《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. Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. 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. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. 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. 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. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. 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. 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. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. 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. The Devils Bargain Wildcard was barely standing. His ribs screamed with pain, his hands throbbed, raw and blistered from overusing Boiling Touch. The stink of burnt flesh, blood, and sweat clung to the air, thick and suffocating. The bodies at his feet weren¡¯t moving. Some twitched. Others let out wet, rattling breaths¡ªwhat was left of Scarface¡¯s gang after he burned through them. Two were still standing. Wildcard could barely lift his arms. His fingers curled weakly, but the boiling heat was gone now, drained from his body. He had nothing left. And they knew it. The bald man stood nearby, arms crossed, watching. Judging. This wasn¡¯t just a fight anymore. It was a test. Wildcard had two choices. Win. Or die.
The first fighter moved. A broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar across his nose rushed forward. Fast. Brutal. No hesitation. Wildcard barely had time to react before Scar-Nose slammed a shoulder into his gut. Pain exploded through Wildcard¡¯s body. His knees buckled. The second man¡ªa lean, knife-wielding bastard¡ªdarted in from the side. Wildcard twisted, barely avoiding the blade as it sliced the air where his ribs had been. His foot caught on something, his balance shot¡ª Scar-Nose lunged again, swinging a brutal fist toward his jaw. Wildcard braced for the hit. And then¡ªeverything shifted. His stomach lurched. His vision blurred. His feet weren¡¯t touching the ground. A strange weightlessness spread through his body, tugging at his gut, throwing off his sense of balance. The familiar burn of Boiling Touch was completely gone now. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. Then it hit him. New Ability: Slight Levitation. His feet hovered just above the ground. Not much¡ªtwo, maybe three inches¡ªbut enough to make him feel completely unsteady, like gravity wasn¡¯t gripping him right. His muscles clenched, fighting against the unfamiliar sensation, but the more he struggled, the worse it got. He wasn¡¯t just standing anymore. He was drifting. Scar-Nose¡¯s fist swung at his head. Wildcard didn¡¯t dodge¡ªhis body moved for him. The attack missed by inches. Scar-Nose hesitated, eyes narrowing. Wildcard tried stepping forward. His foot glided forward too fast. He almost fell face-first. The knife-wielding thug lunged. Wildcard wasn¡¯t sure how he did it, but his body rose slightly¡ª The knife passed just beneath him, cutting nothing but air. His heart pounded. His stomach twisted. His movements weren¡¯t his own anymore¡ªhis body was adjusting on its own, reacting before he even had a chance to think. His legs weren¡¯t doing what they were supposed to, but somehow, he was still dodging. Scar-Nose recovered, letting out a growl as he rushed again, throwing his full weight into a grapple. Wildcard let himself drop lower¡ªducking under the attack faster than he should have been able to. Then he struck. His elbow crashed into Scar-Nose¡¯s throat. The man gagged, choking. The knife-wielder swung for Wildcard¡¯s ribs. Wildcard twisted awkwardly in midair¡ªhovering just enough to avoid the strike. Then he kicked forward. His boot slammed into the man¡¯s knee. A sickening crack filled the alley. The knife clattered to the ground. The man collapsed, clutching his ruined leg. Wildcard landed unsteadily, his body swaying. His feet barely touched the dirt before he floated slightly again, like a marionette with its strings loose. Scar-Nose was back on him. This time, he didn¡¯t go for a punch. He tackled Wildcard outright. Wildcard¡¯s feet left the ground completely. They hit the dirt together, Scar-Nose on top, fists slamming down. Wildcard¡¯s head snapped sideways, his vision exploding with white-hot pain. Another punch. His skull rattled. A third¡ªWildcard barely turned his head in time, the fist grazing his temple. Wildcard struggled, his whole body floating and shifting awkwardly beneath Scar-Nose¡¯s weight. The thug grinned down at him. "Levitate out of this, freak." Wildcard did something else instead. He drove his forehead into Scar-Nose¡¯s nose. CRACK. Scar-Nose reeled back, cursing. Wildcard twisted, using his levitation to move in a way Scar-Nose didn¡¯t expect. He got his legs under the thug¡¯s chest¡ª And then he kicked out with everything he had. Scar-Nose went flying backward, crashing hard into the alley wall. Wildcard hovered slightly, swaying from exhaustion. The knife-wielding thug was still on the ground, clutching his knee, shaking in pain. Scar-Nose bled from the nose, eyes unfocused. Wildcard¡¯s head spun. His breath came in short gasps. The bald man hadn¡¯t moved. But now, finally, he spoke. "That¡¯s enough." Scar-Nose froze. The bald man stepped forward. Wildcard swallowed, his body still hovering slightly. The bald man studied him, then smiled. It wasn¡¯t a friendly smile. "You¡¯ve made your point," he said. "Now let¡¯s talk about what happens next." Running on Empty Wildcard wiped his mouth, tasting blood and exhaustion. His ribs ached, his knuckles throbbed, and the distant hum of adrenaline still burned through his system. The fight was over. Scar-Nose was groaning somewhere behind him. His knife-wielding friend wasn¡¯t getting up anytime soon. Wildcard turned his gaze to the bald man. The one who hadn¡¯t moved the entire time. Don Cortez. "You¡¯ve made your point," Cortez said, his voice measured, calm. "Now let¡¯s talk about what happens next." Wildcard exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the emptiness in his chest. His power had fizzled out completely. No new shift. No tingling sensation. Nothing. Cortez studied him with patient calculation. "You¡¯re new here, but not stupid. You know what happens to people who wander in alone, thinking they can survive on their own." Wildcard rolled his aching shoulders. "I dunno. Looked like I was doing fine." Cortez smirked. "For now." The unspoken meaning was clear. One fight wasn¡¯t survival. One win didn¡¯t mean a thing in the long run. Wildcard already knew that. Cortez glanced toward Isla. "Take him with you. Let¡¯s see if he¡¯s worth keeping." Isla sighed loudly, rubbing the back of her neck. "Of course. Babysitting duty." Wildcard grinned. "I feel real welcome." "Don¡¯t," Isla said.
The shantytown streets reeked of rust, sweat, and stale oil. Dim neon lights flickered above makeshift stalls, and the few people still lingering outside kept their heads down. Wildcard followed Isla, feeling every sore muscle with each step. "You gonna tell me what we¡¯re actually doing?" he asked. "Collections," Isla muttered. "A guy named Rigo owes Cortez five hundred. We¡¯re making sure he pays." Wildcard smirked. "What, the great Don Cortez can¡¯t cover a few bucks?" Isla shot him a glare. "It¡¯s not about the money." No, it wouldn¡¯t be. It was about control. Power. Making sure people knew their place. Wildcard had done jobs like this before. He just wasn¡¯t used to being on the other end of the stick. They reached a rusted metal shack wedged between two crumbling buildings. A single, flickering light buzzed above the doorway. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! Isla didn¡¯t knock. She kicked the door open. Wildcard followed her inside. The repair shop was a mess. Workbenches covered in half-dismantled tech, tangled wires, and discarded scraps. The air was thick with the smell of grease and burnt circuits. Rigo, a thin, wiry man with hollow eyes and jittery hands, stumbled back as they entered. His gaze darted between them, breathing ragged. "I¡ªI don¡¯t have it yet!" he stammered, stepping toward the counter. Wildcard spotted the gun behind him at the same time Isla did. She moved first. A blur of motion¡ªshe grabbed his wrist, slammed it against the counter. The rusted pistol clattered to the floor. "Bad idea, Rigo," Isla muttered. Rigo winced, eyes darting around the room. Wildcard watched carefully. He¡¯d seen this look before¡ªa guy trying to think his way out of a hole he couldn¡¯t climb. "You know how this works," Isla said, bored. "Pay up, or things get messy." Rigo licked his lips. "I just need more time!" "Not my problem." Wildcard sighed, stepping forward. "Look, Rigo," he said. "You owe Cortez. We both know he¡¯s not the patient type." "I¡ªI can¡¯t pay!" Rigo gasped. Wildcard rubbed his temple. Still no power. No advantage. Just his own instincts. He crouched down, picking up Rigo¡¯s gun. The thing was falling apart. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it. "You were gonna use this on us?" Wildcard asked. "Really?" Rigo didn¡¯t answer. Wildcard set the gun down on the counter, just out of reach. Then he leaned in slightly. "Here¡¯s the deal," he said. "You¡¯re gonna give us something. Maybe it¡¯s not cash. Maybe it¡¯s parts. Supplies. Whatever Cortez can use. But you¡¯re not walking away from this empty-handed." Rigo hesitated, glancing at Isla. She just shrugged. "He¡¯s not wrong." His hands trembled as he turned, fumbling with a rusted cabinet. Wildcard watched him carefully, a nagging unease settling in his gut. Not because of Rigo¡ªbecause of himself. That emptiness where his power should¡¯ve been still gnawed at him. Rigo shoved a bag of supplies toward them. "T-This is everything I¡¯ve got," he stammered. "Just¡ªplease, don¡¯t tell Cortez I pulled a gun." Wildcard smirked. "Oh, I¡¯m definitely telling him." Rigo¡¯s face drained of color. Isla chuckled, slinging the bag over her shoulder. "Relax, Rigo. You¡¯re still breathing. That¡¯s more than most get." They walked out. Wildcard didn¡¯t look back.
Back at the Dominos¡¯ compound, the air buzzed with activity¡ªrunners moving in and out, weapons being cleaned, conversations overlapping. Isla led the way to Cortez¡¯s office. Inside, the man himself sat behind a metal desk, ledger open. He barely looked up as Isla tossed the bag onto the table. "Rigo didn¡¯t have the cash," she said. "We took value instead." Cortez flipped through the bag, nodding slightly. "Acceptable." His gaze drifted to Wildcard. "How¡¯d he do?" Isla smirked. "Didn¡¯t screw it up." Wildcard raised an eyebrow. "That¡¯s high praise from you." Cortez¡¯s fingers drummed against the desk. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Go get some rest," he said. "You¡¯ll be working again soon." Wildcard didn¡¯t argue. But as he walked out, he still felt nothing. No shift. No power returning. Just a dull, gnawing absence.
Grunt was waiting outside. Wildcard barely had time to react before Grunt shoved him against a crate. "Listen up, new guy," Grunt muttered. His breath reeked of blood and cheap liquor. Wildcard didn¡¯t flinch. "We having a moment here?" "You think you¡¯re climbing the ranks?" Grunt sneered. "Think you¡¯re special?" His grip tightened. "You¡¯re just another tool. Don¡¯t forget that." Wildcard felt the itch again. That desperate, instinctive need for a power to trigger. But there was nothing. Grunt saw it. Smirked. "Yeah," Grunt muttered. "That¡¯s what I thought." He stepped back, shoving Wildcard slightly as he walked off. Wildcard exhaled slowly. Something was wrong. And he had no idea if it was temporary¡ªor permanent. A Voice That Cuts Wildcard lay on a thin, lumpy cot, staring up at the ceiling of his new reality. The metal roof above him was stained with rust and grime, and somewhere in the distance, he could hear the low murmur of voices¡ªDominos talking, laughing, arguing. He flexed his fingers. Still nothing. No power. It had been hours now. Maybe longer. His abilities had always rotated, sometimes useless, sometimes game-changing. But this? This felt different. It wasn¡¯t just the absence of power. It was the silence inside him. A silence that was beginning to feel permanent. He tried to ignore the weight in his chest. Instead, he focused on what came next. He had bought himself a spot here. But a spot wasn¡¯t security. He was a low-rank goon in the Dominos, a faction built on hierarchy and ruthless efficiency. No power meant no edge. No edge meant no future. The thought gnawed at him. His door rattled. "Get up, newbie," Isla¡¯s voice called from the other side. "Cortez wants you." Wildcard sighed and swung his legs off the cot.
Cortez¡¯s office was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of dust and old paper. A single desk lamp illuminated the worn ledger in front of him, its pages covered in neat, methodical handwriting. Cortez barely glanced up as Wildcard and Isla entered. "You did the job," he said. "You¡¯re still standing." Wildcard shrugged. "I try." Cortez¡¯s fingers tapped against the desk. "I expect the same for what comes next." Wildcard raised an eyebrow. "Oh? More glorified errand work?" Cortez¡¯s lips curled slightly. "You could call it that." A man stepped forward from the shadows of the room. Wildcard hadn¡¯t even noticed him at first¡ªtall, broad, quiet, like a statue that had just decided to move. "Jasper," Cortez said, motioning toward him. "You¡¯ll be helping him today." Jasper¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change. He just looked Wildcard up and down. "Another mouth to feed." "Another set of hands," Cortez corrected. "You¡¯re going to remind someone why debts get paid on time." Wildcard sighed internally. Another collection job. He had a feeling this one wouldn¡¯t go as smoothly as Rigo. Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.
The streets of the shantytown felt even heavier than before. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, maybe it was the soreness in his ribs, but Wildcard¡¯s paranoia was rising. People watched from behind cracked windows and rusted metal doorways. Some ducked away as they passed. Others just stared, expressionless and empty. "Who are we dealing with?" Wildcard asked, glancing at Jasper. "A man named Callow," Jasper grunted. "Used to be with Cortez before he thought he could do better." "Ah," Wildcard said. "One of those guys." Jasper nodded. "Took a payout, ran, and now he¡¯s acting like the debt doesn¡¯t exist." They turned a corner, stepping into a narrow alley lined with old scaffolding and makeshift homes. The air smelled like burnt oil and rotting food. At the end of the alley, two men stood outside a barricaded shopfront. One was short and wiry, arms covered in faded tattoos. The other was built like a slab of concrete, arms crossed over his chest. Jasper walked forward without hesitation. "Callow." The short one looked up, sneering. "Cortez really sent you after me? I thought he was done wasting time." Wildcard didn¡¯t miss the way Callow¡¯s fingers twitched toward his belt. He was armed. So was the bigger one. This wasn¡¯t going to be a friendly chat. Wildcard¡¯s jaw clenched. He needed an angle. A play. Something. And then it hit. The sensation crawled up his spine, slow and deliberate, like the first inhale of a storm. His breath caught, his pulse thumped once¡ª New ability acquired. Wildcard inhaled sharply. Boosted Intimidation. His presence changed immediately. It wasn¡¯t just the way he stood, the way he spoke¡ªit was the air itself. His words carried weight. His stare carried pressure. He met Callow¡¯s gaze. "That payout you ran off with," Wildcard said. His voice was calm, steady¡ªbut it sliced through the alley like a blade. "That was a loan. A favor. And Cortez doesn¡¯t deal in favors." Callow blinked. The sneer faltered. Wildcard stepped forward. Not fast, not aggressive. Just purposeful. Inevitable. "Now you¡¯re acting like you can just walk away," he continued. "Like that debt just disappeared." He tilted his head slightly. "That¡¯s not how this works." Callow¡¯s throat bobbed. Wildcard could see the doubt flickering behind his eyes. The second-guessing. The hesitation. Good. "You either settle things with Cortez," Wildcard said, his voice low, measured, "or you settle things with us. Right now." He let the words sink in. Let Callow feel them. The alley felt smaller. Tighter. Heavier. The big guy¡ªCallow¡¯s muscle¡ªshifted uncomfortably. Callow licked his lips. "I¡­ I just need more time." "No," Wildcard said. "You don¡¯t." The tension coiled. Ready to snap. Then Callow did something stupid. His hand darted for the knife at his belt. Jasper moved first. A gunshot cracked through the alley. Callow screamed, clutching his leg as he crumpled to the ground. Blood pooled beneath him, steaming on the cold pavement. His muscle didn¡¯t even reach for his own weapon. He just stared down at Callow, wide-eyed. Wildcard crouched next to the fallen man, voice quiet. "You don¡¯t get ¡®more time,¡¯" he murmured. "You get ¡®now.¡¯" Callow nodded frantically, teeth clenched in pain. Jasper holstered his gun. "Cortez expects the full amount. Today." Callow didn¡¯t argue. Wildcard stood, shaking out his hands. The pressure in his voice, in his stance, was already fading. That was fine. It had done its job. "Come on," Jasper muttered, turning away. Wildcard followed, not looking back.
Cortez watched them carefully when they returned. Jasper spoke first. "Callow got the message." Cortez nodded slightly. "And you?" he asked, looking at Wildcard. Wildcard smiled faintly. "I made myself clear." Cortez¡¯s fingers drummed once against the desk. Then, slowly, he leaned back. "Good." Nothing else. No praise. No deeper acknowledgment. But Wildcard could feel it. He was being watched. Evaluated. Measured. And for now? He was still in the game. The Long Game Wildcard was starting to enjoy the sound of his own voice. Not in the annoying, self-important way¡ªhe wasn¡¯t Grunt¡ªbut because every time he spoke now, people listened. Boosted Intimidation was useful in ways he hadn¡¯t expected. It wasn¡¯t just about scaring people¡ªit was about making them feel the weight of his words. When he spoke, it stuck. And in the Sinkhole, influence mattered more than muscle. He had tested it twice since Callow¡ªa quick chat with a couple of low-tier Dominos thugs, nothing major. But the way they reacted? It was different. They heard him, remembered him. He wasn¡¯t just another nameless grunt anymore. He had no idea if that was a good thing.
The market district of the Sinkhole was a grimy mess of makeshift stalls, flickering neon signs, and the thick scent of overcooked meat. People traded, bartered, whispered deals in shadowed corners. Wildcard moved through the crowd, keeping his posture relaxed but his senses sharp. He wasn¡¯t on a job right now, which meant he wasn¡¯t being followed. No Isla. No Grunt. No Dominos watching his every move. That made him a little uneasy. It also meant someone had gone through a lot of effort to make sure they could meet him alone. Because Wildcard wasn¡¯t here by accident. A message had found its way to him¡ªa small note slipped under his cot, written in clean, deliberate handwriting. "Walk the market. Alone. You¡¯ll know when you¡¯ve found me." That was it. No name. No threats. Just confidence that he would come. And here he was.
He spotted the man before the man acknowledged him. Sayer was sitting at a rundown caf¨¦ stall, sipping from a battered tin cup like he had all the time in the world. He was young, maybe mid-20s, sharp features, eyes that never rested. Not restless. Just always thinking. Always running a calculation. Wildcard had seen a lot of dangerous people in the Sinkhole. Sayer didn¡¯t look dangerous. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. But Wildcard had a feeling that if you let him, he¡¯d talk you into your own grave. He slid into the seat across from him, arms resting on the table. "You¡¯re either brave or stupid," Wildcard said, "getting my attention like this." Sayer took another slow sip, not answering right away. He seemed to enjoy the silence. The tension. Then, finally, he set the cup down. "I wanted to see what kind of man you are," Sayer said, his voice calm, measured. Wildcard smirked. "And?" Sayer tilted his head slightly, eyes scanning him, processing. "You¡¯re not what I expected," he admitted. "People like you¡ªpeople with shifting abilities¡ªyou¡¯re usually erratic. Wild. Unreliable. And yet¡­" Wildcard exhaled sharply. "And yet?" Sayer smiled faintly. "You¡¯re still alive. Which means you¡¯re smart enough to survive. Or lucky. And luck is just another form of pattern recognition, whether you know it or not." Wildcard let that sit for a second. Then he leaned back, stretching slightly. "You could¡¯ve just asked around, gotten my life story from any number of gossipy bastards. But instead, you wanted to talk to me yourself. Why?" Sayer tapped a single finger against the table. Not impatient¡ªjust making a point. "I watched you handle Callow." Wildcard raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? You enjoy the show?" Sayer¡¯s smile didn¡¯t reach his eyes. "You made an impression. A man¡¯s words can carry weight. Yours now carry more than most. That¡¯s an asset. A rare one." Wildcard nodded slightly. "That sounds like the setup to a proposition." Sayer didn¡¯t deny it. Wildcard sighed. "Alright. Lay it on me." Sayer took another slow sip of his drink, considering his next words carefully. "You work for Cortez," he said. "For now." Wildcard didn¡¯t respond. Sayer continued. "The Dominos are useful. But they are¡­ short-sighted. Violence, fear, control. Effective, yes, but blunt instruments wear down over time." Wildcard rolled his fingers against the table. He could already see where this was going. "And I suppose your people," Wildcard said, "the walking calculators¡ª" Sayer didn¡¯t rise to the bait. He just nodded. "We play the long game." Wildcard chuckled. "See, that¡¯s cute and all, but you¡¯re being real vague. What exactly do you want from me?" Sayer studied him for a moment, as if deciding how much to reveal. Then he reached into his coat and slid something across the table. A small device. Looks like a comm unit, but modified. Wildcard frowned. "What¡¯s this?" "A line to me," Sayer said. "For when you¡¯re ready to start thinking bigger." Wildcard turned it over in his hand. It was a simple thing, unmarked, no logos, no serials. "You¡¯re assuming I¡¯ll call," Wildcard said. Sayer smiled. "I don¡¯t assume. I just recognize inevitabilities." Wildcard exhaled through his nose, rolling the device between his fingers. Sayer wasn¡¯t making a hard sell. He wasn¡¯t pushing, wasn¡¯t forcing a deal. He was just putting the option on the table. Which was smarter than half the people Wildcard had dealt with in his life. He pocketed the device. "I¡¯ll think about it." Sayer didn¡¯t look disappointed or victorious. Just¡­ as if he already knew the outcome. "Of course," he said simply. Then he stood up, dusting off his coat. "One more thing." Wildcard raised an eyebrow. Sayer met his gaze. "Don Cortez already suspects you aren¡¯t just another grunt." Wildcard felt his stomach twist slightly. Sayer¡¯s voice remained calm. "You¡¯ll want to be careful." Then, without waiting for a response, he walked away, disappearing into the market crowd like he¡¯d never been there at all. Wildcard sat there for a long moment, fingers tapping against the device in his pocket. Cortez was watching him. And now? So was someone else. A Game of Inches The weeks blurred together. Wildcard moved through them on instinct¡ªjobs, 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¡ªnot 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¡ª**barely old enough to be out here¡ª**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¡ªI 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¡ªbarely. Grunt¡¯s knuckles tightened, but Wildcard could see it¡ªthe 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.
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." If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. 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¡ª 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¡ªweeks 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¡ª 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¡ªgood. 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¡ªtoo 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.
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. Useless, Useless, Useless! Wildcard sat on the edge of his cot, staring at the puddle of spit on the floor. It glistened under the dim light, clear, unremarkable¡ªuntil he poked it with a scrap of cloth. The fabric stiffened instantly, like it had been dunked in glue and left to dry. He grunted. "Well, that¡¯s disgusting." Rolling his tongue in his mouth, he considered the practical uses of his new ability. Spitting in someone¡¯s drink? Too slow. Spitting directly on them? Unreliable. Spitting into his own hand and slapping someone? Comically stupid. None of it seemed useful. His old intimidation ability had made people listen. This? It just made things gross. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. He sighed, tilting his head back against the cold metal wall. "This is officially the dumbest power I¡¯ve ever had." A knock at the door. Before he could answer, Isla stepped in, arms crossed. She took one look at the spit-covered rag and made a face. "Do I even wanna ask?" Wildcard gestured vaguely. "Just conducting very important scientific research." "Uh-huh." She kicked the rag toward him with the tip of her boot. "And? Any groundbreaking discoveries?" "It¡¯s sticky, and it messes people up if they touch it. That¡¯s about it." Isla smirked. "So, you¡¯re a walking slug now. Congrats." Wildcard sighed. "Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up." She leaned against the doorframe. "Look, Cortez hasn¡¯t given us anything new yet, so unless you wanna sit here playing with yourself all night¡ª" "¡ªPhrasing," Wildcard muttered. She ignored him. "¡ªI¡¯m heading to the Pit. You in?" The Pit. A makeshift fighting ring down in one of the old factories. Mostly just an excuse for the Dominos and other gangs to burn off steam. Bets, brawls, and broken bones. Wildcard looked at the rag on the floor, then at Isla. A distraction sounded good. "Yeah," he said, standing up. "Why not?" He stepped over the spit puddle and followed her out into the night. Into the Pit The air in the Pit felt thick, like it had soaked up every drop of blood and sweat ever spilled here and refused to let them go. The underground arena was built into an old factory floor, surrounded by rusted catwalks and makeshift stands where dozens of gangsters crowded together, shouting over each other. The whole place stank of cheap booze, dirty money, and bad decisions. Wildcard stood near the entrance, arms crossed, watching as two men pounded each other into the dirt. No rules. No refs. Just a circle of bloodthirsty spectators waiting for someone to drop. One guy already had¡ªface-first into the mud, unconscious. The other was still standing, knuckles split and breathing heavy. A hand clapped his shoulder. Isla. "Beautiful, isn¡¯t it?" she said, grinning. "More like unsanitary," Wildcard muttered, watching as a runner dragged the unconscious guy out of the ring. She ignored him. "Come on. We need drinks."
The bar was little more than a rusted metal counter with mismatched bottles lined up behind it. Isla leaned against it, grinning as she counted her winnings. "Easy money," she said, tossing a few bills toward Wildcard. He caught them without looking. "You bet against the guy that¡¯s unconscious, didn¡¯t you?" "Damn right I did." Wildcard smirked, shaking his head. Isla pushed a drink toward him. "So, what do you think? Good place to let off some steam, huh?" Wildcard scanned the room. The Pit wasn¡¯t just about fighting. It was about reputation and influence. A way for people to prove themselves¡ªor get destroyed trying. He exhaled through his nose. "I think it¡¯s a place to get your teeth kicked in." Isla grinned. "Same thing." A loud voice cut through the noise. "Who''s next?" Wildcard turned and saw a man step into the ring. He was big. Too big. The kind of guy that probably got dropped into the Sinkhole for tearing someone in half. Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! His head was shaved clean, covered in faint scars. He spread his arms wide, grinning at the crowd. "Come on! Someone give me a challenge!" A new problem interrupted his thoughts. "Wildcard!" Isla¡¯s voice snapped him back. He blinked, turned¡ªjust in time to see her shoving someone toward him. Someone he recognized instantly. Grunt. The bigger man grinned and cracked his knuckles. "Boss says it¡¯s time for you to prove yourself," he said. "And lucky you¡ªI volunteered to help." Wildcard glanced at Isla, brows raised. "You set me up?" She smirked. "Consider it encouragement." "Yeah, well, I consider it a pain in my ass." Grunt chuckled. "Just shut up and fight." A roar went through the crowd as the two of them stepped into the ring.
Wildcard moved first. Waiting on a guy like Grunt to throw the first punch was a bad idea. He ducked low, twisted to the side, and drove a quick elbow toward Grunt¡¯s ribs. The impact felt like hitting a concrete wall. Grunt barely flinched. His arm shot forward. Wildcard barely had time to react before a meaty fist crashed into his ribs. Pain exploded through his side. He stumbled, tried to keep his footing. Grunt didn¡¯t let him. A second punch cracked against his jaw. His vision flickered white. Wildcard hit the dirt. Laughter and cheers exploded from the crowd. Grunt shook his head. "Really? That¡¯s all?" Wildcard coughed and wiped blood from his lip. His mind raced. He exhaled sharply, spit pooling in his mouth. He wasn¡¯t proud of what he was about to do. "Hold on," he groaned, waving a hand weakly as he pushed himself up. "I just need a second." Grunt rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on¡ª" Wildcard turned his head and spit into his own palm. Grunt barely had time to register it before Wildcard smeared it across his forearm. "What the f¡ª" Grunt¡¯s entire arm locked up instantly. The muscle twitched violently, fingers seizing, refusing to obey. The shock in his expression was worth the pain in Wildcard¡¯s ribs. Wildcard grinned. "Guess I¡¯m a hands-on kind of guy." Grunt growled and tried to swing with his other arm, but his balance was off now. Wildcard ducked under the punch, spat onto his knuckles, and drove a fist straight into Grunt¡¯s neck. The contact was brief, but it was enough. Grunt staggered back, choking, his throat muscles locking up. Wildcard saw his moment. He rushed forward, slammed a shoulder into Grunt¡¯s chest, and drove him down into the dirt. The crowd roared again, but this time, it wasn¡¯t laughter. It was cheering. Grunt twitched beneath him, gasping, unable to move his arms or neck. Wildcard wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then grabbed Grunt by the collar, pulling him up just enough to whisper, "Looks like I win." Grunt glared at him, teeth clenched. He couldn¡¯t even respond. Wildcard let go and stepped back, breathing hard. The announcer hesitated, then lifted Wildcard¡¯s arm. "Winner!" The Pit erupted into chaos.
As they left the ring, Isla nudged him with her elbow. "That was disgusting." Wildcard smirked, still rolling his sore jaw. "Yeah, well, disgusting works." She laughed. "Looks like you made an impression." He followed her gaze and saw the way the crowd was looking at him. Some were grinning. Some were calculating. Some were taking mental notes. Because Wildcard hadn¡¯t won with brute strength. He had won with something no one saw coming. And in the Sinkhole, that was dangerous.