It fills the “Greed” square.
They were playing Flotsam, Genique and the two young men, wagering with time, their own free time, and Genique was losing.
She was losing, it appeared, badly. She was down thirty-six hours and a massage, most of it to Marsey the hitter, but a few hours here and there to Darretchon the hacker.
And Marsey had plans, she could tell, for every one of those hours. He was licking his lips. It would have been flattering, if it wasn’t a bit scary.
“One year.” He flicked the chips in.
Genique tried not to smile. The boy was hungry.
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