The air inside 'Seven, Seventeen' was thick and suffocating, a cocktail of tobacco smoke, spilled gin, sweat, and desperation. Men coughed but kept smoking, women with painted lips leaned into shadows, and the clatter of dice sounded like bones being shaken by death himself. The lamps above were dim, casting uneven orange glows on the stained card tables, while whispers and laughter rolled like tides around the room.
This was Cater's den, the temple of luck and ruin. And here, Hale came crawling again, drawn by the same disease that had devoured his dignity a hundred times before.
He stumbled in with eyes bloodshot, shirt half unbuttoned, and the sour reek of gin oozing from his pores. His hand clutched a pitiful pouch of coins—the last of Sarah's money, stolen the other day while she blamed her son Peter. He told himself he would double it, maybe triple it, and come home a hero. But already his pulse raced like prey running toward its hunter.
Marco, the broad-shouldered man with slick hair and a cigar the size of a child's fist, leaned back at one of the busiest tables. His voice carried like thunder when he saw Hale.
"Well, well, if it ain't Hale the Hopeless. Thought you'd finally had your fill of losing."
The men around the table chuckled, low and cruel. Hale forced a smile, though his jaw trembled.
"Shut your filthy mouth, Marco," Hale muttered, sliding into the empty chair. "Tonight's mine. You'll see."
The dealer glanced up, recognizing him, but said nothing. Cards flicked, coins clinked. Hale tossed down his pouch, the clatter pathetic against the fat stacks of his opponents. His stomach twisted, but his hunger for the game was louder than his fear.
The first round went fast. Hale's fingers shook as he picked up his cards, sweat dripping into his palm. He played wild, reckless, bluffing with empty hope. His heartbeat thundered as he pushed coins toward the center.
But Marco's smirk never wavered. His cigar glowed as he revealed his hand, sweeping every last coin into his pile.
Hale froze. The space in front of him was barren. His chest hollowed like a cave.
"No—no, wait....just wait." He raised his trembling hands. "Deal again. One more. I'll win it back. I just need one more hand."
Marco chuckled, smoke curling from his lips. "Listen to the rat squeal. You're finished, Hale. Crawl home."
"Please," Hale said, his voice cracking like glass. "I've got the fire tonight. Just give me another shot."
The dealer cleared his throat. "You're out of chips, Hale."
"I'll borrow!" Hale barked, desperation clawing through his voice. He turned to the attendant by the wall. "You know me. Put it on Cater's tab. I'll pay tomorrow."
The attendant shook his head. "You already owe thirty-two nights' worth. Cater said you get nothing until it's cleared."
Hale's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. His laugh came broken, false. "Thirty what nights? That's nothing. Cater knows I'm good for it. He'll back me." The attendant's tone hardened. "Cater backed you three weeks ago. You didn't pay. No more." The table erupted in chuckles. Marco slapped his thigh, grinning wide. "You hear that, boys? Even Cater's hounds don't feed Hale anymore."
Hale's ears burned as the laughter spread, bouncing off the walls. His chest tightened. He looked at Marco's fat stack of coins, at his smug smile, at the cigar glowing like an ember of hell. And something inside him snapped.
"You cheated," Hale spat, slamming his fist against the felt. The laughter cut off like a rope snapped. Marco narrowed his eyes. "What did you say?"
"You heard me, you crooked bastard!" Hale's voice rose, shaky but furious. He jabbed a trembling finger at Marco, then at the dealer. "You rigged the deck. The two of you are in on it. You stole my winnings!" The dealer's face paled. "That's a lie, Hale. Don't bring trouble."
"Liar!" Hale roared, shoving his chair back so hard it screeched against the floor. Glasses toppled, coins scattered. His voice cracked with fury. "All of you—thieves! Parasites! You've been robbing me blind for months!"
Murmurs swept the den. Gamblers leaned closer. A woman in red whispered, "Poor bastard's lost his mind." Another man muttered, "He's asking to be buried."
Marco leaned forward, his cigar glowing inches from his lips. His grin was gone, replaced with steel. "Careful with that tongue, Hale. You accuse me again, you won't walk out of here."
"I'll do more than accuse!" Hale's face twisted, spittle flying as he shouted. "You think you're untouchable because you sit here fat with Cater's blessing? You're nothing but a cheating dog!" The dealer raised his hand. "Security!"
From the shadows, two giants moved. Cater's muscle—broad shoulders, thick necks, faces cold as carved stone. Their boots thundered as they approached.
Hale saw them coming and tried to puff himself up, chest out, jaw clenched. But the tremor in his knees betrayed him.
"You can't touch me," he barked, though his voice cracked. "I'm a customer. You hear me? You touch me and Cater will..."
A hand like iron clamped his collar, yanking him up so hard his feet left the ground. Hale gasped, flailing, his legs kicking. The second guard slammed a fist into his gut.
"Ugh—!" Hale's breath shot out, his face folding in agony. He wheezed, eyes bulging, hands clawing for air. "Put me down! Put me down!" he cried, voice shrill. "He cheated! He cheated me!"
The guards ignored him. One twisted his arm behind his back until it cracked. Hale screamed, his voice tearing through the smoky air.
"Jesus, listen to him squeal," Marco sneered, puffing his cigar.
"Please! Please....don't!" Hale wailed, blood dribbling from his lip. "I didn't do nothing wrong! I swear! He cheated, I saw it!"
The guard growled in his ear, hot breath reeking of whiskey. "You're done here, Hale. Cater don't want rats whining in his house."
They dragged him through the crowd, boots dragging against the floorboards. Faces stared, some smirking, some whispering. Hale thrashed like a fish on a hook, curses tumbling from his mouth.
"Let me go! I'll pay tomorrow! I'll pay, I swear! Marco's a cheat! You'll regret this...you'll all regret this!"
A gambler tossed his drink in Hale's face. Another laughed, "Pathetic bastard can't even lose with grace." The guards slammed him into the wall by the door, rattling the frame. Then, without pause, they hurled him outside.
He crashed into the dirt street, the ground knocking the breath from his lungs. His elbow scraped raw, blood smearing across stone. Before he could rise, a heavy boot drove into his ribs. Pain exploded through his side. He curled up, choking, coughing blood.
"Stay down," one guard snarled. Another kick landed on his back, then across his legs. Hale screamed, his voice raw, his body folding like paper.
"You're lucky Cater said no broken bones tonight," the first guard spat. "Pay your debts, Hale. Or next time, we'll leave you crippled."
The door slammed behind them, cutting off the den's laughter and light. Silence bled into the street, broken only by Hale's ragged wheezing. He lay sprawled in the dirt, shirt torn, lip bleeding, one eye swelling shut. The stars above blurred through his tears. His body shook with pain, but his humiliation burned hotter.
"They'll see," he whispered hoarsely, to no one but himself. "They'll all see. I'm not finished. I'm not…" But even as the words left his mouth, he knew he was lying.
The dirt clung to Hale's cheek as he lay in the street, the echo of laughter still buzzing in his skull. His ribs throbbed with every breath, his lip split and bleeding, his pride shredded to rags. For a long moment, he didn't move. He stared at the gutter water trickling by, carrying scraps of tobacco and broken glass, as if it were mocking him for being no better than refuse.
When at last he stirred, it was not with strength but with desperation. He rolled onto his side, clutching his stomach, groaning like a wounded animal. His knees scraped against the stones as he pushed himself upright. His body swayed, every muscle aching, but he forced himself to stand.
The den's door loomed behind him, heavy and unyielding, the guards still shadows at the threshold. Hale spat blood toward it.
"Cheaters," he hissed, though the word broke into a cough. "Crooked bastards. All of them."
The street was near empty at that hour, only a stray drunk mumbling to himself and a thin dog nosing at scraps. Yet Hale still pulled his torn shirt closed, ashamed to be seen in his ruin. He staggered forward, each step a fresh insult from his bruised ribs.
His thoughts burned hotter than his wounds. Sarah's face flickered in his mind—the way she had cursed him to stay away, the way her voice broke when she told him they had nothing left and he was a soar loser. He imagined her waiting now, alone in the cold, praying he would return with bread or hope. And here he was, returning with nothing but blood and shame.
Hale clenched his fists. "It wasn't my fault," he muttered, staggering toward the alleys. "They set me up. Marco, the dealer...they rigged it. Anybody could see it. If I'd had one more hand...just one—I'd have turned it around."
But as he spoke, the words rang hollow. Even his own ears didn't believe them. The drunk on the corner chuckled, as if he had overheard Hale's muttering. "Ain't luck that hates you, friend," the man slurred. "It's yourself." Hale snapped his head toward him, eyes wild. "Shut your mouth!" The drunk laughed, raising his bottle in mock salute. "You'll drown faster than me."
Hale cursed and stumbled away, but the words dug under his skin. He walked the length of the alley, shadows stretching long, the air damp with rot. His head spun with fury, humiliation, and the gnawing itch of unfinished play. His hands wouldn't stop twitching, as if they still sought the feel of cards, the rattle of dice.
By the time he reached the edge of town, the night was colder, quieter. He collapsed on a bench near the lantern post, his breath fogging in the air. For the first time that night, the rage drained, leaving only despair.
"What have I done?" he whispered. His voice cracked. His hands covered his face, sticky with dried blood. "Sarah… God forgive me…" He wanted to go home, but remembered how toxic it would be, He wanted to weep like a child. But he also feared her eyes... those eyes that once saw him as a man worth loving, worth trusting. Now see's nothing but a loser and addict—Same eyes now see's a liar. A thief. A big-time miserable gambler. A fool who traded his family for cards and coin.
And still, even in that pit of self-loathing, another voice whispered inside him, sly and insistent—Tomorrow. Go back tomorrow. You'll win it back. You have to. Hale pressed his palms to his temples, shaking his head. "No. No more." Yet the whisper lingered.
As dawn crept across the horizon, painting the clouds with pale fire, Hale sat slumped on the bench like a ghost of himself caught between the woman waiting at home and his kids, and the gambling den that had just spit him out. And deep in his chest, though he prayed to kill it, the hunger still lived.