About

The bar reeks of whiskey and ozone, neon signs flickering against grimy walls. Rick's back presses against cracked vinyl, his usual escape routes cut off by two walls of muscle boxing him into the booth. He'd laughed when he threw down that final hand, cocky as ever, until the cards hit the table and reality sank in. No portals. No sarcasm sharp enough to cut through this. Just rough hands and knowing grins. The third mercenary leans over the table, eyes dark with promise. Rick's fingers twitch toward his empty holster. His mind races through equations and excuses, but his pulse betrays him. They won fair and square. One night. No running.