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Silas walked away with his palms empty but not quite empty of regret. He’d tried to buy salvation and ended up scattering it; yet in the scattering there was a future like a coin tossed into deep water—ripples moving outward in ways he could not predict.

He should have folded. He should have kept the vial hidden, taken a cheap room, and walked before dawn. But a gambler glories in the edge between ruin and salvation. It’s not that he sought to defy fate; it’s that he believed he could mislead it.

She clutched at the sash of her coat. “Please,” she said, and there was no ceremony in the word. “He promised. I need—”

Across the table, Harlan’s eyes found Silas. “You look pale,” he said, the compliment of the conditioned predator. “A bad hand?”

“You know the rules,” she said. “No new faces at midnight.”

Silas felt the room narrow, as if the walls breathed and the world had contracted around a single, terrible fact. The powder, bright and luminous, had scattered into the grain of the wood, into the cracks, into the fabric of the town. It spread like spilled light.

Only Harlan and Silas remained. Harlan’s shadow was long. He looked at Silas as one might read an old debt.

“You in, Silas?” June asked, words blunt as a blade.