Jack Bernard smiled at trash cards. It wasn't about winning. It was about watching others lose themselves.
Across the beat-up felt table, two college kids sat in hoodies. One chattered nonstop, tossing chips like a magician showing off. The other was a statue in mirrored sunglasses, hand clamped over his jaw, pretending not to be scared.
Jack didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just tapped his modest stack of chips with a rhythm only he understood. Every click was a beat in the silent music of tension. He'd been here before, dozens of tables, hundreds of hands. What made this different wasn't the game. It was the need.
"Check," he said.
"Still in?" Chatterbox scoffed. "That's either brave or stupid."
Jack shrugged. He didn't care what they thought. The real game wasn't the cards, it was the people.
The kid raised the bet. The statue followed in an instant and Jack called after it.
The turn had been shown: queen of diamonds. No help. But Jack didn't blink.
Another raise from the chatterbox, another call from statue and Jack.
Jack didn't watch the cards. He watched them. The vein twitch in the chatterbox's neck. The momentary hitch in the statue's breath. Everyone had tells, you just had to look.
He leaned back in his chair. Calm. The kind of calm that unnerved people who weren't used to it.
The river card dropped: ace of hearts.
Chatterbox cracked. He shoved everything in. "All in."
The statue folded, instantly. The kid smirked, pour a fake confidence.
Jack stared at his hand: three of clubs, seven of spades. Garbage. But he didn't care. He wasn't playing the cards. He was playing the room.
He pushed his chips in. "All in."
"You serious?!" the kid barked. "You think I'm bluffing with an ace on the board?"
Jack's eyes didn't leave his. "I don't care if you're bluffing."
He flipped his cards and the table went silent.
"Three-seven. Off-suit." Jack said without expression.
The kid laughed, triumphant, and flipped over a king and ten. Pair of kings.
"You're bluffing with garbage?!"
"Classic dead man's bluff," Jack said.
The dealer nodded slowly.
"What the hell is that?!"
"House rule. If I call the exact moment you started bluffing, I take half the pot."
"I wasn't bluffing! I had kings!"
"You were bluffing strength," Jack said. "You pretended to hold the ace. You started bluffing after the queen dropped. You licked your lips. Played it well. Just not well enough."
The statue raised an eyebrow. The dealer shrugged.
Jack pulled half the pot and walked away toward the black exit door, guarded by a muscular man with sunglasses and a neat suit.
It wasn't about the money. It never was from the beginning.
It was about control.
He stepped into the night, hoodie up, backpack heavy with chips and hard cash. His hands trembled not from fear but from the thrill.
From knowing he had seen deeper than anyone else at the table.
***
The city buzzed around him. Neon signs hummed. Traffic hissed. Somewhere a siren wailed. But Jack barely noticed. The high from the game was still in his veins, hot and electric.
He walked three blocks to the apartment complex. A crumbling stack of bricks pretending to be home. He lived on the third floor, unit 3B, right above the broken streetlight. The elevator hadn't worked in two years. Not that it mattered.
Tonight felt different.
Lights were on at home.
Odd, he thoughts.
Usually his mom and little sister were asleep by now. It was late. Too late for guests. Too early for emergencies. Unless…
He turned the corner and froze.
Voices. Male. Angry. Low tones, threatening ones. Wrong, felt so wrong.
His stomach turned to ice. His pulse accelerated. The thrill from earlier curdled into dread.
He ran.
He burst into the living room. Chaos.
His mother knelt on the floor, shielding Mia, who sobbed uncontrollably. A man in a leather jacket towered over them. Another leaned against the wall, flipping through their photo album like it meant nothing. His fingers smeared greasy prints over the pictures.
"You said next week," his mother cried. "Please—"
"You said that last week too," the thug snapped. "You think your dead husband left you some kind of pass?"
Jack charged. "Get off her!"
He tackled the man. A fist cracked across Jack's jaw. Stars exploded behind his eyes.
Another kick toward his tummy.
Another blow on his head.
Boots straight to the chest.
Annoying laugh from the two thugs.
He curled up, shielding his head. His mother screamed. She threw herself over him, absorbing blows meant for him.
The last thing he heard was his sister's scream.
Then, darkness.
***
Beeping sound heard non-stop. Sterile light spread across the room quietly.
Jack woke to a white ceiling. Couldn't move. Couldn't scream.
He was trapped.
His body was stone. A cage. A coffin with his mind locked inside.
Mia's soft breathing nearby. His mother sobbing just outside the door.
"Please... I'll sell something. Just give him time to heal... He is my son."
The beeping from the monitor continued, steady and uncaring.
Jack tried to cry, tried to scream but nothing is working.
He was buried in himself, watching helplessly as the world moved without him.
And then it appeared.
A glowing blue screen, floating silently.
[All-or-Nothing System Detected]
[Initiating Sync with Host: Jack Bernard]
[Critical Debt Threshold Reached]
[Would You Like to Make a Wager?]
[Yes / No]
He stared at it.
No sound, only pluse lights from the screen and a question.
His breath caught.
A wager?
His pulse surged.
If this was a coma dream, it was the most lucid one he'd ever had. But even if it was real, what did he have to lose?
Mia was crying again. He could hear the soft whimpering beside his bed.
Jack focused on the word.
Yes.
And the world began to change.