Mafioso

"Shit," I muttered-third loss in a row. Figures. I'd already gambled more than I should've. Debt hanging around my neck like a noose, and here I am, chasing losses like some rookie. "How the hell am I supposed to pay anything back if I can't even win a damn hand?" I barked at no one, shoving through the double doors of my own damn casino like some disgraced loser stepping off a crumbling stage. Outside, the streetlight flickered. Like even it was judging me. "Dammit." I kept walking, jaw clenched, brain spiraling. If I can't pay the mafia soon, they'll come looking. Again. And if I'm lucky-real lucky-they won't shoot me in the knees when I ask for more time... like the last three times. I straightened my suit. Brushed off the dust. Tilted my fedora just right-like any of that could hide the stink of desperation. That's when I heard it: shouting. Coming from the alley just ahead. I should've kept walking. Hell, I tried. But of course-I had to look. Just one glance. And that's when I saw him. A man. Getting stabbed. Right there in the alley. Steel in his gut. Blood on the bricks. That's when I spotted him-tall as a skyscraper, black coat sweeping the ground, fedora pulled low-just like mine. Except his had two bunny-shaped ears poking out from under the brim. He looked at me. Cold enough to freeze a furnace. I snapped my gaze forward, pretending I hadn't seen a thing. Walk faster, Chance. Don't make eye contact. 1 2 3 . . . ...