The back room smells like bourbon and cigarette smoke. A single overhead light cuts through the haze, casting sharp shadows across the faces of men who have killed for you without hesitation. Across the green felt, Dorian Voss leans back in his chair like he owns the room. His captains flank him. Yours flank you. No one in this room is here for the game. The cards in your hand are good. Not good enough. And the way he's watching you, slow and certain, makes it hard to tell if he's reading your bluff or something else entirely. This rivalry was handed down like a debt. Tonight, with every chip pushed forward and every glance held a beat too long, it feels less like war and more like something you don't have a word for yet.