The first real test of my ambition came during a rainy Tuesday at the local kindergarten, where the stakes were as high as a handful of shiny marbles and a small plastic dinosaur.
To the other kids, it was a battle for playground dominance; to me, it was a laboratory.
I sat cross-legged in the sandbox, facing off against a boy named Kenji who possessed a minor but irritating quirk that let him vibrate his fingers to shake things loose. He thought he had the upper hand in our game of "Blind Guess," but as he leaned in, smelling of crayons and confidence, I felt that familiar, shimmering static of the "Deal" quirk sparking between us.
"One more round, Kenji," I whispered, my voice barely a squeak but my mind calculating a thousand variables. "If I guess the color of the marble in your pocket, you give me that dinosaur. But if I'm wrong... I'll give you all my marbles and my favorite drawing of All Might."
Kenji grinned, a smug expression that looked ridiculous on a five-year-old's face.
He didn't even hesitate; the dinosaur was a prized possession, but the allure of a total victory—including my All Might drawing—was too much for him to pass up.
"Deal!" he chirped, his voice echoing with a childlike certainty that made the shimmering tension in the air snap into a solid, invisible chain.
The "Deal" quirk didn't just lock in the wager; it highlighted the target.
As I reached out, the "Gamble" side of my brain shifted from analytical to intuitive. I didn't see the marble, but I felt the probability of it being blue—a deep, oceanic blue—surging like a tide.
It wasn't a guess.
It was a certainty.
"Blue," I said calmly.
Kenji's face went pale as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the marble.
It was a deep, oceanic blue, shimmering under the grey afternoon sky.
He stared at the small glass sphere as if it had betrayed him, his eyes darting from the marble to me and back again.
He didn't just look defeated.
He looked confused, as if the laws of physics had momentarily shifted to favor me.
He handed over the plastic dinosaur with a trembling hand, the transaction feeling less like a playground trade and more like a soul-binding contract.
As my fingers closed around the toy, a strange sensation washed over me—a faint, electric hum that resonated from the dinosaur into my palm.
It wasn't the toy itself, but the feeling of a "win" being finalized by the Deal quirk.
For a split second, I felt a rush of Kenji's genuine disappointment, a tiny fragment of his emotional state transferring to me as part of the payout.
It was a glimpse into the mechanics of my power:
the more significant the loss to the opponent,
the more "weight" the victory carried for me.
The thrill of winning for myself was intoxicating.
But as I grew older, a more sophisticated hunger developed.
I started wondering if the "Deal" quirk was a tool exclusively for my own gain, or if it could be used as a lens to manipulate the fate of others.
What if I wasn't the player...
but the house?
I decided to test this theory during a heated dispute between two classmates, Hiro and Taka, who were arguing over a rare trading card.
They were both stubborn, their faces red with frustration, and the tension between them was a ripe fruit just waiting to be plucked.
I stepped in—
not as a mediator,
but as a dealer.
"Let's make it interesting," I suggested, stepping between them with a smile that was far too poised for a six-year-old.
"A simple game of 'Hero-Clash.' Winner takes the card, loser walks away. But since you both think you're the better strategist, let's use the Duel-Deck rules."
The other kids gasped.
Hero-Clash wasn't just a card game; it was a Fighting TCG that utilized holographic projections. In a world of quirks, the game was designed to mimic the tactical chaos of real hero-villain skirmishes.
By sliding the cards into the wrist-mounted projectors, the images of legendary heroes and notorious villains would manifest as semi-solid light constructs, fighting out the battle on the tabletop based on the players' strategic plays.
It was a game of percentages, synergy, and raw luck—
the perfect playground for me.
The projector on Hiro's wrist hissed, a miniature turbine spinning up as he slammed a gold-bordered card into the slot.
With a flash of neon light, a three-inch-tall holographic projection of the Pro Hero Death Arms materialized on the plastic tabletop, cracking the air with a simulated sonic boom.
Taka didn't flinch.
He countered instantly, sliding in a jagged, purple card that summoned a miniature, snarling version of the villain Incinerator.
The two constructs didn't just stand there as static images; they were fully animated combatants, their movements dictated by the card's stats and the players' tactical inputs.
The holographic Incinerator lunged forward, a stream of digitized fire licking at the edges of the table, turning the air around them hot and ozone-scented.
To the other kids, it was a clash of titans.
A high-stakes war over a piece of cardboard.
To me...
the battle was rendered in slow motion.
My high IQ acted like a HUD, overlaying the game with floating percentages and probability arcs.
I could see the exact frame where Hiro's attack would lag, the precise angle of Taka's defensive shift, and the 12.4% chance that a random critical hit would flip the board.
I wasn't just watching the game.
I was reading the source code of the match.
The game was a whirlwind of neon flashes and digitized screams, but my focus wasn't on the holographic carnage.
I was watching the space between the players.
As Hiro and Taka poured their desperation into the match, the "Deal" quirk began to hum, sensing the raw, unspoken desire for victory radiating off them.
They weren't just playing for a card anymore.
They were playing for pride.
And in the world of gambling...
pride is the most overpriced currency there is.
"You're both playing it too safe," I interjected, my voice cutting through the simulated roar of the holographic battle.
I leaned in, my eyes shimmering with a predatory glint that didn't belong on a child's face.
"The card is boring.
Let's raise the stakes.
Whoever wins the match gets the card and the other person's most prized possession for a week.
But if the game ends in a draw...
the winner of the next match takes everything."
The other children gasped, the air thickening with the sudden shift in tension.
Hiro and Taka looked at each other, their faces twisting.
They weren't thinking about the logic of the bet.
They were caught in the psychological gravity of the "Deal."
The moment they both nodded—
a silent, desperate agreement—
the invisible chains of my quirk snapped shut.
The holographic arena flared a violent crimson, the game board now humming with a spiritual weight that made the very air vibrate.
The game didn't just end.
It collapsed under the weight of the wager.
As the final holographic strike landed—a crushing blow from Death Arms that sent Incinerator spiraling into a shower of digitized pixels—the "Deal" quirk didn't just collect the prize.
It inhaled the atmosphere.
The air around Hiro and Taka distorted, pulling inward toward me like a vacuum.
I felt a sudden, jarring surge of heat and cold, a chaotic cocktail of victory and devastation that wasn't mine, but was flowing through the contract I had brokered.
The other kids backed away, sensing a shift in the room that they couldn't name.
They saw two boys fighting over a card.
I saw a metaphysical transaction.
As the winner, Hiro reached for the card—
but he froze midway.
The victory didn't just leave the room quiet.
It left it hollow.
The air felt stripped, as if the "Deal" had siphoned away every lingering trace of anticipation the moment the contract reached its conclusion.
For Hiro and Taka, the resolution wasn't relief—
it was withdrawal.
They stood there, panting, their pupils still dilated, staring at the empty space where the holographic battle had raged.
The card no longer mattered.
The prize had become secondary to the intoxicating uncertainty that preceded it.
I watched them from the corner of the room, savoring the strange aftertaste left behind by the completed contract.
It wasn't sweet or bitter, but an electric vibration that settled deep within my bones.
Every completed Deal carried an emotional residue—hope, fear, triumph, despair.
It didn't belong to me, yet for a fleeting instant I could feel every heartbeat that had been wagered on the outcome before it quietly dissolved into nothingness.
The minutes passed.
Neither of them left.
Instead...
they lingered.
Hiro absentmindedly shuffled his cards while Taka stared at the tabletop, his fingers twitching as though waiting for another hand to begin.
Neither of them looked satisfied.
If anything...
they looked empty.
Then, almost simultaneously, their eyes drifted toward me.
Not because they admired me.
Not because they trusted me.
And certainly not because they were being controlled.
They were searching for the only person in the room who could recreate that feeling.
The unbearable tension before the reveal.
The intoxicating uncertainty.
The explosive rush of victory.
The hollow ache of defeat.
The "Deal" hadn't stolen their minds; it had simply amplified the emotions that every gamble already carried, etching the experience so deeply into their memories that ordinary games suddenly felt dull by comparison.
A gambler never truly chases money.
They chase the feeling.
Money is merely the excuse.
The same was true for them.
I wasn't the object of their desire.
I was merely the table where fate chose to sit.
A slow smile tugged at the corner of my lips.
Perhaps I had been looking at my quirk the wrong way all along.
I wasn't meant to be the player.
I wasn't even meant to be the dealer.
I was the House.
And the House...
Always wins.