《Fools Gambit》 Welcome to Hell Pain was the first thing Wildcard felt. A sharp, pounding pain in his skull. The second thing was nausea¡ªhis stomach lurched as the metal walls around him rattled violently. He groaned, blinking through the dim red glow of emergency lights. His wrists were strapped into a crash harness. His feet dangled uselessly beneath him. A metallic voice crackled over an unseen speaker. "Inbound transport. Designation: Prisoner #88321. Entry point confirmed. Impact in forty-five seconds." Right. He was being dumped. Wildcard let his head slump back against the cold steel wall. He wasn¡¯t supposed to be here. Sure, he wasn¡¯t exactly a law-abiding citizen, but he wasn¡¯t one of the freaks that actually belonged on The Sinkhole. He was just a low-level nobody¡ªa petty enforcer for a crime syndicate that barely knew his name. And now? Now he was getting sent to a goddamn prison planet with real monsters. His gut twisted. He tried to shift against the restraints, feeling the familiar tingling in his bones. His power¡ªrandom ability acquisition¡ªwas always shifting, but right now, he had no idea what it was. He focused, trying to sense something. Super strength? Heat vision? Teleportation? Nothing. God, if the transport guards had neutralized his ability, he was screwed. "Impact in twenty seconds." The ship shook again, more violently this time. Wildcard clenched his teeth, barely stopping himself from hurling. He should¡¯ve never taken that damn job. The payout wasn¡¯t even good. "Impact in five." His restraints unlocked with a loud hiss. "Four." His stomach lurched. "Three." Oh, hell no. "Two." Wildcard braced himself. "One." The pod slammed into the surface like an asteroid.
The moment the hatch exploded open, the stench hit him first. Burnt metal, rot, and something thick and sour in the air¡ªlike blood left out in the sun. He barely had time to gag before voices cut through the ringing in his ears. "Fresh meat!" His heart jumped.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it A shadow fell over him. Wildcard blinked up at the figures standing around the wreckage¡ªscarred, grinning, armed. Their armor was mismatched, stolen. Their faces twisted with amusement. A gang. Shit. The leader, a thick-necked brute with a knife the size of a machete, cracked his knuckles. "What¡¯s your power, rookie?" Wildcard swallowed, forcing himself upright. His body tingled¡ªhis ability was shifting. He braced for the rush of something useful. Please be useful. Strength? Telekinesis? Anything? A warm sensation spread through his chest. He felt a surge of energy build up inside him. Yes. Yes! He took a deep breath and¡ª "ACHOO!" The sneeze erupted out of him like a gunshot. A massive burst of wind and dust kicked up around him. The air vibrated. The scavengers staggered back¡ªfor half a second, Wildcard thought maybe, just maybe, he had something devastating¡ª Then the dust settled. Everyone was still standing. The lead thug blinked at him. "...Was that it?" Wildcard wiped his nose. "...Uh. Yeah. But it was really loud, right?" Silence. The thug stared at him for a long moment. Then he grinned, wide and cruel. "That¡¯s the dumbest power I¡¯ve ever seen." The punch came fast¡ªWildcard barely ducked in time. Oh, shit, oh, shit¡ª He turned and ran.
He could hear them behind him¡ªboots slamming against cracked pavement, laughter mixed with curses. "You¡¯re just making this worse for yourself!" Wildcard vaulted over a collapsed beam, his breath ragged. Think, think! His ability would shift eventually, but he had no idea when or what he¡¯d get next. He skidded around a corner, nearly slamming into a crumbling wall. He had seconds before they caught up. Bluff. Just bluff, dammit! He turned his head slightly, panting. "You really wanna mess with a guy who might go nuclear at any second?" A pause. One of the thugs hesitated. "What if he¡¯s telling the truth?" The leader scoffed. "Then we kill him before he does." Wildcard groaned. Yeah, should¡¯ve seen that coming. He bolted toward a narrow alley, but his foot caught on debris¡ªhis body lurched forward. "Shit¡ª" The gang was on him. Then¡ªa spark inside his chest. The unmistakable tingling of his power shifting. Wildcard prayed for something good. Super speed? Flight? Anything? His fingers twitched. A weird, sticky feeling spread through his hands. New Ability: Slightly Stickier Hands. "...Oh, come on!" The first thug lunged. Wildcard threw his hands up on instinct¡ªand accidentally stuck to a wall. The thug swung, missed, and went tumbling into a pit. Wildcard blinked. Looked at his hands. Looked at the pit. Then, with a grin, he scrambled up the wall.
By the time he finally stopped running, he was alone. His lungs burned. His muscles ached. But at least he was still breathing. He wiped the sweat from his face, forcing himself to look up. And for the first time, he saw the world he¡¯d been thrown into. The sky was a sickly orange haze, thick with smoke and the distant glow of fires. He could see wreckage, old ruins, makeshift camps. In the far distance, massive structures loomed¡ªfortresses? Cities? Somewhere out there, people were screaming. He had no idea who ran this place. No idea what the rules were. But someone was in charge. Somebody had to be. All he knew was that this wasn¡¯t some lawless wasteland. It was organized. And that meant he was already behind.
After wandering for hours, he found a ruined marketplace¡ªif you could call it that. A few fires burned low in rusted barrels. Prisoners¡ªvillains, criminals, freaks¡ªmoved through the shadows, swapping stolen goods, whispering deals. A man with a sly grin sat across from him. "You look new. Hungry?" Wildcard eyed him. "...What¡¯s the catch?" The man leaned in. "Tell me what power you¡¯re getting next¡­ and we¡¯ll make a deal." Wildcard smirked, leaning back. "Buddy, if I knew that, I¡¯d be ruling this planet already." The First Bet Hunger gnawed at Wildcard¡¯s stomach, a dull ache that refused to go away. It had been hours since he¡¯d crash-landed into this hellhole, and the adrenaline that kept him moving was finally wearing off. He needed food. He needed water. Hell, he needed to find a place where he wouldn¡¯t wake up with a knife in his ribs. The marketplace was the only place that wasn¡¯t an immediate death trap. That didn¡¯t mean it was safe. It was a mess¡ªrusted-out stalls, scavenged tech, traders hawking stolen rations, and criminals of all shapes and sizes eyeing each other like wolves. The only reason it wasn¡¯t a bloodbath was because even the worst of them needed a place to trade. No one wanted to risk shutting the whole thing down over a petty grudge. Wildcard sat on a broken crate, pretending like he belonged there, even though everyone around him could smell fresh meat. That¡¯s when Grift found him. "Rough first day?" The man¡¯s grin was too wide, too easy. He was thin but not weak, the kind of guy who didn¡¯t need muscles to be dangerous. Wildcard didn¡¯t answer. He just eyed the ration bar in Grift¡¯s hand. Grift laughed and tossed it to him. "Relax. First one¡¯s free." Wildcard caught it, hesitated for half a second, then tore into it like a starving animal. It tasted like sawdust and burnt plastic, but he didn¡¯t care. "You keep eating like that, you¡¯re gonna need another," Grift mused, watching him with sharp amusement. "Lucky for you, I¡¯ve got a deal." Wildcard swallowed. "Yeah? What kind?" "Courier job. Simple stuff. Walk a package across the slums, drop it off, get paid." Wildcard narrowed his eyes. "And the catch?" Grift smiled. There was always a catch. "First job¡¯s a test. Payout¡¯s small, but if you pull it off, there¡¯s more where that came from." Wildcard knew better than to trust him. But trust wasn¡¯t the issue. The issue was that he had nothing¡ªno money, no supplies, and no better options. He exhaled. "Fine. Where¡¯s the package?"
The "package" was a small metal case, dented and scratched, with no markings on it. Wildcard didn¡¯t like that. Packages with no markings meant someone didn¡¯t want questions asked. The guy who handed it over was a walking slab of cybernetic muscle. His arms hummed with servo motors, his face was half-covered in metallic plating, and his eyes had the cold, detached focus of a man who could break Wildcard in half without thinking twice. "One rule," the man said in a flat, mechanical voice. "Don¡¯t look inside." Wildcard wasn¡¯t planning to, but now that the guy had said it? Yeah. He definitely wanted to. Grift clapped him on the shoulder. "Alright, rookie. Try not to get yourself killed, yeah?" Wildcard just nodded and walked away. The moment he stepped out of the market, he felt it. Something was wrong. It was subtle¡ªthe way the air shifted, the way conversations went quiet when he passed, the way too many eyes lingered on him for just a little too long. He gritted his teeth and kept walking.
The slums weren¡¯t like the market. No unwritten rules here. The further he got from neutral ground, the worse it smelled¡ªburnt metal, sewage, and the sour stink of bodies left in the sun too long. He moved quickly, keeping his head down. If anyone tried to stop him, he¡¯d pretend he was just another scavenger and hope they didn¡¯t care. No such luck.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. He turned a corner, and six men were waiting for him. They weren¡¯t just some random thugs. They were hunters¡ªlean, hungry-eyed, the kind of guys who didn¡¯t waste energy unless they were sure the payout was worth it. And right now? They thought he was worth it. The biggest one stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. His hands were wrapped in metal-plated gloves, each knuckle reinforced with something that would shatter bone on impact. "Hand it over," the man said. "Now." Wildcard forced a grin, shifting the package under his arm. "Guys, I get it. You see a fresh face, figure I¡¯m an easy mark¡ª" A knife whipped past his face, slicing his cheek. Wildcard didn¡¯t move. Didn¡¯t react. If he gave them one inch of weakness, it was over. "¡ªbut maybe you should think about what¡¯s in this thing before you¡ª" The leader took a step forward. "Don¡¯t care. Give it up, or we take it off your corpse." Wildcard¡¯s mouth went dry. His body tingled. His power was shifting. He braced for the rush¡ªthe surge of heat or cold, the static in his veins, the weightlessness¡ª Then, suddenly, he knew. New Ability: Can Jump Two Inches Higher Than Normal. Wildcard stared at the gang. Then at his feet. Then back at the gang. "...You¡¯ve gotta be kidding me." The biggest thug lunged. Wildcard jumped. He cleared a knee-high box. Barely. Then he landed, stumbled, cursed his entire existence, and did the only thing left. He ran. The slums blurred into streaks of rusted metal, crumbling concrete, and burning trash fires. Boots pounded behind him, too close, their owners gaining ground with every second. Wildcard wasn¡¯t fast, and he sure as hell wasn¡¯t strong. If they caught him, they¡¯d tear the package out of his cold, broken hands. A rusted-out vehicle lay in his path, half-buried in debris. Too tall to hurdle. Except¡­ He jumped. Two inches higher than normal. His foot barely cleared the hood, his body twisting awkwardly as he tumbled over the other side. He hit the ground hard, rolled onto his back, and saw one of the thugs trip on the same car and slam face-first into the dirt. Wildcard almost laughed. Almost. Then the others vaulted over like it was nothing. "Kill him!" one of them roared. Wildcard pushed himself up and kept running.
The streets funneled him into a narrow alley, the walls jagged with broken pipes and rusted-out scaffolding. Too many obstacles. Bad escape route. But no time to second-guess. A hand clamped onto his jacket, yanking him back. Wildcard twisted, lashing out with an elbow that hit solid muscle. The guy barely grunted before slamming Wildcard into a wall. Pain exploded through his ribs. The package almost slipped from his grasp. "Game¡¯s over," the thug growled, pulling a knife. Wildcard acted on sheer instinct¡ªhis fingers found a loose pipe, and he swung it upward with everything he had. A solid CRACK echoed as metal met jaw. The thug staggered, dazed. Wildcard shoved him back and ran like hell.
Ahead, a collapsed overpass loomed¡ªhigh enough that a normal person couldn¡¯t jump and grab the ledge. Wildcard didn¡¯t have normal. Two inches. It wasn¡¯t much. But it was just enough. He jumped, fingertips barely catching the ledge. For a terrifying second, he dangled¡ªfeet kicking at empty air. Below, the gang reached him. "GET HIS LEGS!" Wildcard hauled himself up just as a hand snagged his boot. He kicked back blindly, catching someone in the face. The grip slipped. And then¡ªhe was up. Safe. He rolled onto his back, sucking in ragged breaths, the blood rushing in his ears drowning out their curses. The gang couldn¡¯t climb after him. Not without wasting time. "Whatever¡¯s in that package," one of them called up, "you¡¯re already dead for it!" Wildcard just lay there, chest heaving, vision swimming. He had survived. For now.
An hour later, he stumbled back into the market, every muscle aching, his face slick with sweat and blood. Grift was right where he left him, lounging against a makeshift stall. "Ah, look who¡¯s still breathing!" he said, all shit-eating grin and fake surprise. "I was starting to worry." Wildcard tossed the package at his feet. "Next time," he said, voice tight, "maybe mention that the job comes with a hit squad?" Grift shrugged. "Details, details. Important thing is, you made it." He kicked the package aside and tossed a handful of ration chips into Wildcard¡¯s hand. "Your cut." Wildcard looked at the pitiful amount of currency. "...That¡¯s it?" "First job¡¯s always low pay," Grift said. "Gotta prove yourself first." Wildcard clenched his jaw. He wanted to hit him. But he didn¡¯t. Because that was the game. Instead, he grabbed the chips and stuffed them into his pocket. "Pleasure doing business," he muttered, turning to leave. "You know," Grift called after him, "for a guy who got dealt a garbage power, you did alright." Wildcard flipped him off without looking back.
He bought food. A real meal. Something hot, something that didn¡¯t taste like wet cardboard and suffering. And while he ate, he thought. He got played. He should¡¯ve seen it. Grift wasn¡¯t his friend¡ªhe was testing him, seeing if he could survive. The Sinkhole was all about power¡ªwho had it, who didn¡¯t, and who could pretend they did long enough to not get stabbed in the back. Wildcard had made it through one job. And already, he knew two things: 1. He wasn¡¯t dead. 2. Someone was going to try and fix that. Soon. He needed a plan. And, more importantly¡ª He needed a real advantage. Because next time? Next time, he might not be lucky. Chapter 3: Dead Man鈥檚 Odds Hunger and pain made for a miserable morning. Wildcard woke up in a filthy alley, his stomach twisting from emptiness, his ribs aching from the previous night¡¯s chase. His mouth felt dry, his limbs heavy. The metal walls around him were slick with rust, and the air stank of burnt plastic and sewage. For a second, he let himself believe it had all been a bad dream. Then he sat up and saw the marking on the wall. A crudely drawn red X, smeared onto the metal with something that wasn¡¯t paint. His gut tightened. They¡¯d found him. The gang from last night¡ªthe ones who had tried to gut him for Grift¡¯s package¡ªhadn¡¯t let it go. They¡¯d probably spent the whole night looking for him, and now that they knew where he slept¡­ He needed to move. Fast.
The marketplace was already alive by the time he reached it¡ªif you could call this place "alive." Merchants haggled over scraps, thugs eyed each other, and criminals bartered in whispers. Wildcard kept his head down as he wove through the crowd. He couldn¡¯t afford to be seen by the wrong people. He needed options. And Grift owed him.
He found Grift lounging at a makeshift stall, flipping a rusted coin between his fingers. "Wildcard!" Grift grinned like they were old friends. "Glad to see you¡¯re still breathing. What can I do for you?" Wildcard sat across from him, keeping his voice low. "The guys from last night? They marked my damn hideout." Grift didn¡¯t look surprised. Didn¡¯t even look concerned. "Yeah," he said casually. "They¡¯re looking for you. Something about ¡®making an example.¡¯" He chuckled. "Rough break." Wildcard¡¯s jaw tightened. "I need a way out of this." Grift studied him for a second, then smirked. "Tell you what. You run another job for me, I might be able to grease some wheels." Wildcard expected that answer. He also wasn¡¯t interested in being played again. He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Word on the street is, I got a little upgrade." Grift¡¯s smirk didn¡¯t waver. "Oh?" Wildcard nodded. "Last night? I had nothing. Still got away. You really think I¡¯m still that weak?" Grift¡¯s smirk faltered¡ªjust a fraction, but enough. He was trying to size up the bluff. Wildcard pressed. "You know how things work in the Sinkhole. You want to back the guy who¡¯s about to climb, not the guy stuck at the bottom. So¡­ are you backing me?" Grift tapped the rusted coin on the table, thinking. Then¡ª Wildcard¡¯s stomach clenched. His body tingled. His power was shifting. He braced for the surge¡ªthe rush of heat, the static, the unnatural pull¡ª Then something thick and acrid filled his throat. A heavy, choking cloud built in his chest. And suddenly, he knew. New Ability: Smoke Screen Breath. Side Effect: Tastes Like Absolute Shit. Wildcard barely held back a gag. Grift noticed. His eyes flicked to Wildcard¡¯s face, watching his expression shift. Wildcard forced a grin, pushing through the awful taste in his mouth. "Something wrong?" Grift¡¯s smirk returned. "Nah. Just wondering how long you can keep up the act." Wildcard had zero time to respond. A rough hand clamped down on his shoulder. He didn¡¯t even have to turn around. He already knew who it was. "Found you," a voice sneered in his ear. Then the first punch slammed into his ribs. Pain exploded through Wildcard¡¯s side as he was yanked backward, the breath knocked from his lungs. He stumbled, but rough hands kept him upright. The marketplace noise didn¡¯t stop. No one cared. No one was going to help. Wildcard gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay upright as he was spun around to face the man who hit him.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. It was the same bastard from last night. Big. Scarred. A twisted grin full of rotting teeth. His knuckles were wrapped in metal plates, and fresh blood stained them. "Been looking for you," the thug said. "You made a mistake, boy." Wildcard gave a crooked smile, ignoring the sharp ache in his ribs. "Not my first." The second punch came. Wildcard tried to move, but they were already holding him down. Crack. His head snapped to the side, stars bursting across his vision. Then came the third hit¡ªa brutal, gut-crushing blow. Wildcard gagged, doubling over as a sharp metallic taste filled his mouth. His knees buckled. They let him fall. He hit the ground, hard, gasping. Around him, the crowd barely glanced over before going back to their business. Wildcard forced himself to look up. Scarface grinned. "No one¡¯s gonna save you." Wildcard spat blood onto the dirt. "Yeah. Figured that out already." The thug¡¯s boot slammed into his ribs. Wildcard rolled onto his side, curling inward, protecting his organs. Scarface crouched, grabbing Wildcard by the hair, forcing him to look up. "Here¡¯s the deal," he said. "You stole from us. You ran. You made us look weak." He pressed a knife under Wildcard¡¯s chin. "You owe us pain for that." Wildcard barely heard him over the ringing in his skull. His power tingled inside him. He still had Smoke Screen Breath. Wildcard tried to summon a cloud of smoke¡ªbut the taste hit him first. His throat burned. His stomach lurched. It was like drinking liquid garbage and choking on old exhaust fumes. His entire body revolted. Instead of unleashing the smoke, he gagged. The thug raised an eyebrow. "You gonna puke, or you gonna beg?" Wildcard wiped his mouth, forcing his stomach to settle. "Neither," he rasped. Then he took the deepest breath he could¡ª And blew a thick, choking cloud of black smoke right into Scarface¡¯s face. The thug choked, coughing violently as the dense smoke poured out, covering the alley. Wildcard shoved him back and staggered to his feet. The others panicked. "The hell is that¡ª?!" "I can¡¯t see¡ª!" Wildcard didn¡¯t wait. He moved.
He was running blind through his own smoke. His head throbbed, his ribs ached, but he pushed forward, weaving through the blurred shapes of stalls and crates. Behind him, the gang stumbled and coughed, trying to recover. He saw a gap between two stalls¡ªhis escape. He sprinted for it. Then he slammed straight into someone solid. The impact knocked him backward, his head snapping back. He hit the ground hard, gasping for breath. The smoke started clearing. And standing over him was someone new. Not a gang member. Not a merchant. Someone worse. Wildcard blinked through the lingering haze of his own smoke, vision swimming from exhaustion and pain. The figure before him was tall, armored, and utterly still¡ªthe kind of stillness that only came from absolute control. The first thing Wildcard noticed was the mask. Scarred metal, covering the lower half of the man¡¯s face, giving him an expressionless, mechanical look. His coat was patched together from leather and reinforced plating, stitched and reinforced like he¡¯d been through hell and back. The second thing Wildcard noticed? The silence. The gang behind him¡ªthe same bastards who had just been hunting him down like an animal¡ªwere no longer laughing. Wildcard turned his head slightly. Scarface and his crew were still there, but they weren¡¯t moving. They stood like dogs that had just been caught tearing apart a carcass. Who the hell was this guy? Wildcard barely had time to process before pressure slammed onto his chest. The man¡¯s boot pressed down, pinning him against the ground like he was nothing more than a discarded piece of trash. Wildcard gasped, ribs screaming in pain. The man tilted his head, studying him. Cold. Detached. Then, finally, he spoke. "Pathetic." His voice was flat, distorted by the mask, yet somehow carried an unmistakable weight¡ªlike he was stating an absolute fact. Wildcard wheezed, struggling for breath. The man ignored him and turned slightly, addressing the gang. "You wasted my time for this?" Scarface flinched, rubbing his bruised jaw where Wildcard had hit him earlier. "He¡ªhe stole from us. Ran. Made us look weak." "I don¡¯t care." The masked man¡¯s voice remained unbothered. "I told you to deal with it, not make a spectacle of it." Wildcard tried to move, but the boot pressed harder. Crack. Pain shot through his ribs like fire. Wildcard clenched his teeth, biting back a pained grunt. The masked man barely acknowledged him, his focus still on the gang. "You let a half-dead stray embarrass you?" Scarface stiffened. "We¡ªwe caught him." "No." The masked man finally looked down at Wildcard again, cold, dispassionate. "I did." Then, before Wildcard could react¡ªthe boot lifted. For the briefest second, he had relief. Then it drove back down with full force. Pain exploded through Wildcard¡¯s side. White-hot agony. A sickening crunch. His vision flashed white. His body arched involuntarily from the sheer force of the impact before slamming back down into the dirt. He couldn¡¯t breathe. Every nerve screamed. Somewhere distant, Scarface gave a nervous chuckle. Wildcard barely heard it over the ringing in his ears. The masked man finally crouched beside him, tilting his head like he was examining a broken tool. "Trash," he murmured. "But maybe not useless." His gloved hand shot out, grabbing Wildcard by the throat. He lifted him effortlessly, like he weighed nothing, until their faces were inches apart. Wildcard choked, his legs dangling, barely able to claw at the man¡¯s wrist. The masked man¡¯s voice remained calm. "You¡¯ve already been pulled into the game," he said. "The only question is whether you have the sense to play it." Wildcard¡¯s vision darkened at the edges. He couldn¡¯t breathe. Couldn¡¯t think. "Let¡¯s see if you¡¯re worth keeping alive." Then, just as suddenly¡ªthe man released him. Wildcard crashed to the ground, gasping, his body shaking from pain and lack of oxygen. The masked man straightened, turning back to Scarface. "Kill him if he isn¡¯t." And just like that, he walked away. Leaving Wildcard, half-conscious, as the gang closed in. Scarface stepped forward, rolling his shoulders. "Well¡­ you heard him." Wildcard spat blood, forcing himself onto his hands and knees. His entire body screamed in protest. This was it. They were actually going to do it. And he couldn¡¯t run. Wildcard swallowed hard. His only option was to fight. Even if it meant dying on his feet. Scarface cracked his knuckles. "Any last words, wildcard?" Wildcard wiped blood from his mouth and gave a weak, cocky grin. "Yeah," he wheezed. "Choke on this." And then he unleashed a full blast of smoke into Scarface¡¯s face. Chapter 4: No More Running Scarface didn¡¯t even have time to scream before black smoke swallowed him whole. Wildcard lunged, shoulder screaming in pain from the fresh cut, but he ignored it. No time to think. No time to hesitate. He drove his fist into Scarface¡¯s ribs, knocking him off balance. The bigger man grunted, coughing violently, eyes burning as the thick, choking smog curled around them both. Wildcard¡¯s own lungs seized¡ªhis own ability was working against him. It was blinding, suffocating, even for him. But this was his only chance. A shadow lunged through the smoke. Wildcard ducked on instinct. Too slow. A knife ripped across his arm, burning hot as it sliced flesh. The pain was instant and sharp, but he had no time to feel it. A second thug swung at him. Wildcard twisted, barely dodging. His body ignited with something new¡ª Not just adrenaline. Something hot. Something alive. A deep burning started in his fingertips, spreading like wildfire up his arms. It wasn¡¯t like his past abilities¡ªthis one felt raw, searing, like his hands had been pressed against a furnace. Then he knew. New Ability: Boiling Touch. Side Effect: Intense heat in his own hands. Painful overuse. Wildcard barely had time to process it before another thug rushed him through the smoke. Don¡¯t think. Just use it. He threw his burning hand out¡ª And grabbed the man¡¯s throat. For a split second, nothing happened. Then¡ª The skin beneath his fingers boiled. A high, piercing scream tore through the alley. The man¡¯s flesh bubbled instantly, blood and pus bursting from beneath Wildcard¡¯s grip. The skin peeled away in strips, exposing raw, red tissue underneath. The thug collapsed, gagging, clawing at his ruined throat. His screams turned to ragged, gurgling gasps. Wildcard stumbled back, his own hands throbbing with painful heat. His breath came in short, frantic gasps. He could see his own skin turning red, veins glowing faintly beneath the surface. Scarface finally shoved away from the wall, blinking the smoke from his eyes. He looked down at his writhing, half-cooked man. Then back at Wildcard. The grin was gone. "What the fuck did you just do?" Wildcard flexed his aching fingers. His breath was ragged, uneven. It hurt. But it worked. He looked Scarface dead in the eye. "Come find out." Scarface roared and charged. Wildcard met him head-on. He swung¡ªScarface dodged. The bigger man was fast, even with the smoke still curling around them. Wildcard aimed for the face, but Scarface caught his wrist mid-swing. Heat flared beneath Wildcard¡¯s fingers, burning into Scarface¡¯s palm. Scarface snarled but didn¡¯t let go. His grip tightened like a steel vice. Then he slammed his forehead into Wildcard¡¯s nose. CRACK. Wildcard¡¯s vision burst white with pain. He staggered, blood streaming down his face. Scarface didn¡¯t let go. A fist slammed into Wildcard¡¯s gut, hard enough to steal the air from his lungs. Another. Another. Wildcard choked, gasping, head spinning, ribs screaming. Survive. The only thought that mattered. Wildcard twisted, shifting his body weight¡ªthen drove his knee up as hard as he could.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. Scarface grunted, but it wasn¡¯t enough. The bastard just grinned, blood dripping from his lip. Then his grip tightened around Wildcard¡¯s throat. "Nice trick," Scarface growled. "Won¡¯t save you." Wildcard¡¯s lungs burned as the pressure crushed his windpipe. His vision darkened. His hands trembled. He was seconds from blacking out. Then he grabbed Scarface¡¯s wrist¡ª And poured every ounce of his boiling touch into it. Scarface¡¯s flesh sizzled. He let out a deep, raw howl of agony, instinctively releasing Wildcard. Wildcard sucked in air, chest heaving, but didn¡¯t stop. He grabbed Scarface¡¯s forearm with both hands¡ª And kept burning. The skin beneath his fingers blackened, peeled away, revealing raw exposed muscle beneath. Scarface screamed. The stink of burning flesh filled the alley. He thrashed wildly, but Wildcard held on. "STOP!" someone in the gang shouted. Wildcard didn¡¯t. The heat in his own hands was too much¡ªhis own skin was burning, but he didn¡¯t let go. Scarface fell to one knee, eyes wide with horror, his arm a ruined mess of blistered, peeling skin. Wildcard finally ripped his hands away, panting, shaking from exhaustion and pain. Scarface collapsed, clutching his mangled arm, still screaming. The gang stared at Wildcard. They weren¡¯t charging anymore. They weren¡¯t smiling. They looked at him the way someone looks at a wild animal¡ªsomething unpredictable, dangerous. Wildcard took a shaky step forward. The gang flinched back. Wildcard wiped the blood from his nose, trying to ignore the sharp, stinging pain in his own hands. He looked down at Scarface. The man was still breathing. Barely. Wildcard could finish it. One more touch. One more burst of heat. It would be easy. He stared down at his trembling, blistered fingers. ¡­Did he want to? The gang watched, waiting. Wildcard sucked in a deep breath. Lifted his hand. And then¡ª A sharp voice cut through the alley. "That¡¯s enough." Wildcard¡¯s head snapped toward the voice. A new figure stepped into view. Someone who hadn¡¯t been here before. Someone who wasn¡¯t just another gang member. Someone important. Wildcard froze. Because one thing was clear. This fight? Had just made things much, much worse. "That¡¯s enough." Wildcard¡¯s head snapped toward the voice. A new figure stepped into view. Someone who hadn¡¯t been here before. Someone who wasn¡¯t just another gang member. Someone important. The gang stiffened. The air in the alley shifted, like all the oxygen had been sucked out at once. Wildcard¡¯s breath came in ragged bursts, his body screaming with exhaustion. His hands throbbed from overuse, burned raw from his own power. Scarface lay at his feet, moaning weakly, clutching his boiled and ruined arm. And now, someone new had come to watch. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and completely at ease. His coat was heavy, well-made¡ªnot scavenged junk like most of the Sinkhole¡¯s inmates wore. He carried himself like someone who was used to being listened to. A patch of jagged scars ran across his bald scalp, disappearing beneath the collar of his coat. But it was his eyes that made Wildcard¡¯s stomach tighten. Cold. Calculating. Like he was assessing a machine, not a person. "Someone tell me," the man said, his voice level, but sharp as a knife, "why I¡¯m looking at a half-dead stray standing over one of my enforcers." Scarface let out a weak, choked grunt. "Boss¡ª" The bald man ignored him. His eyes were locked on Wildcard. Wildcard swallowed, forcing himself upright. His ribs screamed. His hands throbbed, raw and blistered. He still tasted blood in his mouth. He was in no condition to fight again. Which meant talking was his only way out. Wildcard exhaled sharply, wiping sweat and blood from his lip. "Guess that depends," he rasped, forcing a grin. "You looking at a problem? Or an opportunity?" A low, dry chuckle rumbled from the man¡¯s chest. "That depends on you." Wildcard didn¡¯t break eye contact. If he looked weak, if he flinched, it was over. The bald man finally sighed, rubbing a scarred knuckle against his jaw. "Give me a reason not to have you gutted." Wildcard had a second to decide. He could beg. He could bluff. Or he could double down. Wildcard flexed his burned fingers, the pain still sharp and hot, and took a slow step forward. The gang instinctively stepped back. Good. They were afraid of him now. Wildcard tilted his head. "If I was just another idiot, Scarface over there wouldn¡¯t be crying on the ground." Scarface let out a weak snarl. "You son of a¡ª" The bald man held up a hand. Scarface shut up immediately. Wildcard¡¯s pulse pounded in his skull. He didn¡¯t know what this guy wanted to hear. So he gambled. "You got power. Territory. Influence," Wildcard said, voice raw. "But even you have to know¡ªit¡¯s a place like this, the wild cards are the ones who change the game." He spread his arms, ignoring how much it hurt. "You looking for muscle? I¡¯m not your guy. You looking for someone who thinks outside the board? Maybe we got something to talk about." Silence. The bald man just watched him. Then¡ªhe smiled. It was not a reassuring smile. "You¡¯re either bold," the man mused, "or very, very stupid." Wildcard smirked, ignoring the way his body begged him to shut up. "Those aren¡¯t mutually exclusive." The man actually chuckled. Then, he nodded. "Alright," he said. "Let¡¯s see what you¡¯re worth." Wildcard¡¯s stomach tightened. "Meaning?" The bald man turned slightly, gesturing behind him. Two more men stepped into the alley. Bigger than Scarface. Colder. One of them cracked his knuckles. The other just smiled. Wildcard¡¯s gut sank. The bald man clapped him on the shoulder¡ªa casual, almost friendly gesture. "You survive?" he said. "We¡¯ll talk." Wildcard barely had time to react before the first punch slammed into his gut. Wildcard¡¯s body folded in half, a choked gasp forcing its way out of his throat. The hit felt like a sledgehammer, driving deep into his ribs. His knees buckled, legs nearly giving out beneath him. Before he could even suck in a breath, the second man grabbed him by the collar and yanked him upright. Another fist¡ªthis time across the jaw. Pain exploded through Wildcard¡¯s skull. His vision blurred, a sharp ringing filling his ears. He staggered, tasting blood. The bald man¡ªwhoever the hell he was¡ªstood back, watching in silence. Wildcard barely had time to process that before the third hit came. A brutal uppercut. His head snapped back. Stars burst across his vision. His knees finally gave out. He collapsed onto the bloodstained alley floor, panting, barely able to keep himself conscious. The two men stepped back, letting him writhe in pain. "You gonna get up?" The bald man¡¯s voice was almost amused. Wildcard spat blood onto the dirt. He had no air in his lungs to speak, no strength left to bluff. He was done. But his body wasn¡¯t. His veins tingled. His skin heated. His power shifted. The bald man¡¯s head tilted slightly, as if he could somehow sense it happening. Wildcard felt it surge through him¡ªsomething hotter than fire, something that made his hands pulse with unnatural heat. Then he knew. His boiling touch was back. But stronger this time. And he wasn¡¯t about to waste it.