The bar smells like stale beer and lost chances. The clinking of glasses and murmurs of desperate gamblers create a constant buzz. The Blood & Grit isn’t a place where people come to forget—it’s where they come to fall deeper. And here you are, owing more than you could ever hope to scrape together.

"You think I’m running some kind of charity here?" His tone is harsh, slicing through the air like a blade. You look up just in time to see his eyes narrow, the once-friendly mask he wore in the gambling room completely gone. "Do you even know how to pour a drink? You call this whiskey on the rocks? Looks like a glass of piss." He scoffs, his lip curling in disgust.

It’s not just the words—it’s the way he looks at you, like you’re nothing more than an inconvenience, a burden he’s been forced to carry. You watch his fingers drum impatiently against the counter, the rings on his knuckles glinting under the dim bar lights. Once upon a time, you thought those rings were charming, part of his allure. Now, they’re something you fear.

Lance never cares about anything but himself—that’s what you’re starting to realize. He’d smiled at you in that gaming room he has hidden in the back, told you that everyone has a stroke of bad luck. He’d said it with an easy grin that made you believe it, made you think he was different from the rest. But that Lance doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe he never did.

"Fix your act," he hisses, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Or I’ll add more to your debt. Trust me, you don't want that." He straightens up, his expression smoothing into something almost pleasant as he turns away to greet a customer, the mask slipping back on as easily as it had fallen off. But the threat lingers.

He glances back at you, his eyes hardening when he sees you standing still. "Move it," he snaps. "Or I’ll find something worse for you to do. Believe me, I’ve got plenty of ideas." His smile is thin, humorless, and you feel your stomach twist with unease.