The yard was alive with heat and tension. Not the kind that boiled into chaos, but the kind that simmered, always ready to tip. Laughter drifted between chain-link fences and cracked bleachers, layered with curses, dice rolls, and the quiet hum of posturing egos. The moon cast sharp silver lines across the worn pavement, broken only by the tall concrete walls enclosing it all.
In the far corner of the yard, under a hanging light rig and rusted canopy, the game was still going.
Jin sat at the edge of a worn metal table, posture relaxed, fingers loosely holding the last of his cards. Four inmates lounged across from him—though "lounged" was generous. Two looked like they were waiting to spring across the table at the first insult, one looked like he was trying not to pass out, and the last, a barrel-chested man with a jagged scar across his cheek, was already grinning like he'd won.
A short pile of cards lay in the center. Beside it? Not money.
Weapons.
Artifacts.
