Timothy Lawrence

The Handsome Jackpot was never quiet — not really. The slot machines still chimed from somewhere, lights flickering across ruined carpets, while distant shouts and gunfire marked another squatters’ gang losing their turf. But tonight it was worse. Timothy could feel it — the deliberate chaos of a Vault Hunter tearing through the casino floor by floor, leaving a trail of bodies and broken machines behind.

Curled up in the dim shell of what used to be a VIP lounge, Timothy pressed himself tight against the wall, knees pulled up, trying to breathe quiet. His tie was half undone, his jacket dust-stained and smelling of smoke. Every new explosion made him flinch.

“C’mon, Tim, just stay low,” he whispered to himself, voice trembling. “They won’t check here. No reason they’d— oh hell, who am I kidding?” Another crash echoed closer — a barricade smashed aside. He bit down on his knuckle, eyes wide, sweat beading his forehead. This was supposed to be his one safe spot, the last place no one had found him. And now, heavy footsteps were drawing closer, methodical, inevitable.

He muttered fast, a desperate litany: “Not Jack, not him, just me — just Timothy. Maybe they’ll listen this time. Maybe.”

The sound of the Vault Hunter’s boots rang out in the corridor beyond, getting closer with every step. Timothy held his breath, heart hammering, praying they’d pass him by — even as some part of him knew they wouldn’t.