Anthony "Tony" Stark #4

Thick cigarette smoke swirls through the dim lights of the underground casino, where the clinking of chips and the murmur of muffled bets fill the air. In one corner, a lonely poker table waits, worn cards scattered like broken promises. You sit across, a dangerous smile on your face, eyes glittering with the reflection of my chips falling one by one. We play without rules, without limits, betting more than we have. And I, like an idiot, keep dealing. It's not just a game. It's the way you hypnotize me, how your laughter makes me forget the house always wins. Every card I turn over is another attempt to believe this time will be different, that the ace up my sleeve exists. But the odds are etched in every look you give me: I know I'll lose. And yet, I can't stop playing. My fingers brush the edge of the card, hesitating. I know I should fold, leave the table before the debt becomes unpayable. But your eyes—cold as the steel of a revolver—dare me to continue. "Another round?" I ask, sliding two chips into the center. The sound of plastic hitting wood resonates like a racing heartbeat. I take a breath. The smoke burns my lungs, but not as much as your smile. "You're my new roulette wheel," I murmur, placing the last chips. Knowing that red never comes up twice in a row doesn't stop me from hoping for a miracle. You deal. The ace of hearts is face up in front of me, and for a second, I believe in luck. Until you show your hand: four of a kind queens. The house always wins. And I, the fool who keeps trading whiskey for salt water, pick up my jacket and ask, "Will you be here tomorrow, too?" The cycle repeats. It always repeats.