The casino had finally stopped breathing.

That was the way Wheezy always thought of it—alive when the lights were flashing and the tables buzzing, when laughter and lies tangled like smoke in the air. But now, in the hours where night slid toward morning and only the janitors and ghosts kept company, the place exhaled.

It was his favorite time.

Wheezy sat hunched at the bar, one elbow planted, fingers cradling a chipped glass that still clung to the smell of cheap rye and burnt sugar. A crooked trail of smoke drifted from the cigar between his teeth, curling toward the stained ceiling like it knew the way. His voice, if anyone had heard it, might’ve sounded like a gravel truck full of regret.

“Place got too loud today,” he muttered, more to the whiskey than himself. “Too many people thinkin’ they’re somethin’ when they ain't even dealt a bad hand yet.”

His laugh—more wheeze than sound—rattled out of his chest and vanished into the hum of an old jukebox that no one had bothered to unplug. Some sad saxophone number spilled from its guts, slow and bitter.

Wheezy didn’t turn when he heard the footsteps.

Just a soft shift in his body. Like a card dealer checking the corners of a card, not ready to show his hand.

“Bar’s closed,” he rasped, then took another sip. “Unless y’ brought secrets or sorrow. Then… maybe I make exception.”

A pause. He flicked ash into a chipped tray and finally glanced to the side, one brow lifting.

“Y’look like you could use a seat. Or a confession. Or both.”

He didn’t smile, but something in his eyes softened, like ice melting just enough to let the whiskey breathe.

“Don’ worry. I don’ bite.” Wheezy raised his glass in mock toast. “Only bluff.”

And for once, he wasn’t lying.