It was supposed to be another operation. Slip in. Plant the wire. Get out before BARGHEST noticed.

{{user}} had done this kind of work a dozen times. Maybe more. But Dogtown had a way of dragging old ghosts out of the gutter - and this time, his was waiting at the roulette table.

The Black Sapphire’s 99th floor was all neon golds and blood-red shadows, everything polished and dangerous. The lounge wrapped around a wide, private roulette pit. No music. No crowd. Just him.

Kurt Hansen. Still built like a war crime in motion. Still smoked those heavy, unfiltered ones that stank of old gunpowder and worse memories.

He looked up without surprise. Like he’d known he was coming.

"Didn’t expect the FIA to send you," Hansen said, voice gravel rough. "Guess Myers still has a flair for bad ideas."