I had a bit of a bad history with casinos.

Nothing spectacularly stupid - we're not talking Ocean's Eleven here, or anything - but I tend to avoid them whenever possible. Places like that? They're all noise, shadows, and false promises, wrapped up in velvet and softcore jazz.

Plus, I'd had a job in one in London which had left a bad taste.

A private client had suspected that one of the high rollers in their upscale club was counting cards at the blackjack table. However, they didn't want to scare off the other whales by making a scene, hence the phone call to Griff. My job was nothing dramatic. I was to observe, confirm the cheating, and give the signal. I wasn't supposed to get involved in the extraction. I just needed to give a little nod.

Griff picked me because I was pretty good at cheating myself. So much so that no one else in the outfit would deal me in anymore. You see, counting itself isn't flashy. If you're any good at it, you're not mouthing numbers or flipping chips in patterns like in films. It's more about rhythm. Pace. When you spot a player not matching the vibe of the table - betting big when everyone else is cautious or hanging back when the deck's gone cold – that's when you should take notice. Double-downs at odd times. Walk-aways followed by sudden returns.

Oh, and the eyes. Always the eyes. Good counters don't look at the discard tray or the pit boss, they're watching the other players and they're tracking probabilities.

Griff hadn't told me who I was supposed to be watching. Don't want to put ideas in your head. But almost immediately after I'd sat down, the young guy to my far right was giving off all the right – or wrong, I suppose – signals. He was late twenties, maybe. And pretty quiet. He played polite, bought drinks for the dealer and almost went out of his way not to draw attention.

But the math was forever in his favour. I tagged him after three shoes and stepped outside for a smoke I didn't want. I hadn't really wanted to know what would happen next.

Which made it really suck when I ended up seeing it in 3D.

The guy had apparently been calm when security took him aside. Probably, from his point of view, too calm, in hindsight. He'd figured they'd just eject him through a side door, maybe give him a warning and ban him from returning.

But as I was circling around the back of the building, trying to find a better signal for my comms, I heard something off. A low grunt, a scuffle, and then the unmistakable thud of flesh meeting brick.

Curiosity's a bad byproduct of being in my line of work, so I ended up following the noise, turned the corner into the alley behind the club, and there they were.

Two bouncers had the kid pinned between a pair of dumpsters. One had him by the collar, and the other was driving punches into his face. There were no raised voices. No real conversation at all. Just a silent beating that really didn't make me feel all that good about myself.

Of course, I didn't step in. I just stood there, watching from behind the bins, heart doing things it really shouldn't. I wasn't meant to see this part. That had been Griff's line when I'd taken the job: observe, report, leave the rest to the client.

Later, I mentioned what I'd seen. Quietly. Like I might've imagined it.

"All part of the game," he'd said.

So yeah. Casinos? I stay out of them when I can. However, when your mate's father has literally climbed down off the cross and run straight inside, well, the day can take a turn.

As soon as Lia and I walked in, it was clear this wasn't anything like the high-end den of sin of my memory. It was much more of a low-end, dirt-cheap, rent-by-the-hour kind of place. The only real sound was the clatter of dice, the clinking of mugs, and the strained laughter of people who had nothing left to lose. I mean, I was sure I'd been in worse places, but you'd have to give me a minute to think of when.

I was still getting the lay of the land whilst Lia scanned the space, her glare causing any number of patrons to veer off out of her line of sight. The moment she spotted her father, already slumped at the bar with a half-empty mug of something noxious in front of him, she made a beeline for the bartender.

I trailed after her, but kept a good few paces back. My mini-map didn't flag anyone in here as hostile, at least not yet, but if Lia decided to throw hands, I'd rather not be in immediate aura radius when Aggro Magnetism decided to interpret that as an all-you-can-taunt buffet. If this kicked off, I'd be triggering threat markers like a disco ball and the last thing I figured this family reunion needed was for the System to misread my tank aura as a group activity starter pack.

Without a by or leave, Lia leaned across the bar and took hold of the tunic of the barman, lifting him several feet off the ground. "Listen very carefully. I'm not going to say this again. Anyone in here even thinks about giving him credit, and you'll wish you were never born. Anyone. Your place. Your rules. And it's you I'll come looking for. Do we have an understanding?"

The bartender, an older guy with greasy hair, swallowed hard and nodded quickly. "No credit. You got it, Lia. I'll let everyone know."

Her eyes flicked toward Jorgen, who hadn't even bothered to acknowledge her presence, even though she was only a couple of feet away. I could see the range of emotions spiralling behind her expression, but instead of letting them go in a short, explosive demonstration of hurt, she abruptly turned on her heel and stalked toward the door.

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"Don't anyone let him dig himself any deeper or the Maker himself won't be able to put you back together again," she shouted back to the barman, not bothering to look back. Her voice was tight with controlled fury, but there was something else beneath it. Something profoundly sad.

I watched her go, all of the tension completely leaving the room with her. It was like everyone could suddenly breathe a little easier now that she was no longer standing there, radiating barely suppressed violence. So much so, in fact, I wondered how often that little scene had played out over the years.

For a moment, I was tempted to follow her, but then I looked over at her father, and something stopped me.

Jorgen was a wreck. He was dishevelled, bloodied, and nursing what had to be the cheapest whisky in the whole of this realm. He didn't appear to have said much to anyone since being pulled off that cross. Can't really blame him, I guess. Getting crucified isn't exactly a minor inconvenience. Particularly when it seemed to have been a spectator sport for everyone in Sablewyn. It probably hadn't done much for his sense of community cohesion.

I really had no business getting myself involved here, but - then again – this felt like the sort of situation Aunt M would absolutely have stuck her nose into. If I wanted to Warden it up around here, there were worse examples to follow. So, I made my way over to the bar and perched on the stool next to Jorgen, gesturing for a drink of my own.

The bartender looked at me warily, but as he was still recovering from his near-death experience with Lia, he decided not to make too much of it and poured me something vaguely alcoholic.

"Providing you understand that anything she'll do to you, I will do a million times worse, I'll cover his tab," I said, tossing the last of my gold coins onto the bar. The bartender snatched them up like a starving man grabbing at the last loaf of bread. I still hadn't got a handle on the exchange mechanism here: it might well be I'd just bought the whole place.

Mind you, if Jorgen was grateful, he didn't seem that keen to show it. His focus remained on his mug, his fingers tracing the rim like it held all the answers to his problems. Mind you, considering what he had just been through, he might well have been right.

"Bit of a rough night, huh?" I said, plumbing the depths of my renowned conversational ability for an opening gambit. -3 Charisma was not playing around. Jorgen snorted but didn't respond, which was probably fair enough.

The silence stretched on between us. To be honest, it was made all the worse by the generally cheerful atmosphere of the casino since Lia had left. And the plinky-plonky piano music was certainly a less-than-foreboding backdrop to what felt like it was going to be an important chat.

I took a sip of whatever the bartender had given me. It burned going down, but didn't seem immediately poisonous, so I figured it was safe enough. Certainly for a third or fourth sip. Beside me, Jorgen continued his silent communion with his mug, his eyes distant.

"You know," I said after a while, "I get it. I mean, I'm not saying I've been crucified, though I've actually had a few close calls. But, uh… I know what it's like to feel like you're out of options. Like there's nowhere left to go."

Jorgen didn't respond, but his fingers tightened around the mug, just for a second. After sitting in a brooding silence for so long, that was him being positively chatty. That felt like progress, right? I really wasn't good at this. I mean, if I had to describe my skillset in my last life, "drunken father-terrifying daughter mediator" wouldn't be anywhere near the top of the list. But there was something about the guy - maybe it was the fact that he'd just been horribly tortured and wasn't whining about it - that made me feel bad for him. Or maybe it was the look in Lia's eyes when she'd left? Either way, that made me want to at least try and get a bond going.

I drummed my fingers on the bar, trying to think of how to keep the conversation going without sounding like an idiot. "You, uh… you ever wondered how you ended up here?" I said, trying to meet his eyes in the reflection of the mirror on the other side of the bar. "Like, this place - this exact moment in time - how it all came together?"

Jorgen gave a low grunt, finally lifting his head just enough to look at mirror me. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face was gaunt, the kind of gaunt that came from years of hard drinking and not enough sleep.

And being crucified.

Definitely being crucified.

I thought that the man had probably once been handsome, with more than a little of his daughter showing, but he had a rough-around-the-edges look that came with a lifetime of bad decisions and even worse luck.

For a second, I thought he might actually say something. His lips parted like he was about to speak, but then he just shook his head and downed the rest of his drink in one go. Okay. So much for that. I leaned back in my chair, staring up at the stained ceiling.

My thoughts slipped, uninvited, to my own father. Not that there was much there to linger on.

He'd never exactly been a constant presence. More of a disapproving guest star in a drama he didn't like and never wanted to admit he was part of. We hadn't talked in years, not really. Not unless it was to correct, condemn, or quote scripture at me. He wasn't the kind of man who'd sit down over a drink and talk about life. When I moved to London and fully embraced the life that Griff was offering, he didn't even acknowledge it.

Holy, well-mannered, unforgiving silence.

Clearly, Jorgen and Lia were clearly a whole different level of mess - I'd never had to accept a contract to murder an alchemist to get my own father out of trouble - but I could see the echoes of my own past in the way they avoided each other's gaze. The unspoken awkwardness. The wounds that hadn't healed but were too old to bleed anymore.

"Look, mate," I said, smashing into the silence again like an unstoppable moron, "I don't know what's going on between you and Lia, but . . . she's out there, you know? She's trying. And, uh, you don't have to be a saint or anything, but maybe… maybe just try to meet her halfway?"

Jorgen finally turned to look at me properly. For a moment, I thought he was going to tell me to take a long walk off a short pier. Instead, he let out a long, tired sigh. "You don't understand. You don't understand a damn thing."

He pushed his stool back and stood up, swaying slightly on his feet. Without another word, he stumbled across the room toward the gambling tables.

I watched him go, a sinking feeling in my gut. I'd thought maybe, just maybe, I could get through to him, but it seemed like Jorgen was beyond help. Or at least, beyond any help I was capable of giving.

Still, I wasn't going to leave him hanging. I tossed a handful of silver onto the bar, probably enough to cover a few more rounds. Or buy the rest of the town. One of the two. "Keep him in whatever he needs," I said to the bartender, "but remember what Lia said. No credit."

The bartender nodded quickly, his eyes flicking nervously towards Jorgen.

As I stood up, I glanced back at the door, wondering where Lia had gone. I didn't like the idea of leaving her alone out there. She might be tough as nails, but everyone had their limits. And judging by the look on her face when she saw her father hanging on that cross, I wasn't sure how much further she could go before she hit hers.

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