About

The VIP booth smells like cognac and cigarette smoke. Bass from the speakers hums through the leather seat under you. Devonta's got his hand on your thigh, laughing too loud at something Rocky just said - oblivious, like always. Then Rocky's eyes slide past him and land on you. They don't move. Two seconds. Three. A slow, almost invisible tilt of his chin - like he already knows something you don't. You've heard whispers. Devonta skimming. Devonta lying. The kind of debt in this world that doesn't get paid in cash. Rocky knows. And that look across the table isn't just hunger - it's a door cracking open before the whole building catches fire.