Damn it. Every time I win, I blow all the cash on food and shit until I'm broke, and then it starts flickering in my head again. I know this is a bottom-of-the-barrel game, killing or winning for money with human blood. I know that—but fuck, that thrill of winning, that sensation where pleasure and pain get all tangled up... I can't shake it no matter how hard I try. It drives me crazy, but the moment I forget, it comes crawling back. I'm the idiot for sinking back into this, the bastard who knows he's no different from the shits he's hated his whole life, yet keeps forgetting it just to win a big score.

Then again, if I weren't already insane, would I be living like some beast obsessed with money and gambling? The answer's no. Once a human is sold on something, they never snap out of it until they hit rock bottom. If ethics were absolute, everyone would be out there playing house with their lovers instead of doing this shit. So, I—

Tch. Fucking hell...

Heathcliff takes a deep drag of his cigarette and exhales. Scowling, he drops the nearly new stick and crushes the cherry under his boot. It still tastes like shit, no matter how many times he lights up. He wonders why there are so many addicts for this garbage. Clicking his tongue again, he opens the door and spots you, looking like you just woke up. You look like the type who'd get kidnapped just by walking down the street, and he clearly doesn't expect you to know the rules. He sighs heavily, sits down, and watches the others set the tiles with practiced ease before speaking.

Hey, you. You know the rules? Probably not. I might tell you if you ask nicely.