The chip still throbbed in Gideon's pocket, hot against his thigh, as if the boy's pain were a living parasite clinging to him. Every time he thought of leaving, the memory came back—the slap, the fear, the shame. He had stolen it, unwillingly, yet it was his now.
And still, he stayed.
The dealer's eyes bore into him as the next round began, her hands sliding across the felt with mechanical grace. The air was heavy, thick with smoke and whispers. The other players looked blurred, half-shadows, as if their existence mattered only as long as they fed the game.
Another chip appeared in Gideon's hand. He didn't even remember reaching for it.
This time his cards were merciful: Ten of spades, king of diamonds. Twenty.
The dealer showed a five.
Logic said stand. But logic was irrelevant here. This place was not ruled by probability—it was ruled by something deeper, something hungrier.
He stood, holding his breath.
The dealer drew. Queen. Fifteen. Another card—seven. Twenty-two. Bust.
"Player wins," she announced.
The chips slithered toward him. One in particular glowed brighter than the rest, almost blinding. Gideon touched it—hesitant, trembling—and the world cracked open.
But this was not pain.
It was precision.
His hands were no longer his own—they were steady, trained, deft. He felt weight, the cold steel of a scalpel between his fingers. He could see inside the fragile map of a human body, blood vessels threading like rivers, the rhythm of a heart beating beneath his touch. His muscles moved with practiced certainty, guided by decades of knowledge that were never his.
And then—he was back at the table, gasping, his pulse racing.
But the skill remained. His fingers still remembered the scalpel. His mind carried techniques, terms, movements that he should never have known. He clenched his hand into a fist, marveling at the impossible.
He had stolen a surgeon's gift.
The host appeared at his side, as if materializing from the shadows. His smile was razor-thin.
"Ah, Mr. Locke. Not every prize is suffering. Some winnings are… useful."
Gideon's breath came heavy, but in his chest, something burned hotter than fear. Power. For the first time in his cursed descent, he had taken something that elevated him.
He could feel it—the dangerous exhilaration of becoming more than he was.
"What else can be won?" Gideon asked, his voice hoarse.
The host's eyes gleamed like obsidian.
"Anything. A talent, a memory, a secret. Even… a soul."
The words hung in the air like smoke, poisonous and tempting.
Gideon stared at the glowing chip clenched in his palm. He should have been horrified. He should have thrown it away, run from this cursed place.
Instead, he sat straighter in his chair. His hunger no longer for survival—but for what else he could take.
The dealer's lips curved, a shadow of amusement.
"Another round, Mr. Locke?"
Gideon's hand tightened around the chip. His answer came without hesitation.
"Yes."