The chip in Gideon's hand pulsed like a living thing. Warm. Insistent. It seemed to sync with his heartbeat, each thrum a reminder that he was holding something more than a piece of currency.
The man in the black suit—his host, perhaps—watched with eyes that gleamed like polished obsidian. "A starter token," he said smoothly. "A gift. Everyone gets one."
Gideon swallowed. "What is it?"
The man's smile widened. "Time. A fragment of your own life, crystallized. You'll find it has value here."
Gideon nearly dropped the chip. His first instinct was disbelief, but the memory of the man with white hair collapsing at the table was too fresh. The way his body had seemed to age in seconds. The way the crowd had barely reacted.
Before Gideon could respond, a dealer approached—slender, poised, her crimson dress clinging to her like liquid fire. Her eyes were cold, her expression carved from marble. She gestured toward an empty seat at her table.
"Your first wager, Mr. Locke," she said, as if she already knew his name.
Gideon's mouth went dry. His pulse thundered in his ears. The black-suited man gave him a gentle push, guiding him toward the velvet chair.
The table was set for a simple game—blackjack. The familiar green felt, the cards stacked neatly, the polished wood edges. But the air around it hummed faintly, as if the game itself carried a weight far greater than numbers on paper.
Across the table, his opponents were already waiting:
A woman with diamond earrings and hollow cheeks, her pile of glowing chips stacked high.
A young man with trembling hands and only two chips left.
An elderly gentleman who stared at his tokens as though they were his last breaths.
Gideon sat, his chair sinking deeper than expected, as though it were swallowing him whole.
The dealer's voice was sharp, practiced. "Place your wager."
He hesitated, the chip burning in his palm. It wasn't money. It was his life. His time. His everything.
And yet, if the suit's words were true… this was also his only way out.
Slowly, with trembling fingers, Gideon set the chip onto the felt.
The dealer's pale hands slid across the table, collecting it. The chip glowed brighter, then dimmed, sinking into the table as if absorbed by the house itself.
Cards slid across the velvet. One for him. One for the others. One for the dealer.
Gideon looked down.
Eight of hearts.
His pulse quickened. He hadn't played in years, but the rules came back easily enough. Numbers, odds, choices. It should have felt familiar, comforting. But the air was thick, and every card dealt seemed to drain the life from the room.
"Hit," said the woman with diamonds.
"Stand," muttered the old man.
"Hit," whispered the trembling youth.
Gideon's turn came. He swallowed hard.
"Hit," he said, his voice barely audible.
The dealer slid him a card.
Ten of spades.
Eighteen. Not bad.
The dealer revealed her hand: sixteen. She drew another card. A five.
Twenty-one.
The table froze.
The woman with diamonds groaned but pushed her chips forward, her body sagging as the tokens disappeared. The young man screamed as his last two chips were taken, collapsing to the floor as though his strength had been ripped from him. The old man closed his eyes, resigned.
Then the dealer turned to Gideon. His single chip—his fragment of life—vanished into her hand.
A cold rush flooded through him. He gasped as his chest tightened, his vision darkening. His heart staggered, skipping beats. For a moment, he swore his skin sagged, his bones heavier.
And then it was over.
The pain lingered, faint but real. Something had been taken from him.
The dealer smiled, her eyes glinting. "The house thanks you, Mr. Locke. Would you like to continue?"
Gideon stared at the empty spot where his chip had been. His first wager. His first loss.
And though every instinct screamed at him to run, his mind whispered a darker truth: he had nothing left outside this place.
If salvation existed, it was here, in this cursed hall of smoke and shadow.
For Gideon Locke, the only way forward… was to keep playing.