Elara found Silas in the back booth, a single candle flickering between them. He was pale, with fingers like spider legs.

“Stalemate,” the room whispered.

He had made a foolish bet three nights ago. Against a man called Silas the Slow. Silas was a myth, a player so deliberate that a single game could last until dawn. He never bluffed. He never rushed. He simply connected , and when his fourth red disc hit the slot, something in his opponent’s soul went dark.

“His future. The one you took.”

The first drop was hers. Center column. Always the center. It was the high ground of the grid. Silas responded not with a block, but with a drop in the far left column. Odd.

“Clause nine,” she said, voice cracking. “Spectator’s intervention.”

Her name was Elara Venn. She was a “dropper” — a professional Connect Four hustler. She wore a black velvet glove on her right hand and had eyes that never blinked during a match. She came to The Lustery tonight for one reason: to win back her brother’s future.