It was Matic—leaned back in his chair like he owned the place—smirk carved across his face as if he'd been born with it. Thick, black dreadlocks framed his head in a halo of gold accessories, a few locks spilling across his forehead. His grin—white teeth flashing beneath the glint of a gold bottom lip piercing—never wavered, even as the man across the table started sweating through his shirt.
A pile of silver coins sat between them. To anyone else, it was just a modest wager. To Matic, it was bait. The man wasn't the opponent—his mind was.
"Your hands are shakin', bruv," Matic said softly, voice pitched low so only his mark could hear. "Means you're either cold… or you know you're about to lose."
He let the silence stretch just long enough to make the man shift in his seat. Then, just to twist the blade, Matic lost a round on purpose—slipping a bad card, frowning like it stung. The man perked up, thinking his luck had turned. Perfect. Matic wanted him confident. Confident men bet more.
This wasn't a spur-of-the-moment hustle. He'd been fattening this one up for three weeks. Letting him win most games, just enough to hook him. Taking small victories elsewhere, never from him, keeping the illusion alive. Every loss Matic took was a seed planted, every smile a careful mask.
And all the while, his strange ability went to work—channeling through his opponent to borrow what he didn't naturally possess, leaving faint, secret markings on the cards. One glance, and he knew exactly which card was which.
Tonight, the harvest came due.
The man didn't see it. None of them did. When the final hand dropped, Matic swept the pot toward himself in one smooth motion, chains clinking against the wood. Around the table, some murmured about luck. Those who knew the younger, rougher Matic would recognize the craft. Back then, people spotted the trap too early and walked away. Not anymore.
With this group, he'd given them enough rope to hang themselves, and they'd done it gladly. Matic sat back, proud of a month's work. The silver wasn't the prize. The real prize was what it would buy—his familiar. Once that bond was made, the dungeon gates would open, and the real game would begin.
The coins clinked in his pouch with a rhythm that felt like victory. Three weeks of patience, one night of payoff. Matic didn't even stop to celebrate—this wasn't the kind of win you wasted on drinks. No, this was an investment.
The familiar-bonding hall sat on the edge of the market district, a long stone building humming with low magic. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of parchment and incense, and rows of cages and enclosures lined the walls. Creatures of every size and temperament shifted, growled, or stared back at their would-be partners.
A clerk with a pale vest stepped forward. "Looking for a bond, sir? First-time contract?"
Matic slid his pouch onto the counter, letting the weight speak for him. "Lookin' for more than a bond. Lookin' for somethin' that chooses me back."
He could feel the clerk sizing him up—another chance to take control. Matic adjusted his glasses, leaned in, and spoke low, like they were already co-conspirators. "You look like the kind of man who knows which ones are worth the trouble… and which ones ain't. So—how about you point me to somethin'… dangerous."
The man hesitated, but Matic kept talking, steering the conversation like he did at the card table—just enough charm, just enough implication that saying no would make them miss out on something big. By the time the clerk led him deeper into the hall, Matic already knew he had him.
Past the docile familiars and well-trained beasts, they stopped at a shadowed pen. Inside, a creature crouched low, eyes gleaming like coals. It didn't hiss. It didn't pace. It just stared at him.
Matic smirked. "This one's got teeth in its head," he said.
The clerk frowned. "It's got a history. Doesn't take well to handlers. Too unpredictable for most—"
"That's fine," Matic cut in, stepping closer to the bars. He met the creature's gaze, holding it like he'd hold a losing player's stare. Neither of them looked away.
Then—just faint enough for only the creature to notice—he pushed his ability through the bond-line forming between them. Not to control it, but to mark it, the same way he marked cards. A promise.
The creature tilted its head. A slow, knowing blink.
The clerk didn't see it, but Matic knew. The deal was done.
Oh, he was happy. No—he was buzzing. Every plan, every hand he'd played to get here, it all clicked the moment he channeled the beast's ability. Teleportation. He could slip into dungeons without paying a single coin for entry.
Oh, what could possibly go wrong?
Usually, he'd haggle—press the seller just for the sport of it, make them sweat before sealing the deal. But right now? Like at the card table, he knew exactly when to lose and when to win. This was a win. He paid the man handsomely, coins sliding across the counter with a satisfying weight.
Stepping forward, Matic placed his hands over the beast to begin the bond. The air thickened, shadows curling upward as the symbol burned into existence—projectiles shaped like deep blackness, four-pointed crosses, their vertical beams forming the "blades" while shorter horizontal beams cut across them. The edges tapered into needle-sharp points, less like steel swords and more like divine javelins carved from darkness itself. They pulsed once—eerily beautiful—before sinking into the space between them.
Then, with bones and fur bending in eerie quiet, the creature shimmered. When it calmed down, a sleek black cat with eyes the cold, shining grey of a winter sky and fur darker than a starless night sat in front of him.
It blinked slowly at him. He smirked.
The game had just leveled up.
Matic studied the creature—now a sleek black cat. Normally, people called them bad luck, but after the day he'd had, there was no way this was a curse. He'd been winning since sunrise; this was just the universe dealing him another ace.
The man who'd sold the cat watched him, face unreadable. Matic didn't bother returning the look—he didn't need to. With a single mental command, the cat vanished into nothing, then reappeared at his side without so much as a whisper of sound.
A grin curled across his face. Time to test what he really wanted.
He raised two fingers to his temple, flicked them outward in a sharp, slashing salute—then the world around him tore away. In the next breath, he was standing exactly where he'd left off: at the gate. The same gate he remembered all too well—the one where he'd been deserted.