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—the ones who had tried to gut him for Grift’s package—hadn’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.

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The marketplace was already alive by the time he reached it—if 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.

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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—just 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—

Wildcard’s stomach clenched. His body tingled.

His power was shifting.

He braced for the surge—the rush of heat, the static, the unnatural pull—

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 tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

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—a 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—but 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—

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—?!"

"I can’t see—!"

Wildcard didn’t wait. He moved.

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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—his 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—the 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—the same bastards who had just been hunting him down like an animal—were 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—like 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—he 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—we caught him."

"No." The masked man finally looked down at Wildcard again, cold, dispassionate. "I did."

Then, before Wildcard could react—the 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—the 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.