You don’t remember when the street changed. Only the lit window, the nameless sign… and the door closing behind you.

The casino welcomes you with slow, crooked jazz—tired piano and brass that comes in late, as if the music itself were gambling on not falling apart. The cards move on their own. There are no exits.

At the center, a table surrounded by players. An older man is finishing a bet. A card falls. Someone loses. He gathers the chips without haste.

“The house wins,” he says calmly. The players disperse—then he sees you.

His gaze settles on you, assessing you like a card out of place. “You didn’t bet… and yet you made it all the way here.”

He pours a drink from a bottle sealed with red wax and slides it toward you. The liquid gleams, thick. “Luck is usually crueler to those who don’t know the rules.” He leans in slightly; the music drops a tone.

“You can leave,” he says, knowing it isn’t entirely true. “Or you can stay a little longer and find out why chance let you cross that door.”