Chapter 1: TANK
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My eyes are drawn to my dead body, cold and pale, with a red, glowing coin covering each eye.
I watch the scene standing on a foggy hill, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and something metallic. Around my corpse are three old men. They ignore me. One wears a crown, its jewels glinting in the dim light. With a gaping hole where his left eye should be, the second grips a sword, the blade gleaming with a twilight sheen. The third is my father, his face twisted in an expression of sorrow I can never get through.
I want to scream and tell my father that’s not me—I’m not dead. I search for anything to say to get his attention, but the words stick in my throat like a forgotten song.
The mist swirls, forming the shape of a poker card. It's red, with an intricate pattern I've never seen before. At its center is a heart symbol, different from any deck I know—the card hovers, out of place in this grim scene.
Two fiery eyes open within the card's design. They lock onto mine—my heart races.
Then, a flurry of text floods my mind's eye.
STATUS:
Name: Ember [8160]
Tier -
Faction: -
Level: -
Zii: -
Card Deck: -
Deck Upgrades: -
Meta: -
Attack: -
Defense: -
Spell: -
Buff: -
Special: -
I jolt awake in my bed, sweat beading on my forehead. The taste of copper lingers on my tongue. I blink rapidly, but those burning eyes remain imprinted on my vision, a vivid reminder of the dream that still clings to my consciousness.
* * *
The dream replays in the back of my mind as I sat at the poker table, casino lights flashing around me in a kaleidoscope of distraction. I glanced down at my cards—pocket aces. Behind my poker face, I should’ve been elated for the chance to bust a couple of tourists for the rest of their chips.
It’s been three nights for me at the Golden Nugget. The poker room here was a relic of old-school Vegas, dripping with nostalgia and decadence. The walls were adorned with black-and-white photographs of high rollers and iconic moments from poker history, their faces frozen in time under the dim, golden glow of vintage chandeliers. The felt on the tables, worn but well-maintained, had seen countless hands, each adding to the room’s rich tapestry of stories and legends.
It was also unusually crowded tonight. A subtle scent of cigar smoke lingered in the air, mixing with the faint aroma of expensive cologne and the occasional whiff of whiskey. The soft hum of conversations, punctuated by the rhythmic shuffling of cards and the clinking of chips, created a soothing mood I once loved.
For an outsider, this room was a place of high stakes, where fortunes were made and lost. With their wide eyes and animated chatter, the tourists brought an element of unpredictability, their excitement tangible as they chased their fantasies. In contrast, with their impassive faces and calculating gazes, the pros exuded confidence born of countless hours at the table.
The Nugget featured a regular $1/$2 No-Limit Hold’em cash game with an uncapped max buy-in, perfect for hustling the rent without drawing too much attention. But the actual score was in the backroom cash games, where stakes were higher, players sharper, and the risks—and rewards—immeasurably greater.
I pretended to ignore the conversation between the two across the table. One was a tall blonde with shaggy hair, while the other was a pudgy bald Asian with hipster glasses and a goatee. Based on their polos and blazers, I guessed they were Silicon Valley tech bros.
“Do you know who that is?” whispered the blonde. “That’s Ember Lynn. She won the World Series in her first year.”
“Yeah, I know, Karl,” the Asian replied. “I read her book on the plane. Stop being obnoxious, please?”
“She’s Japanese but adopted. That’s why she’s a redhead.”
“I told you, I read her book.”
“Did you bring it? Man, she is so hot. Hey, go ask her to sign it for us.”
“Us? I swear, Karl, shut up. She’s going to hear you.”
Yes, I was once a poker pro who wrote a book. But you don’t “win” the World Series of Poker. You win one of many bracelets, as I did after qualifying for ten dollars through an online satellite tournament. The most recognized player who did the same was an accountant named Chris Moneymaker. Only he won the main event, which is far more impressive than anything I’ve ever done. After my sun run at the World Series, I turned pro but never won or even cashed in a tournament again.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
I fired another pot-sized bullet after the river card.
The Asian, doing a terrible job hiding his anxiety, called. Next, the blonde named Karl shoved his stack into the middle.
“I’m all in.”
In poker, “going into the tank” describes when a player takes a while to think. It involves considering the next move—whether to call, raise, if so, by how much, or fold—unless you’re bluffing to put on an act. But imagine being submerged in a water tank, isolated and focused—sometimes drowning. That’s what it’s like for me, anyway.
I went into the tank, staring at the table, and thought through the hand.
YOUR CARDS: A♦ A♥
FLOP: K♦ 9♦ 6♣
TURN: K♦ 9♦ 6♣ A♠
RIVER: K♦ 9♦ 6♣ A♠ 7♠
I put him on an ace, which gave him a top pair. I checked the flop, and so did he. Then the turn came, and I slow-played it, checking again, hoping he had at least something of a hand. That’s when he started eyeing his chips—a classic tell. He bet double the pot on the turn and went all-in on the river. The pattern was pretty easy to spot.
Mr. Shaggy Blonde would never expect me to have trips—he would have flat-called or folded by now. His Asian buddy probably had a pair of something, unless he was holding something dumb like an 8-5 or 10-8—which was always possible with amateurs. Karl could’ve had a king, giving him the nuts with a full house, but whichever way you sliced it, I was already pot-committed.
I called.
The Asian folded.
Karl called and flipped his cards, announcing, “Aces, baby!”
BOARD: K♦ 9♦ 6♣ A♠ 7♠
KARL O’NEIL: A♣ Q♦
He had the top pair.
I gave him the bad news and revealed my hand.
BOARD: K♦ 9♦ 6♣ A♠ 7♠
EMBER LYNN: A♦ A♥
KARL O’NEIL: A♣ Q♦
“How?” Karl shouted. “Who plays pocket aces like that?”
I had nothing to say.
“Sir, that’s enough.”
That was Rocky, the Korean dealer just hired after a stint at the MGM and the reason I was here at the Nugget. I’ve known him since moving to Vegas at eighteen. Three years older than me, he let me crash on his couch and snuck me into the casinos, where I fell in love with poker. I imagined him as the older brother I always wished I had.
Karl wasn’t done. I was busy trying not to react while everybody stared, capturing our little altercation on their phones. We’d be all over social media within the hour—precisely the attention I tried to avoid.
Karl shoved Rocky and grabbed his chips.
Oh, this is not gonna end well for you, Karl.
Rocky grabbed Karl’s hand, turning his fingers white and purple, followed by three rapid-fire cracks. I did Karate as a kid, unlike Rocky, who had no martial arts background. But he had more power than his size gave away—faster, too. I’d seen him use that death grip technique dozens of times on bigger guys.
Karl froze with a high-pitched squeal. The crowd murmured. Security barged into the room as the poor guy started drooling on the felt.
After giving me a wink, Rocky escorted Karl out with security. As I stacked my chips, I heard a timid voice.
“Um, excuse me. Miss Ember Lynn?”
I turned to see the Asian guy looking even more sheepish than before.
“Could you… maybe… sign a copy of your book?”
The book was titled Meta Poker. It featured an overly photoshopped picture of me in a skin-tight leather dress, trying my best evil Taylor Swift impression—like an absolute idiot.
I could feel everybody still staring.
“Sure,” I said, forcing a smile. “What’s your name?”
“Albert Chen.”
I signed it to “My new friend, Albert Chen,” using the standard signature and winky face, as I’d done hundreds, maybe thousands of times. Back then, I craved attention. Today, I would’ve traded it all. For what? No idea.
Back to collecting my chips, my mind randomly wandered to thoughts of my Japanese dad. Annoying.
I saw it after a double-take—a jet-black poker chip in my stack. It was so opaque that it looked like a hole in the table. In the center was an embossed hand-carved infinity symbol.
Suddenly, it felt like the floor had cleared out—not a soul playing poker. The lights went soft, and the table blurred. A deep vibration warbled in my ears, followed by a wave of vertigo.
“Every night, Em. How long are you going to play low-stake cash games?”
I must’ve jumped a foot off my chair.
“Rocky! God, you scared me.”
“Sorry, Em,” he said. “What’s up? You okay?”
Convinced it was nothing, I slipped the black chip into my hoodie pocket.
“Yeah, I’m fine. And FYI, I’m retired, remember?”
“What’s the point of being a poker celebrity with millions of fans if you’re not going to play actual poker?” Rocky gave me one of his usual looks.
“Fans? Really?” I shot back. “Besides, I like hanging with you at the kiddy tables.”
“And when I’m not around?”
“I guess I’ll have to go make YouTube videos with Daniel Negreanu. I always liked him better anyway.”
That made him laugh. I always avoided awkward subjects when talking with Rocky. I knew he had no ulterior motives. But I imagined he’d start to sound even more like my Japanese dad, and that conversation would be so not cool—for both our sakes.
“You know I love you, man,” I said.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“World of Warcraft this weekend?”
“WoW, again? Can’t we try something else? Like Baldur’s Gate?”
“You know I’m a classics girl, bro.”
Rocky sighed and nodded.
“All right, gotta bounce. See you tomorrow night, Rocky.”
“Good night, Em.”
The chip pulsed in my pocket as I walked through the poker room doors. Glancing over my shoulder, I swore three black-hooded figures watched me from the crowd. Suddenly, they transformed into the three old men from my dream. Their piercing eyes flashed in my mind, and a sharp pain jabbed through my stomach as if someone had hit me with a bat. I doubled over, breathless. When I looked up, the figures had vanished. Panic surged through me, and I bolted out of the poker room.
***
I was back in the tank as Rage Against the Machine blared in my headphones.
Cramps, I told myself. Just cramps. Nothing to worry about. Maybe that greasy slice of pizza was finally catching up with me, or perhaps it was just the extra spicy wings I couldn’t resist. And the black poker chip must’ve been some promotional stunt. Rocky had to be in on it. Right? I’d confront him tomorrow, we’d laugh it off, and that’d be the end of it.
As I placed the chip back in my hoodie, exhaustion kicked in. Lying in bed, I stared at the neon flooding my room from the Vegas strip.
My executive suite featured vaulted ceilings, white marble floors, and columns. All the furniture was tan suede, complimenting a spiral staircase ascending to the second floor. The main attraction was a tropical fish tank running the entire room length. Because of my pro days and seven million Instagram followers, I was upgraded to the best suites wherever I went.
As predicted, notifications flooded in about my new boyfriend, Karl, getting kicked out of a casino because he’s either a beta cuck or I’m girlbossing my way to becoming a crazy cat lady.
I turned my phone off, thinking of a long hot bath, but fell asleep.