Dirgantara thought he was just asleep.
Until he wasn't.
He opened his eyes into a world coated in shadows—not pitch black, but murky, like twilight filtered through smoke. The air was thick. Cold. It pressed against his lungs like unseen hands, squeezing tight. Every breath felt like swallowing tar.
Then he saw him.
Or it.
A man—at least in shape—but with the head of a rabbit. Not a cartoonish bunny, no. Its fur was pristine white, but the eyes… the eyes were a deep, glowing crimson. Long ears twitched in rhythm with some invisible beat. It wore a sharp red tuxedo, tailored to perfection, like it had just stepped out of a cursed fashion magazine.
Dirga couldn't move. He wanted to scream. His body wouldn't obey.
The creature extended a hand and placed something in his palm—a single six-sided die, smooth and heavy.
"Play," the voice said.
It wasn't spoken aloud. The word echoed inside Dirga's head, like a whisper burrowing into his skull. It slithered down his spine, into his soul.
"I know what you want. Win, and everything you desire will come true. Lose… and I get your soul."
Every instinct in Dirga screamed at him to run, to resist, to wake up. But he couldn't. Because deep down, a small voice whispered:
You need this.
But how did he get here? How did his life spiral into a place where a rabbit-headed demon offering dice games for souls didn't feel like a complete impossibility?
To understand that, we have to rewind.
There was a time when Dirgantara's world was filled with light.
He had someone.
Her name was Naya.
She was his childhood friend—his dream girl, his anchor, his sunshine. A smile that could melt the snow off Chicago in January. Her family was wealthy, her life perfect on the outside: penthouse view, private schools, designer dresses.
Until it all fell apart.
Her mother died in a car crash when Naya was fifteen. The tragedy broke her father—once a high-powered businessman, now a drunk, violent husk of a man. The warmth in their mansion froze over.
The bruises started to appear.
Everyone at school saw them. No one said a thing.
Except Dirga.
He confronted the man once. Took a bottle to the head for it. Still has the scar above his eyebrow.
But he made a promise that day, blood dripping down his face, fists clenched in front of her trembling father:
"One day, I'll take her away from all this. I swear it."
She cried when he said it. Not from fear—but from hope.
The day they graduated high school, Dirga kept his word.
He approached her father, thinking he'd beg, or threaten.
But the man just laughed, drunk and swaying.
"You want her? Fine. Bring me one million dollars."
It was ridiculous. It was cruel. It was a joke.
But Dirga said yes.
He worked three jobs—waiting tables, stocking warehouses, and cleaning night shifts at gas stations. He sold everything he owned. Still, it was a fraction of what he needed.
So, he did the unthinkable.
He went to the loan sharks.
Not the kind that wore suits. The kind that grinned with gold teeth and had "debt collectors" who used baseball bats instead of legal notices.
A month later, he returned to the man's house.
Slapped a duffel bag full of stacked cash on the coffee table. The father stared, stunned.
Dirga didn't say a word. Just took Naya's hand, and walked out.
They got married in the spring.
For a time, life was golden.
Their one-bedroom apartment was tiny, but filled with laughter. Naya could turn microwave noodles into a feast. Dirga memorized every line of her smile.
They had nothing, but they were happy.
Until she collapsed in the bathroom one morning.
The diagnosis was brutal. A rare autoimmune disease. Treatable, maybe. But only with an expensive experimental procedure.
Even then, survival wasn't guaranteed.
Hope came with a price tag—six figures. And Dirga had already used up every favor, every dollar. The loan sharks were circling again. Missed payments meant broken windows. A dead cat on their doorstep.
Dirga stared at hospital bills until the numbers blurred. There was no one left to ask. Nothing left to sell.
So when the dream came—he didn't fight it.
And now, here he was. In the dark. With the rabbit.
"Ready to roll?" the creature purred. Its voice was gentle, persuasive. The voice of a devil who knew exactly what you wanted.
Dirga swallowed. His throat was dry as sandpaper.
"What's the game?"
"Simple," the rabbit-man said. "You choose—odd or even. If your number lands, you win. If not… you lose."
Dirga hesitated.
"What do I win?"
The rabbit smiled wider. Too many teeth for a herbivore.
"Anything you want. A miracle. Money. Time. Health. Her."
He thought of Naya, lying in that hospital bed, pale as porcelain, wires sprouting from her like vines. And still, somehow, she smiled at him.
"Odd," Dirga whispered.
The rabbit nodded, amused.
"Then even belongs to me."
Dirga threw the die.
It tumbled, clattered, bounced… and landed.
Six.
The rabbit-man tilted his head.
"Interesting."
Dirga gasped awake.
He was in the hospital waiting room, slumped in a chair.
His palm was clenched tight. He opened it.
A scratch-off lottery ticket sat in his hand.
Three days later, Dirga became a millionaire.
The news called it a miracle. A twenty-year-old from South Side Chicago winning the biggest state jackpot in over a decade. Cameras swarmed him. Reporters begged for interviews. Strangers sent letters asking for donations.
Dirga didn't care.
He paid for Naya's treatment in full. The best specialists, the best care. She had a private room now, with windows and sunlight. He held her hand every day.
For the first time, there was real hope.
But that night… he dreamed again.
The rabbit-man was waiting, seated at a long candlelit table. Shadows danced behind him—moaning, writhing, whispering.
"Congratulations," he said, pouring himself a glass of pitch-black liquid. "But the game is just beginning."
Dirga stepped back. "You said one roll!"
"I said a roll," the rabbit said, smiling with blood-red eyes. "I never said only one."
Dirga clenched his fists. "I'm done. I got what I needed."
The creature leaned forward, placing a small card on the table.
A name. An address. Two words in crimson ink:
RETRIEVE SOUL
Dirga's stomach dropped. "What does that mean?"
The rabbit chuckled, swirling his drink.
"You're a gambler now, Dirgantara. And every gambler plays until the house wins."
Behind him, the shadows screamed.