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The game was a slow, careful reclamation. He played hands that were honest and silly, the kind that once led to friendly rivalries at family barbecues. Lila watched, her profile half-lit by the screen glow. Marcus felt the old cadence return—the small rituals of folding, bluffing, the tiny triumph when a pair of sevens toppled a flush. A laugh bubbled up from somewhere inside his chest, genuine and small.