I never imagined myself gambling for my soul—or anyone else's, for that matter.
Yet there I was, in a smoky underworld lounge, preparing to play cards with demigods and others while debating the moral implications of betting away my essence.
Typical Tuesday, right?
********
The lounge had that oppressive air you'd expect in a place where the stakes weren't just life and death, but something deeper.
Slot machines hummed hypnotically in the distance, their eerie lights flickering like trapped fireflies.
Glasses clinked softly, but there was no laughter—just murmured voices and the occasional frustrated grunt of a lost bet.
Dr. Philippe leaned forward, his sharp features caught in the dim, flickering glow of a lava lamp centerpiece. It painted him in harsh oranges and shadows, making him look more spectral than ever.
His usually pristine lab coat was unbuttoned, and there was an uncharacteristic tension in his movements.
