The weeks blurred together.
Wildcard moved through them on instinct—jobs, collections, enforcing orders, making sure people remembered Cortez’s name. The Dominos had no shortage of work, and Wildcard had no shortage of opportunities to use his voice.
Because Boosted Intimidation never faded.
At first, he assumed it was just another slow shift, a delayed rotation. A week passed. Then another. And still, his words carried that unnatural weight, that pressure that forced people to listen, to feel what he said.
He used it carefully—not always, not obviously. If you leaned on a weapon too much, people learned to counter it. But the effect never weakened.
And that? That worried him.
Because his power had never lasted this long before.
And Wildcard didn’t trust anything that lasted forever.
The warehouse was dimly lit, the air thick with gun oil and rust. Wildcard stood near the back, arms crossed, watching as Grunt handled the latest screw-up.
A kid—**barely old enough to be out here—**was on his knees, blood dripping from his nose.
"You know what happens to people who skim off the top, don’t you?" Grunt asked, looming over him.
The kid was shaking. "I—I wasn’t! I swear!"
Grunt sighed, stretching his shoulders. "Now you’re just insulting me."
Wildcard knew what was coming.
So did the kid.
Grunt’s fist slammed into his gut. The kid collapsed, gasping, curling in on himself.
Wildcard let out a slow breath.
Before he could stop himself, he spoke. "Grunt."
The word cut through the room like a blade.
Grunt stopped mid-motion, turning to face him.
Wildcard took a step forward, hands still in his pockets, voice calm. "Cortez know you’re breaking our workers?"
Grunt’s jaw clenched. "Cortez knows what needs to be done."
Wildcard kept his expression neutral. Calculated. "And yet, he didn’t send you to do this. Did he?"
The kid wasn’t moving. He was breathing—barely.
Grunt’s knuckles tightened, but Wildcard could see it—the hesitation. The weight of his words sinking in.
And that’s what scared him.
Because it wasn’t just working on scared low-level guys anymore.
Grunt was a bastard, sure, but he wasn’t weak. And yet, even he paused. Even he considered.
That wasn’t normal.
Wildcard hated not knowing the rules of his own game.
Grunt exhaled through his nose and dropped his hand. "Not my problem."
He turned and walked off, leaving the kid groaning on the floor.
Wildcard didn’t move.
Because something had just shifted in the Dominos.
And he wasn’t sure if it was in his favor.
<hr>
The feeling only got worse over the next few days.
Eyes stayed on him longer. Conversations hushed when he entered a room.
Not just from low-rank grunts. Not just from guys like Grunt. From Cortez’s higher-ups. From Isla.
Like they were all waiting.
And then the job came.
"Come here," Isla said, motioning for him to follow. She wasn’t her usual sarcastic self. She was focused. Serious.
That was new.
Wildcard followed her into a side room, empty except for a single wooden crate sitting in the center.
Isla tilted her head toward it. "We’re delivering this."
Wildcard raised an eyebrow. "Since when do we play courier?"
"Since Cortez said so."
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Wildcard exhaled. "Alright. What’s in it?"
Isla’s eyes gave nothing away. "Not our job to ask."
That was enough of an answer.
Wildcard stepped forward, placing a hand on the crate. The wood was cold, rough beneath his fingertips. Whatever was inside was heavy. Solid.
He wasn’t sure why, but something about this felt off.
Maybe it was the timing. Maybe it was the way Isla was being careful with her words.
Or maybe it was because, for the first time in weeks—
He felt it.
That creeping sensation. That static buzz up his spine.
His stomach twisted.
Wildcard barely had time to register the shift before his mouth filled with something thick, something unnatural.
He staggered back, choking, spitting into his palm.
A string of clear liquid dripped from his tongue to his fingers.
And then his fingers went numb.
He stared. His mind clicked the pieces together, slow and horrified.
New ability acquired.
Paralytic Spit.
Wildcard wiped his mouth quickly, clenching his jaw.
Isla raised an eyebrow. "You good?"
Wildcard forced a smirk. "Yeah. Just swallowed something nasty."
She didn’t push further.
But inside, Wildcard was reeling.
His longest shift yet—weeks of a power that gave him influence, presence, control. And now?
Now, he could drool people into paralysis.
He exhaled sharply.
Isla picked up her end of the crate without another word.
Wildcard followed suit, still rolling his tongue over his teeth, still feeling the faint numbness.
And as they stepped outside, he shoved his unease down.
Whatever this job was, whatever game Cortez was playing—
He’d have to figure it out fast.
Because for the first time in weeks, Wildcard had no idea how useful his power would be.
And in the Sinkhole, that could get him killed.
Wildcard adjusted his grip on the crate, his tongue still tingling with that unnatural numbness.
Paralytic Spit.
A power that was, at best, inconvenient. At worst? A liability.
The shift still gnawed at him. Why now? His last ability had lasted weeks. He had started to believe it might never change. And then, at the worst possible time, it did.
Wildcard forced himself to push the frustration down. The job wasn’t changing just because his ability had.
Isla hadn’t noticed anything off about him—good. No need to give her a reason to start asking questions.
She took the lead as they stepped out into the streets, the heavy crate balanced between them.
The shantytown was quieter than usual.
Maybe it was the time of day. Maybe it was the package they were carrying. Wildcard wasn’t sure which.
The thing was awkward to hold, heavy. Isla carried one end, Wildcard took the other.
His mind ran through the possibilities.
What’s in the box? Drugs? Weapons? A body? Was this a delivery or a message?
And why him?
It wasn’t like he was Cortez’s top guy. Hell, until recently, he was just another grunt trying not to get killed.
Wildcard’s fingers twitched slightly against the rough wood. Something wasn’t adding up.
"You always this quiet?" Isla asked.
Wildcard smirked, keeping his pace steady. "Depends on the company."
She snorted. "Fair."
They passed through a narrow alley, stepping onto a more open stretch of road. A few stragglers still moved through the streets, hunched figures trading in whispers, shuffling past neon-lit stalls that flickered in the dying light.
Isla seemed unbothered. Wildcard could tell she’d done this kind of job a hundred times before. She moved with the confidence of someone who had never once questioned an order.
Wildcard wasn’t like that.
His gut was telling him something was off.
The crate was too heavy to just be product. Too valuable for a routine drop-off.
And then they turned the last corner.
A wide alley between two collapsed buildings.
Three men stood waiting.
No uniforms. No faction markings. Just practical gear, neutral colors. Armed, but not obviously.
Wildcard’s stomach tightened.
Something about them felt off.
Not the usual Sinkhole scum—too clean. Too organized.
And then he saw him.
Sayer.
Standing at the center, hands in his coat pockets, watching them with quiet amusement.
Wildcard’s grip tightened on the crate.
So. This wasn’t just a delivery.
It was a move. A test.
And Wildcard was the piece on the board.
<hr>
They set the crate down. Isla let out a small breath, rolling her shoulders as if shaking off the weight. Wildcard stayed still, studying the situation.
Sayer tilted his head slightly. "Right on time."
Isla ignored him completely, turning to the closest of the waiting men. "Cargo’s intact. Where’s the payment?"
The man didn’t answer immediately. He glanced at Sayer.
Sayer smiled faintly. "Patience, Isla. No need to rush."
Wildcard narrowed his eyes. This wasn’t just a handoff.
He took a half-step sideways, enough to keep both Isla and Sayer’s group in view.
"Didn’t peg you for a delivery guy," Wildcard said, watching Sayer carefully.
Sayer smirked. "Didn’t peg you for one either. Yet here we are."
Isla’s patience was already wearing thin. "Look, we did our part. Pay up, or we leave with the crate."
Sayer sighed as if she was being difficult. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small metal case. Tossed it toward Isla.
She caught it, flipped it open, scanned the contents. Satisfied.
She nodded to Wildcard. "We’re done here."
Wildcard didn’t move.
Something still wasn’t right.
Sayer had set this up. That meant there was another layer to it.
Wildcard met his gaze. "You didn’t call me all the way out here just to watch me carry a box."
Sayer smiled. "No. I didn’t."
Then he stepped forward, hands still in his pockets. Close enough that Wildcard could feel the weight of his attention.
"You’ve been in the Dominos for a while now," Sayer said. "Making a name for yourself. Cortez has noticed."
Wildcard’s jaw tightened slightly. He already knew that much.
Sayer’s head tilted slightly. "You know what happens when someone climbs too fast in a place like that?"
Wildcard didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
Sayer’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "You become an asset. Or a liability."
Wildcard exhaled through his nose. "You got a point, or just trying to spook me?"
Sayer didn’t blink. "I don’t waste words. I’m offering you a choice."
Wildcard felt the tension shift. Isla was still counting the payment, ignoring them. The other men stood perfectly still. Watching. Waiting.
This? This was the real job.
Wildcard had two ways out of this alley.
One was with Isla.
The other?
Sayer just gave him a third.
Wildcard rolled his tongue over his teeth, still feeling the faint numbness of his new ability. He had no idea how useful it’d be.
Didn’t matter.
"Appreciate the concern," Wildcard said, voice even. "But I’m good where I am."
Sayer held his gaze a moment longer. Then nodded. Not disappointed. Not surprised.
Like he had already known what Wildcard was going to say.
Then, quietly, he said, "I’ll be in touch.