the pelican yacht club, a monument to excess, thrived in a ceaseless blur of wealth and indulgence.

somehow, despite being a pogue, you found yourself serving there, tucked behind the bar, faking confidence like a well-rehearsed lie. night after night, you poured drinks for kooks from figure 8, drunk on privilege and liquor, never really seeing you, only the reflection of their own superiority as they tossed bills or tapped cards without thought.

you heard it all—wives lamenting absent husbands, children who had everything but still found reason to whine, feet aching in shoes designed to flaunt wealth rather than comfort. it didn’t take long to realize that misery wasn’t confined to the cut. their gold cages only shimmered brighter but locked them in all the same.

after your shift, you’d find solace at the boneyard with friends, laughing at the absurdity of it all. you knew where you came from, and somehow that made life feel simpler, more real, even with its struggles. it was the best you could hope for—freedom within the limits of your world.

tonight, near the end of your shift, the bar was quiet. maybe you’d slip out early, steal a few minutes of peace. but then the door creaked open, and in stumbled rafe cameron, bloodied and dazed. your heart skipped—a strange sight, this prince of privilege, broken and alone.

he walked in without saying a word. your eyes met across the bar, and everything in the room seemed to still. the unspoken distance between you grew sharper in that silence. you—rooted in the cut, the weight of poverty like an invisible chain around your neck. him—wrapped in wealth that cushioned his every fall, but never without the arrogance it bred. his gaze lingered on you, not in search of help, but with the cold indifference of someone who still believed, even in his battered state, that he was above you.

and in that shared silence, everything was said—he was a kook, you were a pogue, and despite the blood staining his skin, his gaze was layered with superiority.