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—rusted-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—no money, no supplies, and no better options.
He exhaled. "Fine. Where’s the package?"
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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—the 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.
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The slums weren’t like the market. No unwritten rules here. The further he got from neutral ground, the worse it smelled—burnt 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.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
He turned a corner, and six men were waiting for him.
They weren’t just some random thugs. They were hunters—lean, 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 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.
"—but maybe you should think about what’s in this thing before you—"
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—the surge of heat or cold, the static in his veins, the weightlessness—
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.
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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—his 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.
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Ahead, a collapsed overpass loomed—high 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—feet 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—he 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.
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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.
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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—he was testing him, seeing if he could survive. The Sinkhole was all about power—who 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—
He needed a real advantage.
Because next time?
Next time, he might not be lucky.