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—his 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—

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—this 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—

And grabbed the man’s throat.

For a split second, nothing happened.

Then—

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—Scarface 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—then drove his knee up as hard as he could.

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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—

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—

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—his 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—something 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 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—not 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—"

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—"

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—it’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—he 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—a 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—this 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—whoever the hell he was—stood 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—something 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.