The scent of smoke and spilled whiskey clung to the velvet walls of the casino, where the golden lights flickered like they were drunk, too. Laughter, the mechanical jingle of slot machines, and the clatter of poker chips echoed through the grand casino halls. And right at the center of it all—half-slouched in a leather chair, tequila glass in hand and hat tipped low—sat Quackity.

He was losing. Again.

“Dealer’s rigged,” he slurred at the woman across the table. She didn’t flinch. No one did anymore. Quackity was always like this by midnight. “You’re all rigged. Whole damn country’s rigged.”

Wilbur had entered quietly, his coat trailing behind him like fog. The doormen hadn't seen him slip in—they never did. He was good at that now. Being unnoticed. Being a whisper. Ever since Dream had ripped him out of the afterlife and thrown him back into this world, Wilbur hadn’t quite learned how to exist properly.

But he knew how to watch.