The taste of loss lingered on Gideon's tongue like ash, bitter and metallic, as if he had swallowed rust. His body still trembled from the hollowing ache that had torn through him when that single missing chip stole a year of his life. It was not a pain he could point to—no wound, no scar—yet every breath carried with it a faint weight, the burden of something gone.
He sat slumped in the velvet chair, trying to gather himself, but the table never waited. The world here moved at its own rhythm, dictated not by clocks or reason but by the cards, the chips, and the unseen pulse of fate. The golden chandelier above shimmered faintly, its crystals tinkling like faint laughter.
The dealer's voice slid across the silence like a blade.
"Another round?"
Her tone was flat, professional, but Gideon caught the flicker of something in her eyes. Amusement? Pity? Or perhaps recognition—of a soul already fraying at the edges.
Around him, players shifted. The woman to his left had been replaced, her chair now occupied by a man with sunken eyes and trembling hands. Across the table, a couple whispered to each other, their voices urgent, their smiles forced. Everyone carried the same feverish desperation, the same hollow gleam in their gaze.
Gideon glanced toward the entrance. But the door he had seen earlier was gone. Only velvet walls stretched outward, endless and suffocating. There was no leaving, not until the house decided.
"Luck is a tide," came a familiar voice.
The black-suited host had appeared at his shoulder once more, his smile smooth as glass. His presence was both comforting and suffocating, like a shadow that refused to leave.
"It ebbs, it flows. One loss should not frighten you. Wouldn't you like to feel the tide on your side?"
Gideon's chest tightened with fury. At himself. At the debt that had driven him here. At the absurdity of playing with his very life as currency. He had already surrendered a piece of himself. What else was there left to lose?
And yet… the weight of temptation pressed down heavier than despair.
He nodded once. "Deal me in."
The host's smile sharpened, as though he had been waiting for that answer. A fresh chip appeared in Gideon's palm, hot as if forged from fire. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. Another fragment of his life, ready to be wagered.
The cards slid across the table with a whisper of silk.
His hand: Queen of hearts. Seven of clubs. Seventeen.
The dealer revealed a six.
A dangerous edge.
The woman to his left asked for a card—twenty-four. Bust. The man opposite stood at nineteen, his knuckles white around the chips he clutched.
Then it was Gideon's turn.
The dealer's eyes were unreadable, black pools that reflected nothing. "Your choice, Mr. Locke."
Seventeen against a six. Logic screamed: Stand. It was the safe play. But even as the thought formed, something tugged at the edges of his mind. A whisper not his own. A sensation, sharp and undeniable. He felt—no, knew—the next card belonged to him.
"Hit," Gideon said, the word scraping out of his throat.
The card slid into place.
Four of diamonds.
Twenty-one.
For a heartbeat, silence. Then the air shifted, almost imperceptibly. The dealer's perfect mask cracked, her lips tightening by the smallest fraction. She drew her next card: a ten. Sixteen. Another card. Bust. Twenty-six.
"Player wins," she said coldly.
The chips on the table trembled, as though alive, and then slid toward Gideon in a slow, inevitable tide. But these were no ordinary tokens. The one nearest to him pulsed violently, glowing faintly as if it carried something far more than value.
He reached out—and the world shattered.
The chip burned against his palm, and in an instant, visions stabbed into his skull.
He was no longer himself. He was small. A boy, cornered in a dark, cluttered room, tears streaking his cheeks. The reek of stale whiskey filled the air. A man's shadow loomed large. Rage thundered from his mouth, each word a whip crack. The slap came suddenly, hot and searing, exploding across the boy's face.
The boy's pain became Gideon's pain. His tears became Gideon's tears. For one horrible moment, he was trapped inside a memory that was not his own, drowning in someone else's misery.
Then—silence.
Gideon tore his hand away, gasping, his chest heaving as if he had surfaced from deep water. The chip rolled in his palm, still glowing, still beating.
The host leaned close, his voice smooth and venomous.
"Not every prize is gold, Mr. Locke. Sometimes you inherit what others have lost."
Gideon stared at the tokens before him. They were not winnings. They were vessels. They pulsed with stolen lives, fractured souls, discarded agony.
A wave of nausea swept through him. Was this the reward the casino offered? To carry the burdens of strangers? To win was not to be free—it was to be chained anew.
And yet, beneath the revulsion, temptation stirred. If memories could be stolen… then what else could be taken? Strength? Skills? Secrets?
His hand closed around the chip. Its pulse echoed against his own heartbeat, refusing to fade.
The dealer shuffled the deck again, her eyes glinting with quiet cruelty. "Another round, Mr. Locke?"
Gideon swallowed hard, staring at the cards, at the glowing chip, at the endless velvet walls.
He had come here for salvation.
Now, he wasn't sure if he wanted to escape—
or to claim everything the casino had to offer.