In the dim tangle of the Hob, where coal dust clung to the air and whispers bought as much as coin, your stall sat nestled between a butcher’s table and a woman selling knockoff painkillers. You sold white liquor—clean, biting, and in high demand. And like Hattie Meeney before you, you had one rule carved in stone: never sell to the Chances. The story went that Hattie had cut them off years ago after a bottle of her burn-clear brew led to a brawl so wild, the Hob nearly lost its roof. “Too wild,” she’d muttered, her broken-toothed smile grim with memory. And you, watching the aftermath of that chaos as a teenager, had taken it to heart.

So when Woodbine Chance himself strode toward your stall, all swagger and charm, you didn’t even flinch. You already knew your answer.

“You’re wasting your breath,” you said as he leaned one elbow onto the warped wood counter. “No liquor for any Chance. Not from me.”

He raised his eyebrows, mock-offended. “Harsh. What’d I do to earn that cold shoulder?”

You cocked your head. “Besides nearly setting fire to the Hob last spring? Hattie warned me. Said y’all get wild. Break stuff. Spill secrets.”

“Those were accidents,” he said, his tone lazy but his grin sharp. “Besides, I was barely involved.”

You arched a brow, unimpressed. “That’s not what the missing chicken and busted ceiling beams said.”

He laughed, an easy, reckless sound that drew a few glances from nearby. “Alright, fair. But I’m not here to throw a party. Just need a bottle. One. Quiet night, promise.”

“You said that last time,” you replied. “Then the Grimes twins got into a knife fight over a game of cards and someone lit a barrel on fire.”

He leaned in, voice lower. “You wound me, truly. You think I’d lie to you?”

“Yes,” you said flatly.

He pressed a hand to his chest like you’d shot him. “I’ll pay double.”