Here's another chapter for you lovely ppl :) I was actually inspired to write this during a trip to Vegas, so its ambience makes an appearance. Thanks for the kind reviews!

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"You're a fucking idiot, Carswell."

"Okay, that's harsh, even for you."

Jacin glares at Thorne for a full half-minute and then he shifts forward, away from the counter he's been leaning against, arms crossed, hair stubbornly stuck in his face but he also refuses to brush it away just yet. "What were you thinking?"

"Nothing, apparently, because I don't think- Jesus Christ, Jacin, what do you want me to do? Stay glued to my phone?" Irritated, Thorne runs a hand through his hair, which is gelled thoroughly, closing his eyes, and exhales a huffy breath. "So I didn't check my phone and you got worried. If this is the way you say that you care about me, Jacin, it's not exactly showing."

"I don't care about you," Jacin stresses, "If it wasn't for-" He shuts his mouth abruptly before he can say Cress's name and squints at Thorne, completely forgoing the end of his sentence. "Check your phone more often."

"Yeah, yeah, I've got it, mom. Is this lecture over? I've got things to do." Thorne is hostile, too, and he looks jumpier than usual. Thorne is overactive, so Jacin has noticed, but he looks worse for wear. As if he hasn't been sleeping, or that he's been abusing some sort of substance. Thorne isn't disheveled in appearance, but when Thorne is nervous, it generally means he's doing something wrong, and Jacin wants to hate him for it.

Jacin scowls. "Are you doing drugs again?"

Thorne gives him an indecorous look before replying, "Fuck no," his tone harsh and angry, his volume raising obscenely loud as he gets riled, and then he's pacing the kitchen floor, his brown leather designer shoes strikingly shiny against the unwashed tile. "Can you just- fucking- stop? I haven't done drugs in years. I'm not going to do drugs."

Jacin doesn't show any remorse, his face as stoic as ever. "I don't want you going back to that. I don't want you to be that person again."

"And I won't." Thorne stubbornly glares back at Jacin with just as much conviction, growing angrier by the second, and then he smacks the countertop with a fist, jostling the metal cutlery resting in their drying racks. "Is that all you need?"

"No." Jacin's scowl returns tenfold. "We need to talk about Dr. Darnel."

Thorne groans, rubbing at his reddening knuckles. "Oh, that. Where is Iko?"

"In the shelter already. She feels terrible." Jacin adds that last sentence with the suggestion that Thorne is to blame somehow.

"I'm sorry. It slipped my mind. I should've... I take responsibility for this. Iko is- skilled in pharmaceutical medicines," Thorne says, and he's back to pacing, though his anger has mellowed to guilt. "It's one of her coping mechanisms. You can't blame her for that."

Jacin's face doesn't seem to move, but is also somehow softens. "I don't. Iko isn't to blame. But she did drug Dr. Darnel, and- she trusts you. You've got to talk to her about this. Help her feel better."

"What about Cress?"

"What about her?" Jacin asks, feeling the possessiveness in himself rising, hostility creeping into his words.

"How is she?" Thorne questions, and he looks worried. Jacin almost feels sorry for always calling him an asshole behind his back (almost, because he stands firm in his conviction that Thorne, is, in fact, an asshole), but he instead simmers his anger to allow Thorne's concern. Jacin knows it's silly to expect Cress's well-being to affect only himself and her father, but he doesn't trust Thorne. Not yet.

"Dr. Darnel is going to be fine. The doses weren't lethal," Jacin says, "And Cress is looking after him. She's- she'll be okay."

"Maybe I should go visit her, see how she's holding up," Thorne suggests, and he reaches for his motorcycle helmet.

"I said she'll be okay." Jacin's frown returns. "You need to stay here. Scarlet might need you."

"I'm not Scarlet's personal errand boy." Irritated, Thorne keeps the motorcycle helmet in his hands anyway. "She knows I have places to go to."

"Oh, really?" Jacin challenges, "Because she told me that she expects you to stick around the farm for a while. Something about laying low."

"That's none of your goddamn business, Clay-"

"Which is why I didn't press for details, but if you're getting into trouble again, I'm not going to save your ass. Got it?" Jacin barks.

"That was one time, and you hold it over me every chance you get," Thorne huffs, but obviously relaxes knowing that Jacin doesn't have the specifics on his latest escapade.

Jacin doesn't bat an eye. "I mean it. You're on your own. I'm not going to be part of this anymore."

"Right, right- I forgot you're going to school now. Dr. Clay has a nice ring to it." Thorne's shit-eating grin is back, and he's directing it to Jacin. "How's it feel?"

"How does what feel?"

"How's it feel knowing you're a sellout to institutionalized education?"

"Hilarious. I can't believe you're not a comedian," Jacin says, flatly, and grabs the motorcycle helmet from Thorne's hands, a playful action in theory, but executed by Jacin radiates stern seriousness. His next sentence is somber. "If you're in trouble, Thorne-"

Thorne snatches it back. "I'm not saying. You can get all high-and-uppity about leaving, but I can't. There's no leaving. Not for me. I'm in this 'til I'm dead, and trust me, that might come sooner than you think. So can you just cut me some slack, Clay? For once. That'd be nice."

"I am not 'high-and-uppity' whatever that means-"

"Having a lovers' quarrel, are we?"

Thorne and Jacin both turn to face the intrusion of Scarlet, whose arms are filled with firewood, and she kicks a chair out of her way as the leg of it scratches against the floor with a screech. They spring a few paces apart despite never being that close to each other in the first place, as Jacin scowls again and Thorne grins.

"It's a friendly conversation, sweetheart. Jacin was telling me all about his post-graduation plans. He's moving to Guatemala and starting a clinic there, and he wants us to send him away with lots of fireworks. Especially those really loud illegal ones, those are his favorites-"

"I'm leaving." Jacin cuts Thorne off with that short sentence, and he addresses Scarlet next. "Make sure Iko is fine. I need to go see how Dr. Darnel is recuperating."

"And Cress, too, I'll bet," Scarlet says, with a smirk playing on her lips. Jacin narrows his eyes and exits the kitchen without a further goodbye, slamming the door closed behind him.

"A real ray of sunshine, isn't he?" Thorne sits down on the table, and watches as Scarlet opens her stove door to feed the flames cut firewood, fanning away embers and listening to the crackling noises emitted.

"When are you going to tell him?"

"Tell him what?"

"Tell him about Sybil." Scarlet closes the stove and watches before rummaging in her cupboards to find her cast iron pot. "He should know."

"It's none of his business. Besides, he stopped working for Sybil years ago. And- he's already trying to leave."

"I'm not crazy about losing one of my doctors, Thorne, but if he wants a shot at a normal life he deserves one." Scarlet turns the tap on, and the water spilling into the pot seems amplified by its hollow walls. "He should just know what she's doing, at least. You know his dad still works for her. He should be informed."

"And then his shot at a normal life goes out the window," Thorne points out, "Because if he's...aware, then he's as good as dead. You know that."

Scarlet quiets, turns off the tap, and lugs the pot to the stovetop, the water inside sloshing precariously. "Alright. But Thorne, you're-"

"Oh, I already know that I'm as good as dead. I'm the one who pissed her off. But don't mix Jacin up in Sybil's mess. Keeping him in the dark is the only way he can graduate medical school and get a job, Scarlet."

"You think I don't know that?" Impatiently, Scarlet monitors the water in her pot, before she gives up on waiting to watch it boil and busies herself in the pantry, pulling open the sticky wooden door to rummage amongst her pre-packed foods. "I won't tell him anything." She settles on a package of lentils and rips the bag open before picking up a bowl to wash them in. "And I'll make sure that Cress doesn't either. You know they're close."

Thorne rubs at his chin, feeling the scratch of stubbly hairs growing. "Would you happen to have any razors around this joint?"

Scarlet scoffs, pouring her washed lentils into the pot. "Yes, right next to all the hair gel you're going to need, because clearly those are necessities when you're hiding from the authorities."

"I could do without the sarcasm, sweetheart." Thorne tugs the motorcycle helmet over his fluffed hair and fastens it over his chin. "I'll go stock up on the essentials and be back before dinner."

"Oh no you don't!" Scarlet swats at Thorne's back with the handle of her wooden spoon, frowning. "You're not going anywhere, not with a target on your back, and especially not when it's getting dark."

"Relax, won't you? This isn't the first time I've got people after me, and it won't be the last. Trust me. Now, is there anything you need?"

Scarlet studies Thorne for a while, his words muffled by the helmet but still loud in the stillness of the kitchen. "Absolutely not. You're not risking your skin for a razor."

"Which is why I asked you if you needed anything, Scarlet, honestly-"

"No," Scarlet repeats, "You're too well-known around these parts. Some bounty hunter could spot you and take you to Sybil and you can't take that chance."

Thorne huffs, and his face is obstructed by the darkness of the tinted motorcycle helmet, or else Scarlet would be able to see his facial expressions. "I won't be long. Besides, I've got a job to do anyway."

Scarlet sighs. She knows Thorne's conman side hustle is how he makes money, but she doesn't agree with it, and she doesn't know the specifics of it either, as he claims it'll keep her safe while Scarlet argues that she's never safe taking in fugitives. Besides faking deaths, Thorne does anything and everything he can that's not allowed by law and slips into the grey areas of what is morally wrong and right. Scarlet doesn't want to know what his latest client has demanded of him, and knows Thorne won't say anyway, because even as he pretends that his partakes in immoral debauchery Scarlet has it on good authority that he'd never do anything to hurt anyone innocent.

"I want you back in one piece," she settles for saying, "And I want you to be careful. Sybil has eyes everywhere."

"Sure thing, sweetheart. Give me a kiss for good luck?"

"Get out of here," Scarlet replies, shoving Thorne away good-naturedly, and she's smiling when he leaves, though she knows that she won't be for long.

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The room Cinder has been given is barren. The walls, a thin metallic sheet of malleable aluminum rusted red with age, encloses her in a small space barely six feet in diameter and, if she were to guess, possibly boasts the length of a few yards. The cot she's sitting on is stiff, the starchy white material spread thin, and the threadbare blanket Cress had scrounged up is probably just cotton cloth, as it provides no comfort at all. Still, Cinder keeps it on her lap and hugs it closer, her prosthetic hand reflexively curling just as her flesh one does, and they're free of gloves for once. She'd taken them off after Scarlet had relieved her of the rake with a well-meaning pat on the shoulder. She hardly notices this, because she doesn't usually wear the gloves when she's alone, but she's not alone anymore as the door opens, and she scrambles to grasp onto her gloves but doesn't get the chance to take them in her hands before she's enveloped in a tight hug, and Cinder stiffens, unsure what to do in response, even as Winter's curls tickle her face and her nostrils inhale a steady stream of flowery scent.

"I apologize, Selene." Winter solemnly widens her hazel-colored eyes, sitting next to Cinder on the cot, tucking her legs up to her side, and she reaches a hand out to place over Cinder's prosthetic one. Even as her palm touches metal, Winter doesn't flinch or even notice, apparently, and she gets closer to her cousin. "You must have many questions."

Cinder nods, slowly, because she does, the first of all being how Winter knows her, facing Winter with an open mind, because Cinder's come to realize that anything she used to know is not trustworthy. "You said you're my cousin."

"Yes. Your aunt is my stepmother." Winter smiles at her, and Cinder wonders if she ever stops looking so friendly and approachable and thinks it must be a bother, smiling all the time. "My father remarried Levana Blackburn when I was young." Cocking her head, she states, "You and I played together. Your mother was around Levana often."

Cinder's heart skips a beat, and she feels a bit dizzy. "My- mother?"

"Channary was her name. She was beautiful," Winter muses, and frowns. "Not as beautiful as you. Do you keep her in your memory, Selene?"

Cinder shakes her head. "I'm sorry." She pauses, embarrassed. "I can't remember much. I was adopted when I was little, I- my adoptive mother told me that my parents were dead. She didn't tell me I had any other family."

"The last time I saw you was at her funeral." Winter grips Cinder's metal fingers in her own, tightly, and though Cinder can't feel the pressure she imagines the phantom effects of it. "I believe Levana gave up her custodial rights to you, or else you would have been entrusted to her care."

Cinder can believe that. She imagines it make sense. Any questions about her birth family directed to her adoptive mother, inquisitive as all children's questions are, were coldly eluded, with her adoptive mother simply telling Cinder that no one wanted her, least of all herself. Cinder doesn't know anything about Levana, or her mother, but she is curious now. "You've grown up with my aunt."

"Yes. She is the only maternal figure I've known." Winter's smile is dimmed significantly, and she looks- almost- fearful. "She is related to me by marriage, but she is related to you by blood. Forgive me, Selene, as I do not wish to speak ill of your family, but Levana Hayle-Blackburn is not a kind woman."

Cinder feels a tinge of- disappointment, admittedly, with those words. Cinder had always assumed that her family had been dead, and so, if she ever thought of them she conjured images of a loving, caring, emotionally supportive family, not someone who could cause fear in her own stepdaughter. And even though she's never seen Levana Hayle-Blackburn, she's certain that she never wants to see her. Cinder notices that Winter's right hand is absentmindedly rubbing at three deep scars embedded in her cheek, ascending from her eye like teardrops.

"What did she do?" Cinder asks, voice thick, focusing on the scars.

Winter's eyes, hooded with thought, fly open in alarm. "I don't wish to burden you with Levana's actions."

"She's my aunt. I need to know what I can do. I need to know- her." Cinder keeps looking at Winter's wounds, and feels uncomfortable, expecting to hear that Levana is somehow related to them. "You're a code six, aren't you." It's not a question, but rather a realization.

Winter lowers her gaze. "Yes," she admits. "I ran away. From Levana."

Cinder inhales sharply. "Then-"

"I've been her burden since my father's death," Winter explains, voice wavering, before she strengthens it, tone steadily rising and growing stronger. She lifts her head high, squares her shoulders, and continues. "Levana has treated me with resentment since then, and nothing I've done has ever changed her perception of me, but in recent events, I have done something that she claims is unforgivable."

"But- what could be so unforgivable?"

Winter's lips flatten into a line. "I refused to marry a horrible man, and she has punished me for it." Her fingers touch her scars again. "She will not rest until I'm found. I'm a liability to her crime empire."

Cinder's words catch in her throat. "She- she cut your face because you wouldn't marry someone?"

Winter's eyes look glazed over. "Aimery Park," she states, firmly, "Is not a nice man."

Cinder doesn't know who this Aimery Park is, but anger rises in her chest anyway, upset at the idea that anyone could hurt Winter. Her prosthetic fingers curl themselves into a fist before she catches herself and she unfurls them again, attempting to change the topic back to her aunt. "You don't have to tell me about her anymore. I don't- I don't know if I want to learn about her."

"I wish that I could be of more help." The last thing Cinder wants is for Winter to feel inadequate, but Winter looks so forlorn that Cinder is sure that Winter is feeling just that. "I only want to let you know that you cannot trust her."

"It's alright." Cinder chews on her lower lip for a while. "I believe you."

Winter's eyes light up. "You do?" she asks, relieved, and she throws her arms around Cinder again. "Thank goodness!" Quickly, she presses a kiss to Cinder's ear before she pulls away, and her hands fold themselves into her lap. She's beaming, brilliantly, and Cinder is reassured- of what she's come to realize- as Winter's sunshiny personality. "I admit that most people do not believe me."

That sentence sets off a warning signal, and for the second time Cinder grows upset. She hardly knows Winter, but she already knows that as cousins- even though it is solely through a martial bond- that she wants to protect her for some reason. "Why wouldn't people believe you? Have you tried to- expose- Levana before?"

"I was never allowed to share any incriminating information against Levana," Winter responds, "but she and her associates make a habit of discrediting my words. No one believes me, really."

"Oh." Cinder hesitates. "Is there a- a reason for that, or?"

Winter tilts her head. "Not that I can think of, particularly. It's odd, isn't it?"

"I- guess?"

"Well, this must be a lot to take in," Winter says, and her smile grows docile, comforting, as she grabs onto both of Cinder's hands again. "I won't keep you much longer. In fact, I've moved in just next door to you, and I'll stay here until Cress can relocate me."

Relocation. Right. Cinder had almost forgotten about that minor detail. "The relocation process. How long will that take?"

"Cress explained it to me, but she said that she doesn't know for sure. It's extensive- she must forge death certificates, create birth records, other details that escape me, really," Winter says, "Everything that she must have told you already...and she does not have a time frame, but I do know that she attempts to work as quickly as she can."

"That's- good," Cinder manages, at least, but her mind reels, uneasy at the idea of being in a foreign place, by herself, with a new identity, and she almost doesn't want it. "At least I'll be gone, and we can all be safe."

Winter's smile turns sad. "If only we could be, my dearest Selene."

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The air is thick and hazy with cigarette smoke, the flashing animated screens of coin slots blinking back at him with the sound effects of dings and jostling coins, as poker and blackjack tables are filled to the brim with people slapping down dollar bills and raking in poker chips, the conversational noise the loudest of everything the bottom floor of the casino has to offer. Thorne surveys the room quietly, motorcycle helmet still on, regretting paying ten fucking dollars for valet parking because that was a waste, but he knows he can't keep it on for long. He knows that he'll have to take it off eventually and see the Friday night crowd that graces the glitzy establishment and watches as women dressed in bikinis saunter around the slot machines hoisting silver trays with martinis and margaritas, offering them to patrons, and Thorne hisses a curse under his breath when he catches sight of an old acquaintance- a man Thorne may or may not have wronged- and so he rapidly walks away from the section as people gamble, instead keeping his sights set on the bar, where he's sure that his newest client must be meeting him, or so his client has said he would be.

Thorne finally takes off the helmet to address the bartender, a lovely woman who looks at him with obvious interest and bats her eyes a little too interestedly. "What can I get you, handsome?"

She's flirting, which Thorne would appreciate normally, except he's not into her, which serves as a major problem. "Get me a gin and tonic, sweetheart, and keep them coming."

She lingers by his side a while longer but Thorne is checking his phone, not bothering to look up in her direction, so she finally leaves to actually do her job and Thorne is not the only one seated at the bar but the only other people are an old, balding man glued to the football game and there's a woman who he places in her mid-thirties rapidly talking in her phone, dressed in a sharp suit and stirring her whiskey with a minuscule straw. None of them meet the description his client had provided Thorne with, and so he waits, and as crowded and noisy as this specific casino is, it makes for a well enough place to meet. Not clandestine, so therefore not free from prying eyes, as Thorne knows well enough that Sybil has people everywhere, but the noise could mean cover. Which, cover is good. Thorne's not trying to get compromised and he's certainly not trying to end up dead.

The seat next to him gets occupied just as the bartender returns with his gin and tonic. "I'm Jina," she says as a means of introduction, and leans across the bar with a devilish glint in her eye. Thorne ignores that she's pushing her cleavage in his face and takes a long drink from the glass provided.

"Thanks. You're a doll." Thorne turns away from Jina the bartender to see who, exactly, has placed themselves on the stool next to his and finds himself looking at a man, in his twenties if Thorne had to guess, with dark hair, tan skin, and a nervous expression.

This had to be the client.

Jina, who can tell she's being stiffed, frowns and turns to the newcomer. "What can I get you?"

"Just a water." Oh, he's definitely nervous. Thorne watches with amusement as the man grabs at his collar and tugs at it, the buttoned shirt far too restrictive. "Actually, get me a beer."

"Coming right up." Jina also takes Thorne's emptied glass and stays in his line of vision, perhaps in a last-ditch effort to get his attention, not that it works. Thorne looks towards the man and shakes his head, a grin starting to spread across his face.

"You must be Liam Kinney."

Liam starts in surprise, looking over Thorne's appearance- likely taking in his helmet hair, the dark leather jacket, and the faded denim jeans that cling to his calves in all the right places. "Kinney. I go by Kinney. And you must be-"

"Let's not say my name out loud, actually," Thorne interrupts. "I've heard that you need my services, but you should know that I expect payment up front before I agree."

"Of course." Kinney reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wadded envelope, rumpled from being in his pants, likely, and slips it into Thorne's hand under the countertop. "In cash, like you requested." He's smart enough not to say the number out loud, at least, and Thorne rifles through the folded bills, mentally counting it all in his head. Thorne has dealt with counterfeit currency before, and this isn't it. Satisfied, Thorne tucks it into an inside pocket in his jacket.

"I need specifics. Details, don't leave anything out, and if you need to write it on paper, I'm sure I can get a pen somewhere." Thorne reaches for the second gin and tonic Jina has left out- telling himself it'll be the last one, he's not looking to get drunk off overpriced drinks and especially not when he has to drive himself home.

Kinney glances around. Jina is busying herself with some new customers that have seated themselves at the bar, the old man is falling asleep, and the fast-talking businesswoman has left by that point. "I need your help. I want to-" he hesitates, likely afraid to keep saying it out loud. Thorne gets the hint and produces a pen from his jacket, miraculously, and the tiny notepad he carries around for emergencies such as this. He pushes them towards Kinney, and Kinney chugs his beer before he grabs the pen and scratches a sentence out onto the paper, fingers quivering, perhaps still with nervousness. Thorne, who's taking another drink, almost spits it out as he reads the sentence.

I want to arrest Sybil Mira.

"Shit," Thorne curses, and he lowers his voice to a hiss, "You're a fucking cop?"

"I'm not here to get you into trouble," Kinney responds, but he does reach into his back pocket and produces a wallet, flashing the telltale gold of a police badge. "I can't trust law enforcement. She-" the 'she' he speaks of is Sybil Mira, and the implication hangs heavy in his words- "She gets around everything. She covers up her tracks, and she uses her influence to do it. I want her off the force, but I can't do it without evidence."

"And you want me to dig up her dirty laundry. That's what I'm here for, isn't it?" Thorne, awkwardly balancing his helmet on his knee, tries not to fall off the stool with this implication. He's sure Scarlet would be thrilled if she knew that he plans on taking on a job that means getting close to the woman he's on the run from.

Kinney nods. Thorne is surprised to see how genuinely desperate he seems, but he figures that if a police officer is coming to seek help from a conman that it means two things: one, that Thorne is well-known enough that fucking cops can get in contact with him, which he needs to change; and two, that he's utterly fucked if a government employee can't take down a criminal mastermind. But, then again, the criminal mastermind is also head of the police force, and Sybil Mira has been known to be in cohorts with Levana Hayle-Blackburn, and as always, that means Sybil has been cleaning up Levana's dirty work for years. If such incriminating evidence against Sybil exists, and how she's used her connections to cover up any criminal activity, Thorne knows he won't be able to find it all on his own. He needs someone on the inside, but a lowly police officer that Sybil likely doesn't trust can't possibly count as one. Not only that, he needs a more tactical approach to the situation. Nothing outward. Something from the inside, some sort of technological- Thorne snaps his fingers. Of course.

"I have some people to help me out with this," Thorne finally says, after pondering this for a while. "I need to know your relationship to- her."

"She's my commanding officer," Kinney responds, and his fingers are tightly clenched around the beer. "I was in the precinct once, when I saw her assault a person in questioning. That raised red flags, but I didn't report it. I thought video footage would prove it, but when I checked the body cam footage of Sybil, the incident was gone. Somehow, someone had erased it." He drinks the last of his beer and winces- Thorne's already pegged him as a lightweight- and he sets it back down on the countertop. "I asked around. Casually. Asking if body cams could be malfunctioning, saying that I noticed some time stamped footage gone from the database, and she told me to stop questioning her actions. I've been hearing rumors that she's been doing far worse things, but none of them have been proven. So I heard about you, and they say you can do anything for a price. I figured it was worth a shot."

"You've come to the right man." Smugly, Thorne pushes away his empty glass and grips his motorcycle helmet in his hands, ready to get going. "I can do this for you, but you're going to have to give me time. It won't be easy." He sizes Kinney up- Kinney is broad, sure, as most police officers are, but something about his desperation makes him trustworthy. As someone who deals with plenty of untrustworthy people, Thorne can tell Kinney isn't one of them, and Thorne prides himself on being a good judge of character. "Don't tell anyone about this conversation."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Quickly, Kinney stands, and puts down money to cover his beer, but Jina is still preoccupied with other patrons. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me 'til it's done," Thorne says, and waves him away, watching as Kinney disappears into the hubbub of tipsy gamblers.

"Going for another round, handsome?" And Jina is back, a predatory smile on her face, taking Thorne's empty glass.

"No thanks. I've got to get going, dollface, but if I'm ever back in the area I'll be sure to pay you a visit." Thorne gives her a wink, which would ordinarily do wonders, but Jina's smile only grows larger and more dangerous, were it possible. He really, really doesn't like the greedy look in her eyes.

"What a shame," she says, sweetly, poison tinging every word. "And here I thought you'd stick around. I've heard that you're worth half a million dollars to a very interesting woman."

Fuck. "Sorry, sweetheart, but that's not going to happen," Thorne drawls, masking his startled realization that Jina has recognized him and knows who he is with a smirk. "If I were you, I'd look to make my cash elsewhere. I've heard that poker's pretty rewarding."

Jina bats her eyelashes. "I've already placed in a hot tip that the Carswell Thorne is in this casino at this very moment." Sarcastically, echoing his earlier words, she coos, "If I were you, I'd make it easier."

"Well," Thorne smiles back, laying down a few bills on the bar and making sure that it's high above his actual price total (he does feel bad that he's thwarting a pretty woman's get-rich-quick scheme, after all, she's insanely clever and he'll give her that), "I've never made anything easy for anyone. Not about to start now. Sorry I've got to go, I'm in a bit of a rush."

Thorne is no amateur, and he turns away from the bar, taking his time, strolling at a leisurely pace. He doesn't run. He mingles. He blends. He loiters by a blackjack table- takes a crack at some penny slots- all the while moving to the exit, but not noticeably so, until he's out of the way of the bar before his steps turn brisk and he takes the stairs to the parking garage. He only hopes the valet's not tainted, not with Sybil Mira's endless connections, as he escapes into the night, his latest client the only thing on his mind, and how he can accomplish the demise of Sybil Mira's professional reputation at the soonest possible moment.

But he'll need some help.