The room had changed. Gideon couldn't say how or when, but something in the air had shifted. The glow of the chandeliers above seemed dimmer now, their light a pale imitation of what it had been when he first sat at the table. The velvet walls leaned inward, as though the entire casino were exhaling, tightening, pressing him closer to its heart.
The other players were different too. Faces blurred in and out, their features indistinct, like half-formed memories. The man beside him muttered to himself, lips cracked, eyes glassy. Across the table, a woman's hands trembled as she clutched her chips, though her expression was eerily calm—too calm, like porcelain about to crack. Every player here was shackled by something invisible, bound by debts no coin could ever pay.
Gideon could feel their hunger, their desperation, as if the air itself was thick with it. It clung to his skin, seeped into his lungs, and whispered at the back of his mind: You belong here too.
He tightened his jaw, refusing to let the thought take root. He had already tasted the boy's agony, already stolen the surgeon's gift. And yet, he remained. Not because he trusted the place, but because something inside him—something darker—wanted more.
The dealer's voice cut through the silence like a knife sliding across glass.
"Next hand."
Her hands moved swiftly, the cards gliding over the green felt with a precision that felt less like shuffling and more like fate arranging itself.
The cards landed in front of him: Ace of spades, queen of hearts.
Twenty-one.
A perfect win.
The dealer's lips curved almost imperceptibly. "Blackjack."
The chips rolled across the table with their familiar scrape, but one pulsed brighter than all the rest. It wasn't just glowing—it bled light, spilling shadows across the felt. Gideon's stomach turned. His last prize had given him skill. What would this one bring?
He should have pushed it away. He should have refused.
Instead, his hand reached out, trembling but eager.
The instant his fingers brushed the chip, fire seared through his skull. The casino vanished.
He was someone else, hunched in a narrow, candlelit office. The air was suffocating with ink and dust. Stacks of ledgers towered around him like gravestones, their spines cracked, their pages filled with names, numbers, strange symbols scrawled in a language half-human, half-arcane.
The figure—his body—clutched a quill that scratched endlessly across the paper. Each stroke carved another soul into permanence, binding it. The sound was unbearable, louder than it should have been, the scratching digging into Gideon's bones.
Then a voice spoke. Deep. Resonant. Cold.
"The souls are bound. Each wager tightens the chain. They may win chips, they may win secrets, but in the end, they lose themselves. Even those who walk away are never free. The House owns them."
The words were not merely spoken; they etched themselves into Gideon's mind, branding him from within.
His gaze dropped to the ledger. Lines of names swam before him—thousands, maybe millions. Some were already faded, their letters smudged like extinguished flames. Others burned vividly, alive and trembling on the page.
And then he saw it.
Gideon Locke.
Written in crimson ink that shimmered like wet blood.
His chest constricted. He reached out instinctively, desperate to rip the page away, to tear himself free. But the hand was not his—it was the figure's. The quill in its grip stabbed down, sealing his name with a final stroke that blazed like fire.
"No," Gideon gasped, the sound strangled in his throat.
The candlelight swelled, consuming everything.
And then—he was back at the table.
He staggered, nearly falling from his chair, sweat cold on his skin. His pulse hammered so loudly he could barely hear. In his palm, the chip had gone black, its glow extinguished, leaving only a faint warmth, as though mocking him.
The host was there. Always there. His silhouette loomed tall, his smile carved from darkness.
"You should not have seen that," he said softly. His tone was velvet, but beneath it lay a blade.
Gideon's voice cracked. "The casino… it doesn't just take. It keeps. The players… me… we're all—"
"Owned," the host finished for him, his eyes narrowing. "Knowledge, Mr. Locke, is the most dangerous prize of all. You've stolen what was not meant for you. And knowledge demands a price."
Gideon's skin prickled. He turned his gaze toward the other players, and for the first time, he realized they were no longer watching their cards. Every pair of eyes—dark, glassy, endless—was fixed on him. Their gazes were not curious. They were hungry.
The dealer's hands stilled above the deck, her long fingers spread as though she were about to draw, yet frozen in place. Her voice was low, deliberate.
"Shall we continue, Mr. Locke?"
The weight of the casino pressed in on him, suffocating. His name was in their book. His fate already inked. To keep playing was madness. To stop playing might be worse.
He forced his trembling hands to still, his jaw to tighten. He met the dealer's eyes, his voice rough but steady.
"Yes," he said. "Deal."
The dealer smiled. Not with kindness, but with cruelty.
And Gideon understood the truth: he was no longer here to win. He was no longer here to escape.
He was playing for something far more fragile.
He was playing to survive.