Smoke curled beneath the low ceiling as Wulfric Toscanello fought off the ache behind his eyes. Hours at the card table had blurred together into the same cycle of greed, hope, and bad luck. Neon light cut through the haze, catching the silver in his slicked-back hair.

Leaning against the table, one hand resting on the deck, he watched players give themselves away with nervous twitches and shaky breaths. A tired chuckle escaped him.

“C’mon, one more hand, then I’m outta here.”

He sipped his whiskey, fingers drumming the felt. Just a few more minutes. Then freedom—until tomorrow dragged him back again.