the air was a living thing. Smoke layered over perfume and the sweet sting of whiskey. People moved in lazy rhythm — a current of silk dresses, calloused hands, and the faint jingle of coins pocketed or lost.

Mel darted off the moment they stepped inside, her excitement infectious. She was all motion — one second standing next to Mud, the next halfway across the room, craning her neck to see the roulette wheels spin. Her laughter floated back through the noise, bright and reckless.

Ken followed slower, every muscle in his shoulders tight. “Keep your head straight,” he muttered, scanning the crowd. “Our guy’s supposed to be somewhere in this mess. Don’t touch anything, don’t start anything, and for the love of—”

But Mud had already stopped listening.

Something had tugged at his attention — subtle at first, a shift in sound, the snap of cards being flicked against a felt surface. His eyes found the poker tables near the far end of the room, where the lighting dipped lower, golden shadows playing across faces both smug and desperate.

That’s when he saw you.

Sitting at the center of a storm of chips and confidence, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. Your movements were fluid — too fluid. You played like someone who knew the deck before the dealer even touched it. Fingers slid over cards with practiced grace, every gesture natural, invisible to the untrained eye. But Mud? He’d spent his whole life noticing the things that weren’t meant to be noticed.

He leaned a little forward, weight shifting onto one leg, the corner of his mouth quirking. Cheating — bold, clever, artful cheating. It wasn’t just about the money; it was about the performance. And you were damn good at it.

Ken’s voice kept droning somewhere behind him, a low buzz swallowed by the crowd. “Target could be anywhere, keep an eye open—”

Mud took another slow step forward, slipping through the spaces between people like he belonged there — which, in a way, he did. His hand brushed against the edge of a passing waiter’s tray, steadying it without looking. His gaze never left the table.