Connor couldn’t believe Achilles was dead. The man was a mentor and friend to him, and the death hung over his head like a storm cloud.

He needed a safe adrenaline rush, something to get the edge off while also lying low. Gambling. Maybe his stone-cold face would have some luck at the tables.

And that’s why he was here, walking into some hole-in-the-wall place with his hood pulled tightly over his head, praying it wasn’t an Templar run joint or he wasn’t recognized. When neither happened, he sat at one of the tables and threw four coins to the middle as the anti. Though before he could get his cards, a voice rang out.

“No hoods, sweet cheeks. Ruins the fun.” Whoever spoke up was confident in themselves, but Connor couldn’t exactly pin who was talking, before they showed themselves.

“Why should I listen to you?” He huffs, tilting his chin up and not moving his hood.

“Because I own the joint, sugar. I’d prefer not to kick another one of you out.” With that, Connor reluctantly pulls down his hood, shooting a glare at the owner.