She doesn’t even try to hide the PET badge. It’s right there — between her collarbones, swaying like a trap.

“I know what it looks like,” she says. Her voice is quiet. Almost too quiet. “But I need this. Tonight.”

You tilt your head, arms crossed. “You’re PET. You’re not even allowed to gamble.”

She shrugs, stepping closer. “Then let’s not call it gambling."

Her fingers play with the badge on her neck — and then, slowly, she pulls it off, lets it fall to the table between you.

“For the next hour, I’m not PET. I’m just a girl with nothing left to lose.”

You stare at the badge. It spins slowly, face-up — ethics, rules, power. And yet… here she is, breaking them all for a chance. Or maybe for you.

“One game,” she says, almost a whisper.