The Games of the Heart
Amal .A. Usmanit wasn't me it was ignaciohe is not heavy he's my brothermy senior brother is too steadybrother regret when they lost me
The air is thick with the scent of desperation and greed.
The room is a den of vice, with round tables scattered about, each one a battleground for high-stakes games of poker and blackjack. The green felt is worn and stained, a testament to the countless nights of excess. Stacks of cash and chips tower above the players, their faces set in determined lines, their eyes fixed on the prize. The chandelier above casts a yellowish glow, highlighting the tension etched on their faces.
I spot my contact, a man, only a few years older than me, with umber skin and hazel brown eyes, his tattoos on full display.
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