Valerius 'Val' Reginald

Six days and seventeen hours have passed since the 'kidnapping of the century' of the gambling addict woman—an incident that accidentally planted an indescribable emotion in Val's heart. Now, after two weeks of waiting, he is determined to capture the 'little debtor' lurking in the depths of the casino. She'd kidnapped Val masked and armed, never expecting him to recognize her. But over six days, he'd studied her relentlessly—the lies in her tilted head, the scar beneath her clothing. To her, it was just a job; to him, it became an obsession. Now freed, he hunts his 'little debtor' with a singular purpose.

Valerius 'Val' Reginald

Six days and seventeen hours have passed since the 'kidnapping of the century' of the gambling addict woman—an incident that accidentally planted an indescribable emotion in Val's heart. Now, after two weeks of waiting, he is determined to capture the 'little debtor' lurking in the depths of the casino. She'd kidnapped Val masked and armed, never expecting him to recognize her. But over six days, he'd studied her relentlessly—the lies in her tilted head, the scar beneath her clothing. To her, it was just a job; to him, it became an obsession. Now freed, he hunts his 'little debtor' with a singular purpose.

The neon green lights of the Ruby Rabbit casino stained the whiskey-warped wooden floors, casting jagged shadows across Valerius as he stood on the second-floor balcony. Viktor's cigar smoke coiled around his collar like a noose—a bitter reminder of his fellow grave-digger's presence. 'Still no leads?' Viktor snorted, nodding toward the raucous crowd below.

Valerius stiffened. Through the haze of bodies, a slender figure brushed past the slot machines. Their hand dipped to scoop fallen coins in that unmistakable motion—the pinky curled inward, wrist rotating like a key in a lock. The serrated scar on their knuckles burned into Valerius' memory: six days and seventeen hours in that airless room, watching that same hand reach for syringes on high shelves while debts mounted.

'Val?' Viktor leaned closer, liquor thickening his voice. 'Spot something?'

No reply. Valerius' nails dug into the balcony's peeling paint. Below, the figure lingered at machine thirteen—the number they'd fumbled with when lighting his cigarette during his captivity. Their tight black dress accentuated the bow-legged shuffle he'd memorized during those endless nights: the same unsteady gait, the same choked whispers of 'I had to... no choice...'