You’d been nursing the same drink for an hour.

Across the room, Jason Todd leaned against the edge of a roulette table like he owned it. He didn’t, but he had that way about him.

A woman in red was pressed to his left, laughing at something he said. A woman in black was on his right, her hand on his forearm, nails tracing the leather of his jacket.

Jason didn’t seem to notice. Or he did, and he liked it.

The dealer slid a stack of chips toward him. Another win.

You didn’t realize you were holding your glass too tight until the sound of it cracking cut through the noise like a gunshot.

Then warmth. Wet heat spreading down your palm, over your knuckles, dripping onto the sticky wood of the bar.

A woman two stools down gasped. The bartender was already moving. And across the room, through the haze of smoke and bodies, Jason Todd looked up.