Inside one of the countless bars threaded through the clockwork veins of axion kingdom, the night continued exactly as it always meant to—never sleeping, never slowing, never allowing silence to grow roots.
Silence, in this place, was an anomaly. A defect.
The bar breathed like a living machine.
Every motion produced sound. sound with purpose.
When bodies brushed past one another, silk kissed silk, leather slid against pleated linen, and the friction birthed a steady, rhythmic swish—swrrsh—swish, as measured as a metronome.
Beneath the floorboards, hidden mechanisms responded instantly to weight and posture; chairs clicked and adjusted with soft metallic sighs, rising or lowering just enough to cradle each patrons perfectly.
The clockwork never missed a beat. It never judged. It simply adapted.
In the far corner, the house band pulled their accordions to unnatural lengths. The instruments wheezed and cried, bellows stretched thin like lungs on the brink of collapse. The sound was mournful—mechanical sorrow given melody—yet somehow intoxicating.
Patrons tapped their boots against the floor in time with the piston-like rhythm, fingers drumming on tabletops, shoulders swaying without conscious thought.
At the center of the bar, a octagonal metal table commanded attention.
The Red Needle game had reached a fevered tension.
A dagger spun violently at the table's heart, its tip scraping against the metal surface with a shrill, needle-thin scream that drilled straight into the nerves. The blade blurred, reflecting fractured lamplight, while the carved grooves in the tabletop—intricate fractal patterns—caught stray droplets of blood from earlier rounds. Each rotation drew shallow gasps from the onlookers. Each wobble threatened fate.
Around the bar, drinks shimmered in layered hues—amber floating atop violet, emerald bleeding into gold—each glass a small, deliberate miracle of folded alchemy. Along the long bar, a cluster of folders huddled close together. Whenever laughter burst from them or a toast was raised, their pleated sleeves unfurled in elegant flashes, revealing linings bright and iridescent as peacock feathers. It wasn't fashion.
It was warfare.
A silent contest of design, refinement, and status—no one willing to be eclipsed.
Then—
The doors opened.
The bar did not fall silent.
But something stopped.
It was subtle. A hitch in the rhythm. A skipped tooth in the gear.
A figure stepped inside.
His presence was wrong.
It wasn't loud nor mposing, it's just… incompatible.
His shirt and jeans did not respond to the air.
They did not ripple, unfold, or even bloom.
They hung stiff and unmoving, swallowing light instead of reflecting it. Heavy. Dead. Like bark stripped from a tree and sewn without care. Like a log dragged into a cathedral of gears.
Eyes turned.
Not to his face.
To his clothes.
For the people of this kingdom, garments that didn't move were unsettling. Clothes were meant to breathe, to answer motion, to reveal their hidden selves in response to the world. Clothing without folds was a body without a pulse. A soul that refused to resonate.
Whispers crawled through the room like static.
Then a voice cut through it all.
"This glass is on me—" the bartender said, his voice smooth and amused, "—if you can tell me why your clothes look so dead."
He slid a cocktail down the counter. The metal surface folded inward and outward as it traveled, guiding the glass along a precise track before it stopped perfectly within reach.
The outsider caught it without hesitation.
He tilted his head back and downed the drink in a single motion.
No pause. No savoring.
The liquid vanished past his lips as if poured into a void.
He exhaled sharply, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then placed his right hand behind his head, fingers scratching through his hair as though the entire bar weren't watching him.
"I came to gamble," he said loudly, voice rough but casual, stretching each word, "but I don't even have a single coin."
For half a second, the bartender froze mid-wipe.
Then he burst out laughing.
His pleated vest rustled violently with every breath as he doubled over, slamming a palm against the counter.
Clang. The sound rang through the bar like a struck bell.
"No money?" he roared. "In our great kingdom?!"
He shook his head, still laughing, eyes glittering with interest rather than scorn.
"But then again…" he added, leaning forward, lowering his voice just enough to draw everyone closer, "we don't always gamble with money here, man."
That was when the pressure shifted.
A chair scraped back. Slowly and deliberately.
The burly man at the Red Needle table rose to his full height.
The sound his clothes made was wrong—not the bright, fluttering unfurl of practiced folds, but a deep, mechanical click… click… like an ancient mechanism grinding without oil.
He wore a long, dark blue leather coat—scarred, worn, respected. The folds along his sleeves had been shaped by hand, pressed until their edges were sharp enough to cut skin. As he moved, those folds unfolded one by one, revealing brass springs embedded beneath the leather, flexing and tightening with each motion.
He didn't rush.
Predators never did.
Each step was measured. Exact. His boots struck the floor in perfect intervals as he approached the outsider, stopping just close enough for his shadow to swallow the man's feet.
He didn't look at the outsider's face.
His gaze dropped.
To the jeans.
His lip curled.
"No money like a brokie you can find rotting on the street isn't the problem…" he said, voice hoarse, heavy with contempt.
Then he lifted his head slightly, eyes narrowing, disgust thickening his tone.
"But if you lose—what are you going to lose?" His gaze lingered on the stiff fabric, unmoving, lifeless.
"This shabby pair of jeans?"
The bar swelled back to life in uneven waves.
At first it was only a few murmurs—low, cautious sounds slipping between sips of liquor and the creak of shifting chairs. Then the whispers multiplied, collided, and grew bold.
"—Hey, isn't that Moritz Luminoc?"
"No way…"
"That's him. That's the king of Red Needle."
"Old man Moritz…?"
"Elder Moritz!"
Names ricocheted across the room like loose bolts striking steel.
Some patrons craned their necks, others stood on the tips of their shoes, pleated garments fluttering and unfolding in nervous reflexes. Sleeves blossomed and collapsed. Hems whispered against the floor. The bar's clockwork underbelly responded in kind—clicks, ticks, and subtle mechanical sighs rippled outward as the collective weight of attention shifted toward the table.
Amid the rising noise, one voice did not rise at all.
In the far corner of the bar, half-shielded by a column of folded brass panels, a young woman sat utterly still. Her dress was a masterpiece of restraint—layer upon layer arranged like the petals of a lotus frozen mid-bloom. Not a single fold moved, not even when the crowd surged or the air trembled with sound.
She observed the outsider with an unblinking, measuring gaze, eyes sharp enough to cut through the haze of smoke and laughter.
When she spoke, she did not raise her voice.
"His clothes have no life," she said calmly, each word placed with surgical precision, "but his eyes are not as still as the fabric he wears."
The sentence fell like a blade.
The bar quieted instantly—as if the sound itself had been folded away. Even the band faltered, one accordion wheezing into silence mid-note.
She continued, her tone unhurried, almost bored.
"I will pay for him myself," she added, eyes never leaving the outsider, "if he agrees—"
"Hey, hey, hey."
The outsider's voice cut across hers before she could finish.
He didn't shout. He didn't snap.
He simply spoke—light, casual, and infuriatingly alive.
From across the room, he turned his head just enough to acknowledge her presence, careful to angle his body so Moritz's broad frame didn't block his line of sight. His chin lifted a fraction, lips curling into a lazy, unapologetic grin.
"Lady," he said, voice warm with false gratitude, "you are so, so kind."
A pause. Long enough to sting.
"But I'll have to turn your offer down."
A few gasps escaped the crowd.
Somewhere, a glass slipped from numb fingers and shattered against the metal floor.
The outsider's attention shifted.
He tilted his head back toward Moritz, giving the old man a single, lazy glance—no bow, no nod, no respect implied.
Moritz's eyes narrowed as if a mosquito had landed on his cheek.
The outsider didn't wait for permission. He stepped forward, brushing past Moritz's side with deliberate casualness, shoulder almost grazing leather and brass.
Moritz did not move to stop him.
The outsider walked to the Red Needle table.
Each step he took felt wrong in this place. The floor mechanisms stuttered beneath his boots, struggling to predict his weight, his stride, his intention. He stopped at the table's edge and leaned forward slightly, eyes tracing the grooves carved into its surface, the fractal channels still darkened with dried blood. The dagger at the center lay still now, its folding wings tucked in like a resting insect.
"I came here," the outsider said at last, voice clear and carrying, threaded with mischief, "to swallow every one of you."
A grin tugged at his mouth—a sharp one.
"Like a man at a party."
Across the room, the young woman frowned, irritation flickering across her otherwise composed features. She turned away with a soft rustle of fabric and signaled for another drink, interest momentarily withdrawn.
Moritz moved.
He walked around the table and took his seat opposite the outsider.
The chair beneath him responded instantly—pleated metal plates fanned outward like steel ribs, embracing his back. Serrated grooves locked cleanly with the folds of his leather trousers.
Click. Clack.
The sound was precise, final. Man and mechanism became one seamless construct.
He sat with effortless authority.
Armrests unfurled to meet his elbows. The chair adjusted to his posture before he even settled fully, as if anticipating his will. Moritz stretched his arms once, slowly, deliberately, then opened his palms in a gesture that was half-invitation, half-command.
"Take a seat," he said. His voice was low, gravelly, edged with steel.
"And those words from earlier—very ignorant."
The outsider said nothing.
He only smiled.
Then he sat.
The chair beneath him hesitated.
Sensors flickered. Mechanisms whined. The metal frame attempted to fold, to lock, to understand—and failed. A harsh screech tore through the air as the chair tried to coil around denim that offered no pleats, no anchors, no compliance.
The sound was ugly, strained, almost panicked.
The outsider stiffened, forced to sit bolt upright.
When that failed, he spread his legs slightly, unrefined, just to keep the crotch of his jeans from tearing under the pressure. The chair groaned again, folding and unfolding in confused jerks, blocked by thick, stubborn fabric that refused to cooperate.
Laughter erupted.
"Look at him!"
"The chair can't tell if it's serving a man or a boulder!"
"Dead clothes! Dead clothes!"
The outsider exhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded, expression tired rather than embarrassed.
Moritz watched him, unimpressed.
"Let's get this over with," Moritz said, gaze already drifting away as if bored.
"The sooner, the better—for you."He finally looked back. "What are your stakes?"
The outsider lifted his head.
He smiled again.
This time, Moritz felt it.
It wasn't the grin of a fool. It wasn't bravado or desperation. It was confidence—twisted, inaccessible, wrong. A smile worn by someone who had already stepped beyond the edge and found nothing beneath his feet. Madness glinted behind calm eyes, sharp and unmistakable.
The outsider spoke clearly, voice resonant, contempt woven through every syllable.
"I wager it all," he said softly.Then louder—unflinching.
"My clothes, my flesh, my life! Every single bit!"
Silence slammed into the bar.
Breaths froze mid-draw. Glasses hovered inches from lips, forgotten. Chairs scraped backward as some patrons quietly stood and left, unwilling to remain near someone who treated his own existence like loose change on a table.
Whispers crawled through the stillness.
"Is he insane…?"
"Betting his life against Moritz…?"
Those who stayed stared as if watching a man dance on the edge of a blade—terrified, unable to look away. Someone who gambled with nothing to lose was the most dangerous thing of all.
And so now the outsider got the full attention from Moritz.
Moritz studied him in silence.
Not a casual glance—no, it was the kind of stare that peeled layer after layer, like a craftsman testing flawed metal, searching for a crack that had to exist. His pupils narrowed, the pleats at the corner of his eyes tightening as if even his skin were folding inward to assist his scrutiny. For a fleeting second, the bar's noise felt distant, muffled, as though the world itself leaned in with him.
Nothing.
No tremor.No hesitation.No telltale hunger for approval, fear of loss, or desperate bravado.
Moritz's gaze slid off him like a blade failing to bite.
He stopped immediately, straightening his spine with a faint, irritated click of leather and brass.
"…Hmph."
His voice came out firm, grounded, utterly unshaken.
"Then I will wager all my money as well."
He folded his hands together atop the table, fingers interlacing with mechanical precision.
"I will not wager my life away. You are desperate—but I am not."
His tone was not mocking. It was declarative. Final. The voice of a man who had survived long enough to know the value of choosing when to risk death.
Moritz exhaled slowly, then continued, eyes now sharp with professional focus rather than disdain.
"Now," he said, tilting his head just enough to acknowledge the outsider's ignorance, "I am certain you do not know the rules of this game. So I will explain."
He tapped one finger against the metal table.
"This game is called Red Needle."
The dealer leaned in subtly, already preparing the instruments, while the surrounding crowd instinctively drew closer—chairs scraping, pleated hems whispering as bodies angled for a better view.
"First," Moritz said, lifting his hand, palm up, "you must drop your blood into your hole."
He gestured to the shallow, circular depressions carved into the table's surface—each ringed with fine geometric grooves, faintly stained from countless past games.
"The blood will change color depending on the mineral powder inside the hole."
At Moritz's signal, the dealer stepped forward and presented the dagger.
It was not a simple blade.
The knife's edge gleamed with cold density, forged from high-density alloy, but its handle bore folded, wing-like plates—layered metal feathers compressed tight against its spine.
Moritz accepted it without ceremony.
He sliced his palm with a clean, practiced motion—no flinch, no pause. Green blood welled immediately, thick and luminous. He angled his hand, letting a single drop fall.
Plink.
The blood struck the powder-lined hole and bloomed outward into a rich, metallic sapphire hue, pulsing faintly as it settled into the grooves.
Moritz handed the knife over.
The outsider took it just as smoothly.
No hesitation.
The blade kissed his skin. A shallow cut. Purple blood surfaced, darker than expected—deep, almost regal. It fell into the hole with a heavier sound, spreading into a vivid amethyst sheen.
The table seemed to recognize it.
The outsider handed the dagger back to the dealer without a word.
Moritz continued.
"The game begins when the dealer spins the Red Needle knife."
As if on cue, the dealer lifted the blade for all to see.
"The blade itself is solid," Moritz said, voice steady, instructional, "but the handle contains folding wings. When rotated at sufficient speed, centrifugal force forces them open."
He rotated his wrist slightly, mimicking the motion.
"When fully expanded, the knife emits a whistling sound. That is when the game is on."
The crowd leaned in further. Even the musicians in the corner softened their playing, the accordion's wail stretching thinner.
"While the knife spins," Moritz went on, "we take turns moving our bodies to create vibrations."
He slammed his palm once against the table—clang—not hard enough to disrupt the setup, but enough to demonstrate.
"Slamming the table. Stomping the floor. Any movement that transmits vibration."
He raised two fingers.
"Each turn is limited to three actions."
The grooves on the table seemed to gleam brighter as he spoke.
"These vibrations cause our blood to flow from the holes, through the guiding grooves, toward the center of the table."
At the table's heart lay a small, ominous cavity—the final hole.
"We take turns," Moritz said, eyes now locked onto the outsider, "with the goal of getting our own blood as close to the center as possible before the Red Needle stops."
He paused.
"You can win in two ways."
"One—by getting your drop of blood into the center hole."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"Two—by getting your blood into a safe place."
He lifted a finger, emphasizing the point.
"When the knife stops, the shadow it casts determines death."
Moritz leaned slightly to the side, letting the lamplight exaggerate the knife's imagined silhouette.
"For example—if the needle tip points toward me, but the shadow of the knife falls exactly on your emerald drop of blood…"
He snapped his fingers.
"You lose."
A hush fell.
"If the shadow falls on an empty area with no blood," he continued, "that round is a draw. The game restarts."
His lips thinned.
"The previous blood is not removed."
The outsider's eyes flicked briefly to the table's stained grooves, calculating.
Ah...That will causes blood to thicken over time and so increasing the risk in subsequent rounds.
Moritz glanced at the dealer—just a glance. The kind that needed no words.
The dealer straightened, nodding sharply.
"If there are no doubts," the dealer announced, voice cutting through the tension, "I hereby declare the beginning of this Red Needle game."
He gestured to Moritz's side of the table.
"On Moritz's side—green blood!"
Then he turned toward the outsider, hesitated, and leaned in close, lowering his voice.
"…Your name?"
The outsider didn't look away from the table.
"Call me Wolf."
The dealer straightened instantly.
"On Wolf's side—purple blood!"
A pause.
"For the stakes," he continued, voice rising, "Wolf wagers everything he has!"
A collective inhale.
"And Moritz wagers all of his money!"
The dealer lifted the knife.
Then he spun it.
Faster.
Faster still.
The folding wings burst open with a sharp clack-clack, metal petals unfurling as the blade screamed into motion. A high, piercing whistle filled the bar, cutting through breath and thought alike.
The shadow began to dance.
"Let the game begin!"