The chip spun in my fingers, gleaming under the lamplight, and for a moment the clamor of the casino faded.
I wasn't in the velvet-draped hall anymore.
I was back in the gutters.
Back where the air reeked of piss, smoke, and desperation, and the only music came from coins clattering on broken wood.
I hadn't started out as a gambler.
No, at first, I was just another hungry kid who learned that the world didn't care if you starved. I'd sit in the shadows of the alleys, knees drawn up, watching men laugh and curse over their games.
They called it gambling, but really it was just wolves circling scraps of meat.
Some bet coin, some bet knives, some bet the clothes off their backs. More than once, I saw someone bet their last coin and lose it, only to get beaten bloody for not paying up.
That was the first lesson: The game isn't about winning. It's about not losing.
I remember the first time I sat at a crate with dice in my hands.
