A Fragile Heart (Tales of Tavamara #7)

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First Edition Month 2024

Printed in the United States of America

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Fragile Heart

TALES OF TAVAMARA 6

MEGAN DERR

Bakhtiar was absolutely certain everyone in his life hated him. Or at least strongly disliked him.

He was loud, he was restless, he was forgetful, he was brash, he was reckless. He didn't have the calm grace of his father, the regal demeanor of his mother, the commanding presence of his sister, or his brother's effortless, quiet charm.

He was the oldest, still unmarried, and had only two concubines. Some days he wondered if they regretted becoming his concubines.

"I swear to you the papers were there," Bakhtiar said, even though he could see by his mother's face that she didn't believe him and wouldn't no matter what he said.

"I finished them last night; I left them at the corner of the table for Kashi to take to you this morning. Signed and everything."

"Well Kashi says only the roughs were still on the table, with no final papers around, so you must have worked on something else."

Bakhtiar wanted to scream.

He wasn't stupid.

He knew which contracts he'd worked through.

He'd forgone sleep, like he often did, to work on them alone in his office while everyone else rested.

Sometimes working alone in the dead of the night was the only time he ever felt like himself, with no pressure to be all the things everyone else wanted.

He hadn't even bothered a servant for tea or anything, just drank water while he'd worked.

He'd gone to bed not long before the sun came up, and had been woken up just three hours later with no one the wiser about how little sleep he'd gotten.

Now here he was being accused of doing everything wrong, or flat out not doing it.

"I know which papers I signed, Mother, I'm not an idiot. I read through them, I wrote the final versions out myself, I signed them. I don't know why Kashi says they weren't there, because they definitely were."

"Well, do them again, because I need them before lunch," Fahima replied.

"Make certain this time, please."

"Yes, Mother," Bakhtiar said quietly, defeated.

When she'd gone, he trudged back to the table, where the rough drafts still sat where he'd left them on his blotter. The final versions were gone as though never there at all. It wasn't fair, he'd done the work.

"They were here."

"I believe you," Farrokh said soothingly.

"The mystery will resolve. Let me write out the new final, and then all you have to do is sign, in the meantime you can read over your notes for this afternoon."

Right.

The meeting he was dreading, because this was the sixth time that his speech, his bid for support, had been rescheduled.

Nine months he'd been trying to do this, finally, actively get council support, after spending months, years, trying first to handle the matter on his own, and then formally gather information, build reports, gather local support in the city and across the kingdom, really build his case.

This had become his cause… and now this was his sixth attempt to be heard, and all he felt was dread.

Not least of all because the council was very, very fond of reminding everyone they crossed paths with that Bakhtiar was nothing like his parents where it mattered.

He was pretty, and he'd been born first, and that was all he really had to his favor.

So he sat and read, even though he hated to read silently.

He liked working alone at night because he could read everything aloud, get it into his head a little better.

It worked best when someone else read aloud to him, but who needed things read aloud to them? Children.

Bakhtiar already got told a hundred times a week that he acted too much like a child.

He didn't need to reinforce the idea.

Since he couldn't do what worked best, he went with second best, which was to fidget while he read.

Months ago, while hiding down in the pipe rooms to give himself a moment to breathe when everything got to be too much, he'd found an old…gear or sprocket or whatever it was, he didn't know.

Small, round, a small hole in the middle, then a ring of really tiny holes, and the edge was indented evenly all around.

He liked to turn and twist it, run his thumb along the edges, over the holes.

When his left hand was busy, it was easier to focus on the words, actually absorb them.

A perfect world was something to fidget with while someone read to him.

He'd tried asking Farrokh once to read to him, and Farrokh had made a comment about becoming indolent.

He'd been teasing of course, but the words had stung all the same.

He'd never asked again.

Thankfully, there wasn't much to read, and he knew it all, mostly just needed to review to get his thoughts in order, rehearse everything he was going to say so it would be extra humiliating when he screwed up anyway.

Still, this was important to him, so if more humiliation was the price he had to pay, so be it. Just so long as he got through to enough of the council.

"Contracts are ready, my prince."

"Thank you." He signed the papers and sent them off with Farrokh.

What had happened to the first set? He'd probably never know, and his mother would always believe he'd just screwed everything up again.

She would never, ever look at him with that soft look of approval and affection she gave Aradishir a hundred times a day, or give that smile of camaraderie and pride she gave Jahanara.

No, for him it was just frustration and disappointment all day, every day.

As they left, he paused to turn to the guard stationed at his door. Technically there were three, one on either side and one directly across, but Reza was the primary guard.

"Reza, guard my papers faithfully. I entrust to your dutiful care the secret of how terrible my handwriting is."

"Yes, Your Highness." Reza's pale gray eyes crinkled, the only tell of his amusement, the rest of his handsome, sharply defined face giving nothing away. Bakhtiar counted it a victory, though why it always pleased him so much to amuse Reza, he couldn't say.

"I don't know when I'll be back, but let no one in today, not even to fetch papers or whatnot."

"As you wish."

"Thank you."

"On to breakfast, then, my prince?" Farrokh asked.

Bakhtiar smiled because that's what he was expected to do, even though like so much else that was part of his days, all this breakfast did was fill him with dread.

"Of course. Have a good day, Reza," he added, and bid farewell to the other guards as well.

It was what was called a casual breakfast, later in the morning and extending nearly to lunchtime, with everyone invited scattered about the room in smaller groups to talk, read, play games as they liked.

He dreaded them because most people played taaki or chess, and he found those hopelessly boring.

He was confounded as to how other people didn't find them boring.

Someone usually read poetry or a novel aloud, but it was to their small group that he was never lucky enough to be close to, and even if he was close enough they'd just wind up talking to him and mostly ignoring the reading.

The breakfasts were meant to be casual, fun, a way to simply be but as crown prince he wasn't actually allowed to do that so he even though he would have adored listening to someone read a chapter or two from a new novel or the latest popular book of poetry, or simply enjoy music while he fidgeted with his gear or a string of beads or whatever.

Instead he just sat and let people talk at him, replying as necessary.

That's what he wanted most, that's what he'd like.

Where one or two people could read the book, and everyone could discuss.

Nobody invited Bakhtiar to things like that, though, and he didn't know who he could ask if he arranged one.

There wasn't anyone who'd tell him no, of course, but that was different from people who genuinely wanted to spend time with him listening to books being read.

And the number of people who wanted to do that was zero.

Ignoring his aching leg, never the same since he broke it and then rushed home on it far too soon, he headed for the garden, nodding and smiling and pausing to exchange a few words with people as he went, because he genuinely enjoyed talking to people for the most part.

He liked people, liked talking and helping and making a difference.

It was just he always seemed to say or do the wrong thing, no matter how hard he tried.

At the threshold, he paused to speak with the pair of servants standing ready to be called upon.

"Did you find the source of the fire, Tala?"

She smiled.

"Yes, Your Highness. Some twit decided to sneak a smoke break, and when they tossed the remains, embers caught a bag of flour. Thankfully, not much was lost and nobody was hurt, but Cook is definitely watching us today."

Bakhtiar chuckled.

"Good luck. What's for breakfast?"

The other servant, Wafia, gestured excitedly.

"Pink melon, both salt and sugar options. Hard eggs. Your favorite cheese bread of course, Your Highness, with herb butter and apple compote. Three types of sausages. Porridge, of course, though between you and me Nea made it today. A fruit bowl, sweet punch, chilled tea, hot tea, and the usual variety of wines."

"Thank you, it all sounds marvelous," Bakhtiar said.

"I hope your day is largely free of crisis."

"And yours, Your Highness."

Leaving them to to their duties, he finally headed into the garden.

This breakfast was in the rainbow garden, not his favorite but definitely a palace favorite, which was all that mattered.

Everyone found his favorite boring, anyway.

There was a long table off to one side where food and drink were arranged, to be taken at leisure.

Scattered around the garden were cushions and small tables, ideal for two to four persons at a time.

Rugs had been laid over a special wooden board, for the musician already strumming soft music.

Across five of the twelve tables were three taaki boards and two chessboards.

Taaki was a Tavamaran game, old as the sands themselves.

Chess was an imported game that had grown in popularity over the last decade or so.

He'd just sat down, sipping at tea after a brief, soft stolen kiss from Farrokh, when everyone else began to trickle in.

A servant brought him food, placing it on the small table to his right.

Farrokh, sitting just in front of him and the table, served quietly while they watched the other guests.

Eventually, as the eating and drinking faded, he would join more actively.

For now, he enjoyed this time where he could mostly focus on Farrokh, this beautiful man ten years his senior who had chosen him despite so many better offers out there.

He'd had endless tutors for years, and Farrokh had been one of the last, tutoring him on all sorts of foreign etiquette.

A king should be able to make all people, no matter where they were or their station in life, feel comfortable.

Foreigners could be especially tricky, all the more when their customs clashed.

Bakhtiar had learned and studied and practiced into exhaustion simply to please a man to whom he was only a job.

He'd thought he'd been doing so well, keeping his feelings to himself, until he'd caught Farrokh kissing some stupid hall master and his heart had shattered.

He'd ended his lessons and not spoken to anyone past what was strictly necessary for over a month, well on his way to two months when Farrokh had appeared in his damned bedroom one night, smuggled in by a scheming Kurosh.

He was so happy with Kurosh and Farrokh at his side, but lately they'd been quieter, distracted and always whispering together when they thought he was asleep or not paying attention.

Initiated kisses and intimacy with ever-decreasing frequency, and Bakhtiar would rather die than press for something they no longer wanted to give, face the stinging rejection or, so many thousands of times worse, their unenthusiastic acquiescence.

It shouldn't surprise him, though. He was a failure at everything else, why shouldn't he fail at being worthy of his harem, too?

A warm, lilting voice caught his ear as the wind shifted, moving with the cadence of someone reading.

"—leapt over the canyon, sword flashing in the sun, as—"

Bakhtiar looked toward the source, taking in the almost winsomely-beautiful man bent over the novel he was reading to an audience that, rightfully so, seemed more captivated by the storyteller than the story.

He had the supremely dark skin of the north corner of the country, probably Remm province but could also be Myne.

Long hair, currently braided and pinned back, dressed beautifully and well but not with the luxury of a courtier.

Bakhtiar had never seen him before, so he must be visiting relatives or friends who were courtiers.

His voice, though, was the most captivating part of him, not too deep, not too high, warm and inviting, moving through the words like a fish through water.

If Bakhtiar had him to read through reports and contracts, he'd never struggle to get his work done ever again.

"—iar!"

"What?" He snapped his head back.

"Sorry. Sorry. I got distracted by the reading." He stared at Farrokh, who looked at him with brow drawn down and repeated, "Sorry. What were you saying?"

"The reading, was it?" Farrokh smiled teasingly, then said, "Lord Sarakish wanted to know if you'd like join them in a round of taaki."

He looked to the lord in question, sitting at a table with two others around a taaki board, which could be played by up to four people at a time.

"Thank you, but no. I find taaki boring to play."

"I told you he'd say that," said another man, Lord Hesh, whose wealth was built on salt. Sea salt, specifically, in a market that was mostly rock salt.

The remaining figure at the table, a woman, Lady Qinara, chuckled in a condescending way that grated on his nerves.

"He says the same about chess. What sort of games do you prefer, Your Highness?"

"More active ones, where the challenges are less uniform, more unpredictable." Physical ones, where he could burn off his restless energy, make himself slightly less annoying.

Footracing, archery, horseracing. He did many of those things for charity, but nobody ever mentioned that when chastising him for not liking chess.

Sarakish replied, "I think you'd like it with more familiarity, Your Highness. Please, we would love to have you, and show you more of the game."

Why did people always assume he didn't like taaki because he didn't know it well?

Bakhtiar had plenty of choice words for such condescending assumptions, but in the same situation his father would graciously concede and play a round or two. It would only be a few minutes; he could suffer that to make a point.

"Very well, as you like, then."

Farrokh seemed surprised, though you'd only know that if you knew him well, but then whenever he and Kurosh played, Bakhtiar never joined them.

Maybe they assumed he simply wasn't familiar with the game, too, and wasn't that a depressing thought.

He moved to sit at the table, bodyguards hovering close, and as people realized he was playing as well they moved in closer to watch.

This was exactly what he'd wanted to avoid, but there was no helping it now.

Once the pieces were laid, one hundred twenty in all between the four of them, with another ten landscape pieces on the board to add a fresh, if minimal, challenge to each round.

Taaki was a game of elements and conquering, water vs fire vs wind vs earth.

It was at its best when four people played, taking other pieces and claiming the board.

There were pieces for offense, defense, movement, and effect, or chaos, pieces.

The more players, the more that was happening at once, the more there was to track, the more difficult it became.

Everyone got two moves per round, and you were considered an excellent player if you could win a four player game in twenty moves.

Bakhtiar had never understood why that was the standard for excellency.

Elements were randomly assigned by drawing lots at the very beginning.

Fire was the favored element, and earth was considered the worst element to draw, though he'd never once noticed anything that made one element stronger than the other.

You had to use each one slightly differently, but that was all.

The pieces were set, and you started with all of them right from the beginning, unlike many card games where you only started with a few cards and drew more from a stack as the game went on, which was slightly more interesting.

Lord Hesh puffed up with smug satisfaction as he drew fire.

Bakhtiar said nothing as he drew earth.

At his insistence, Lord Sarakish started the game, meaning Bakhtiar would go last. Sarakish laid his first two pieces, safe but effective moves, and they went round in circles.

Stifling a sigh because everything was going the same as it always did when he played this stupid game, Bakhtiar laid out his chosen pieces. On it went, until they reached the fifth round and he took his turn.

Everyone stopped, staring at the board in disbelief. After a moment, Lord Hesh broke the heavy, awkward silence.

"Did you just win in ten moves, Your Highness?"

Why did people always say it that way? Like they couldn't believe he was capable of such a thing? "Yes. Would you like to try another round?"

The board was reset in silence, everyone chose to keep their elements, and they played again.

That time he beat them in eight moves.

Because this game was childishly easy and he did not understand why everyone loved it so much.

"As I said, I find it boring.

Once you memorize the patterns the game is entirely too predictable." Chess was even easier, since that was only two people and thirty-two pieces total.

Only one person had ever understood his impatience with the games, a visitor from the Great Desert named Rook.

He'd been sitting alone in the empty library that night, unable to sleep, wishing he could read the way other people read, so easily and effortlessly, when Lord Rook had come upon him equally restless.

They had played a game of chess to a stalemate, and it was the most interesting game of chess Bakhtiar had ever played.

It was a fond memory, especially how approving Rook had been of his so-called skills, even though knowing how to play a silly game had never seemed particularly skillful to him.

Though he also knew Lord Rook was famous for his chess playing somehow, so his approval genuinely meant a lot.

"Predictable," Hesh said in a strangled tone.

"I see. Thank you for indulging us, Your Highness."

"Thank you for having me," Bakhtiar said reflexively before returning to his table.

He looked hopefully to where the pretty book-reader had been, but sadly they were not at their table anymore, and a quick sweep of the garden showed them not around at all.

Ah, well. He wouldn't have been able to listen with all the conversation anyway.

Gentle fingers touched his cheek, drawing his attention again, and Farrokh smiled as he offered up wine.

"I didn't know that was why you found the game boring, my prince."

Bakhtiar's mouth twisted.

"Yes, I'm quite aware everyone thinks I simply never bothered to learn it properly." Because he never learned or did anything properly.

"No," Farrokh said, looking dismayed.

"That wasn't—"

"Your Highness."

Bakhtiar took hold of the hand still resting against his chest, squeezing gently, and keeping hold as he turned his full attention to the looming guards.

"What is it?"

"Your father needs to speak with you on an important matter."

"Of course, I'm on my way."

The guards left and Bakhtiar braced himself to stand.

Sitting, laying, moving down basically, was of no real concern, though it always hurt a bit.

Standing, however, or any stairs at all, always hurt significantly.

The more weight he had to put on the leg, the more up-down movement at once, the greater the pain.

Not that he'd tell anyone, because all he would hear was a bunch of shouldn't have been so reckless, this is why we want you to be more careful, why were you climbing that stupid wall to begin with.

A baby bird, that was why.

He'd seen a baby bird lying on the ground, still alive but struggling greatly, and he'd climbed the wall to put it back in its nest.

That was why his grip had been so poor, as he'd tried to reach up to the nest that was every so slightly out of reach.

He'd gotten the bird safely home and then slipped trying to shift to climb down.

No one had asked, not even his concubines. They'd just been upset with him, though worried and fussing too. Still, like everyone else they'd just assumed he'd been doing something stupid. It shouldn't hurt so much, but it did, so much deeper than his actual leg.

Once he was certain he'd give nothing away he pushed to his feet, trying to keep most of his weight on his good leg though that didn't entirely work.

"Shall we?"

Farrokh returned his smile.

"Of course, my prince. I hope the matter isn't too dire."

Bakhtiar hoped so too, but he had a feeling he knew what was about to happen. Please, please let him be wrong.

Given it was still mid-morning, and the guards hadn't given him explicit direction, he sought his father out in his primary, public-facing office, where officials, clerks, and more could stop by.

Versus the private office nobody but a select few were allowed to enter, where he could get actual work done in peace.

In the antechamber, he paused to greet the chamber woman, who was tasked with ensuring that water, tea, and certain wines were kept stocked, as well as foods that would keep well and could be eaten with little to no effort.

"Keesha, I thought you'd managed to talk Dariush out of those atrocious crackers. Haven't they made all of you miserable enough?"

She giggled.

"You underestimate how much Dariush values being miserable as part of his character, Your Highness. Don't worry though, we're putting your ideas into motion, slowly and carefully as you advised. We'll come out the victors in the cracker war yet."

"I have faith in your victory."

She shooed him off, and he finally went to face the moment he was dreading.

"Father, you wanted to see me?" Not that there was much point in the conversation, now he could see his father's face. Stoic though he was, Bakhtiar had long been attuned to known when someone was about to tell him something he didn't want to hear.

"Bakhti, I am so sorry, but there was a change in the council agenda today and though I fought against it vehemently, they have removed your speech for now and will reschedule it for a later time."

"I see," Bakhtiar replied.

"What replaced it?"

From by the desk, his father's concubine Beynum replied, "Tariff issues, they're growing increasingly contentious and want the matter done."

Tariffs.

Of course.

Squabbling over how much all the wealthy merchants should pay on imported luxury goods, what goods should be classed as luxury and which ones should be allowed to be classed as necessity to allow them to skip out on higher tariffs, was infinitely more important than his cause.

All his siblings' causes were taken seriously, and rightfully so, especially Aradishir and his ever-constant fight against traffickers.

If they'd said another matter there had come up, he'd have born no ill will.

But he'd been pushed aside again for yet another bickering session over luxury tariffs.

It was a never-ending fight because nobody would ever be happy because god forbid all these wealthy people part with a single coin more of their wealth than they absolutely had to.

Meanwhile there was little to no regulation on gambling, and it was the poorer classes who suffered for that while the rich grew richer off essentially stealing from people who either were addicted to the thrill of gambling or did so desperately hoping to make their lives better.

It was disgusting, reprehensible in the extreme, and not a single fucking person cared.

Not even his oh so perfect and wonderful father, the high and mighty King Shahjahan who never did or said anything wrong.

And if he didn't care, no one cared, and therefore Bakhtiar was wasting his time at best, and completely wrong to care at worst.

Ordinarily he would fight and rage anyway, until he was dismissed for losing his temper and everyone talked about how he was always getting wound up and emotional and carried away.

He was tired though, in a way he could not adequately describe. What was the point?

Who cared that he had put weeks, even months, of work into this matter. Spent countless nights reviewing laws and drafting his own ideas for new laws, regulations, a board to oversee gambling halls.

Who cared that this was important to him, as important as charity was to their mother, as stopping trafficking was to Aradishir, as treatment of veterans was to his sister?

Nobody cared, because it was just dice and cards and people making bad decisions.

"I understand, Father. Please inform me when my speech is rescheduled. Was there anything else you needed?"

Shahjahan frowned, actually, visibly, looked worried frowned.

"I will see it done as soon as possible, Bakhti, I promise. Are you all right?"

"Perfectly fine, Father."

"If you have nothing too urgent to do, would you take over general audience for the rest of the day? Your mother is in there now, but breaking shortly because she must go to the temple to deal with some problems regarding the upcoming festival."

"Of course, I'd be happy to," Bakhtiar replied, and that he meant.

General audience was the one thing he was better at than anyone else.

He liked it, listening to people, helping them, using all the power and authority he had to actively, personally improve lives.

"Farrokh…"

"I'll speak with the office and then go find Kurosh so we can both attend you," he said with a smile, before bowing to Shahjahan and slipping away.

"Father," Bakhtiar said with a bow of his own.

Just as he reached the door though, Shahjahan called, "Bakhti" in a soft tone he'd never heard before, and for a single, stupid moment made hope for something flutter in his chest, before he ruthlessly quashed it.

"Yes, Father?"

"Are you certain you're all right? You are not normally so quiet, and I know the gambling reform is important to you. I promise you will get your chance."

Important to you. But not important enough to anyone else to do more than promise to reschedule something that had been rescheduled several times already. Bakhtiar knew a lost cause when he saw one.

"Just tired, I did not get much sleep, working on something for Mother, though the papers wound up lost somehow. Thank you."

He left before Shahjahan could say anything more, though he doubted he would. In the hall, he handed his carefully written note and speech cards to a servant.

"Discard those for me, Jaleh, if you please. Thank you." That done, he headed to his room to change from the clothes he'd worn for the breakfast into something more serious for general audience.

When he arrived a few minutes later, only Kurosh and Farrokh were waiting for him in the private antechamber.

"Where is Mother?" He'd hoped to speak with her before he took over to get any personal notes she had about who still needed help, any straggling issues, and so forth.

He'd also wanted to know she got the signed contracts this time, for property he'd bought with personal funds and signed over as part of one her big, ongoing charity projects regarding affordable, protected housing.

But of course she was too busy to see him for just a few minutes. She'd have lingered to speak with Aradishir or Jahanara. Not that either of them held audience except in extremely rare cases.

"She had to leave in a hurry, apparently there was an accident with the wine barrels and people were hurt, but she left notes with me to pass on to you."

"Ah, of course. I hope the injuries are not too severe."

Shoving aside his bad mood, Bakhtiar shifted his mind to general audience, taking the notes and reading through them as quickly as possible, fidgeting with his gear the whole time. Numbers called, people coming forward with their problems, him handing out solutions or assigning the people who could provide the solution.

The door opened to a man bustling in carrying a heavy tray on one arm, and a bucket filled with cool water and carafes of wine over the other. Bakhtiar stepped forward and took the bucket, setting it in place on the table.

"Where is Mahin to help you, Golshan?"

"Her sister gave birth last night; she left to help." Golshan set the tray down, wiped sweat from his brow with a towel on his waist, and then set to work arranging everything neatly and elegantly on the table.

"She wanted me to extend thank yous for the birthing gift, Your Highness. Her sister did not stop crying for some time."

Bakhtiar scoffed.

"I hope everything went well." Giving birth was so dangerous, no matter how poor or wealthy a woman was.

"Perfectly, Your Highness. Mother and child are happy and healthy. We were all quite happy. I made certain your Whispered Truth was amongst the options for today."

"I'm glad everyone is all right. Thank you, your attention to detail is flawless as always."

Golshan bowed and departed.

"Sweet as always, my prince." Farrokh arranged wine and tea on a smaller tray to take into the throne room.

"Sweet?" Bakhtiar asked.

"What did I do that's sweet?"

Kurosh chuckled, grasped the sides of his face, and tugged him into a soft, but thorough kiss.

Bakhtiar reviewed the notes one last time and then set everything aside.

A hush fell briefly as he stepped into the throne room, but talk quickly resumed again as everyone realized Bakhtiar had replaced his mother.

Taking his seat on the throne, Kurosh and Farrokh sitting on cushions on either side of him, he signaled the gong that would resume session.

The first twenty or so people were simple enough matters: farmers pleading for assistance after crops had been destroyed by events beyond their control.

Tenants complaining of landlord abuse that no one else had listened to them about.

That he handled with vindictive relish, because the only person who hated slumlords more than him was his mother.

After a short break for something to drink, a woman came up.

"What problem brings you to see me, mistress?" he asked gently.

Clearly struggling not to cry, the woman said, "I have no right to ask for help, Your Highness, but I've nowhere else to turn.

My husband is a drunk and gambler. Last night he stole all the money I had carefully saved and lost it all at the Red Lark.

It was my money, from work I did though he promised me a marriage where I would not have to work outside the home, and he had no right to it. Me and my children will be living on the streets by the end of the month. I beg for your pity and assistance."

Red Lark was one of the worst gambling halls. There were ten in the city, three of them larger than the rest, all of them rotten to the core. Red Lark, though…

that place was a cheat. Literally. Nobody won there unless the owners wanted them to win.

They bled the poor and desperate dry then threw them out. They took advantage of those who could not say no, who needed gambling the way others needed alcohol or dream powder.

Colluded with the loan spiders who took further advantage of all of them. A slimy, skin-crawling industry he wanted to burn to the ground, or at least regulate to death.