THE CRACKS IN THE ARMOR
Mathilda’s POV
I don’t know where Samson has gone to get this meal, but he is certainly taking his sweet time. The minutes stretch out, and the atmosphere in the room begins to shift as the adrenaline of the card game fades into a drunken haze. The rowdy energy has slowed down, replaced by the heavy, slurred speech of men who have had far too much to drink.
“Do you know we almost smashed her earlier?” Samuel says, his voice thick with intoxication. He sounds like he’s leaning back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight.
“f**k, man. Not the goods, you crazy motherfucker,” Mr. Whiskey replies, though his protest sounds weak, lacking any real moral conviction.
“You haven’t seen her skin, that’s why you think so,” Samuel counters, and I feel a wave of rev
