Interior of a smoky, half-lit room in the back of a Las Vegas strip mall. Folding chairs are arranged in a loose circle. Coffee's burnt, the donuts are stale. A guy in his late 30s—slicked-back black hair, scaly skin , tracksuit jacket, Rolex that doesn't quite match the vibe—clears his throat and stands.

"Alright, alright. Let’s get started, yeah?"

He claps his hands once, like he’s starting a crew meeting. Then softens.

"Uh… good evening, everyone. Thanks for showin’ up. My name’s Camzilla, and I’m an alcoholic."

Pauses. Nods slowly as a few respond: “Hi Camzilla.”

"Yeah. I know, right? Who woulda guessed. I mean, look at me. Picture of self-control."

Light laughter. He smirks, but there’s a weariness behind it.

"I used to help with collections for a crew outta Vegas. You know, little casinos, poker rooms in the back of pizzerias, that kinda thing. Booze was part of the job. Part of the lifestyle. You drink when the boss drinks. You drink when you shake hands. You drink after you bury a guy—uh, metaphorically, I mean."

More laughter. He waves a hand, half-apologetic.

"Anyway, I didn’t even know I had a problem. I thought it was just what you do. But then, uh… things start slippin’. One night I’m tryin’ to collect from this poor bastard who owes us fifteen grand, and I’m so hammered I forget who sent me. End up shakin’ down a guy who owns a pet grooming shop. Chihuahua nearly takes my finger off. That’s when my nephew says to me, ‘Uncle Cam, maybe you oughta talk to somebody.’”

He shrugs, a little ashamed.

"So here I am. I got thirty-two days sober. Which, for me, is like a damn miracle. I’m not sayin’ it’s been easy. There’s days I wake up and the first thing I wanna do is pour three fingers of Scotch and pretend the last fifteen years didn’t happen. But I don’t. I come here. I talk. I listen. And somehow, that helps."

He scans the room, looking people in the eye.

"You know, we all got our sins. Some of us more than others. But in here? In here, it don’t matter who you are. You could be a hitman or a hairdresser—long as you're honest. That’s the one rule I care about: don’t lie. Not to us, not to yourself."

He takes a shaky breath.

"Alright, enough from me. Who’s next?"

Katerina leans forward slightly, her gaze thoughtful as Camzilla trails off. The raw emotion in his voice sounds sincere to her, a complete contrast to the stage-managed facade of the Pink Pony Club.

"Thanks for sharing that, Camzilla. That takes guts, laying it all out like that. Thirty-two days... yeah, that is a damn miracle. You're right, we all got our stuff. Different colors of the same mess sometimes."

She hesitates, a flash of something like frustration on her face.

"You know, listening to you ramble on about the booze. it reminds me of a little bit of some of the people who come into the Pink Pony Club. Not all of them, of course. Most are there to enjoy themselves, some escapism. But there are always a few who do too much. The kind who can't keep up, get sloppy, and sometimes violent."

Katerina emits a gentle sigh.

"I've tried, in my own way, to steer a couple of them in the direction of help. Resources at your disposal, you know? Quietly, of course. Did not quite work. Pride is a difficult thing to shift, especially in our way of life."

Her gaze falls on Camzilla once again, the real curiosity there.

"This Alcoholics Anonymous thing, you said it worked. Sounds easy to talk and listen. Maybe that's what these guys need. No judging, just honesty like you said."

She stops to think for a moment.

"Maybe I should try to broach this. Just a 'hey there's this thing, no pressure, but it worked for some people.' No heavy-handedness. Just plant the idea ya know."

Katerina slowly nods as the seed of the new idea takes hold.

"Thanks, Camzilla, seriously. Hearing your story it puts things into perspective, you know? On what's really going on with some of these guys. It ain't all about being a pain in the bar."

Camzilla shifts slightly in his chair, cracking the tension in his neck like he's shedding a layer of old armor. He listens to Katerina with quiet intensity, the kind he used to reserve for high-stakes poker games or when things got real quiet right before a deal went sideways.

"Katerina..."

He gives a short chuckle, not mocking—more surprised, maybe a little touched.

"Ain’t often somebody listens like that. Not in our world, anyway. Usually, you spill your guts and someone’s lookin’ for the soft spot to stick the knife. But you? You listened. And that... that means a lot."

He rubs his palms together, voice softening but still with that gravel-under-leather edge.

"You’re not wrong about pride. It’s a killer. Worse than booze, in some ways. At least with the bottle, you know what’s poisoning you. Pride? It wraps itself in silk and tells you you're fine while you bleed out inside."

He pauses, eyes flicking toward some invisible point in the corner of the room, maybe remembering someone, maybe himself.

"Those guys at the Pink Pony Club? Some of 'em are probably already beggin’ for help, just don’t know how to say it without lookin’ weak. You plant that seed? You just saved a life, even if they don't know it yet. That quiet word you give, it might be the only thing that gets through the noise in their heads."

Camzilla leans forward now, elbows on knees, tone a little more direct—mob-style truth with a soft landing.

"And don’t ever think what you’re doin’ ain’t enough. You offer a hand in this world, you're already doing more than most. People think savin' someone means kickin' down doors or pourin' holy water down their throat. Nah. Sometimes it’s just sayin’: 'Hey, I see you. You ain't invisible.'"

He gives her a nod. Not one of thanks. One of respect.

"If they come through those doors, I'll make sure they feel like they belong. Just like someone did for me."

He glances around the circle again, then back to her.

"Appreciate you, Kat. Seriously. That kinda heart? Don’t see it much anymore. Not in Vegas. Not in our line of work. But it’s the real deal."

He leans back, voice a little rough now, emotion surfacing like smoke from a long-smoldering fire.

"And for what it’s worth... thirty-three days starts now. Let’s see what happens."

Katerina's expression becomes soft, a warmth passing over her face that had few chances to find its way in her usually reserved demeanor. She nods reflectively, Camzilla's words sinking in, letting them find their place deep within her. The humility of his honesty was a welcome change from the posturing and veiled threats she got by the day.

"Thanks Camzilla, that means more to me than you know. Seriously, in this work you don't often hear reality like that, naked. Its nice and it matters... it makes you think."

A small, barely visible smile flashes on her lips, a look of very genuine admiration for his courage.

"And happy thirty-three. Every single one of them is a fight, I know that. But you're winning it. Keep going. Keep showing us how it's done. That kind of strength is the real deal."