Chapter 33 - I Never Bluff

"W-what do you mean I’m his target?" I felt the blood drain from my face, my whole body stiffening with fear. "A-am I going to be assassinated?" My voice was barely a whisper, shaky and edged with panic.

"Ssshhh." Myrrh leaned closer, her eyes narrowed with cautious intensity. "I don’t think that’s the case. I’ve been keeping an eye on him from a distance, and for now, he’s just... watching you."

"Him? It’s a man?" I asked, my voice tight.

Myrrh nodded gravely, her gaze flickering back toward the entrance. "I spotted him earlier, hooded, lurking at the edge of the park. He followed us into the restaurant, and when we walked into the casino, he swapped his disguise for a sleek tuxedo, trying to disappear into the sea of gamblers. He’s tall—about six and a half feet—with long, wavy black hair that catches the light, and skin so pale it’s almost ghostly. He's probably in his mid fifties. His face has that unsettling, statuesque stillness, and he’s hiding behind golden-framed shades. I don’t think he’s here to kill you, though—unless he’s stashing a weapon in a very uncomfortable place." A hint of a smile flickered across her face, but it quickly faded.

"Whoa, you noticed all that?" My eyes widened, a mixture of surprise and admiration bubbling up. "Is that why you were gone for fifteen minutes?"

"It wasn’t hard to track him since he’s so focused on you—oh!" Myrrh’s eyes widened suddenly, and her breath hitched. "He’s moving towards us!"

I twisted in my chair, my stomach churning with dread. There he was, just as Myrrh had described—tall, thin, his unnaturally pale face split by a wide, unnerving grin that stretched from ear to ear. My whole body shuddered, a cold, prickling sensation dancing down my spine. Myrrh and I shot to our feet, chairs scraping against the casino floor.

"Hello there." The man’s voice was smooth but strangely brittle, like cracked porcelain. He raised one slender, almost skeletal hand, the skin stretched taut over his knuckles. "I hope I’m not startling you. You’re… Zaft Callahan, correct?"

Myrrh’s hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, yanking me behind her with a protective force. She stepped forward, positioning herself like a fierce older sister shielding a helpless younger sibling.

“You’ve got the wrong person,” she declared with a steely glare that could cut glass. Her voice was sharp, unyielding. “This is Tiny Dickson.”

What kind of ridiculous name was that? I nearly choked, my face burning with embarrassment, but I bit my tongue. As absurd as it sounded, I knew Myrrh was just trying to protect my identity. Still, did she have to throw in the insult?

The man chuckled, a hollow sound that felt unsettlingly light. “Haha, you’ve got a sense of humor,” he said, turning his gaze fully on Myrrh. His smile didn’t waver, but his eyes grew colder, more calculating. “But I’m afraid you can’t fool me. You’re the spitting image of your mother—the illustrious Mirana Alicent. That’s why I’m confident he’s Zaft Callahan. And I’m quite aware that you’ve been watching me too, ever since you realized I’d noticed you. So I thought I’d save us the suspense and come say hello.”

Myrrh’s face hardened, her jaw clenched. She squared her shoulders, taking another step forward, putting herself firmly between me and the stranger. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded, her voice as dangerous as the edge of a knife.

The pale man didn’t flinch. Instead, he dipped into a formal bow, a gesture that seemed both mockingly polite and oddly sinister. “Ismail Arondight,” he said, his tone smooth and unhurried. "I imagine you're curious as to why I’ve been following the two of you. So, how about we settle your curiosity over a game of poker? It seems like the perfect setting for a friendly discussion."

Myrrh’s eyes narrowed, her stance unwavering. “And if we refuse?” she shot back, her voice like ice. She was doing all the talking now, and honestly, I was grateful. My heart was pounding in my throat, and my tongue felt like it was glued to the roof of my mouth. Besides, she was doing an impressive job of playing the role of my personal bodyguard, leaving me to silently hope that she’d keep it up.

“Well...” Ismail’s grin widened as he lowered his shades, revealing a pair of eyes glowing a fierce crimson. Faint, intricate circuits pulsed beneath the surface—clearly cyberpunk implants, radiating a cold, mechanical energy. “Let’s just say... there will be a lot of collateral damage.”

In that instant, the entire atmosphere shifted. The lights overhead flickered, casting jagged shadows across the casino floor. A chorus of distorted beeps and garbled jingles erupted as the slot machines glitched, sending a wave of disgruntled murmurs through the aristocrats. But that wasn’t all—small red dots flared to life in the corners, the security cameras suddenly glowing like tiny, watchful eyes. A low, ominous hum filled the air as the automatic glass doors sealed shut with a hiss.

Then, as abruptly as it started, the lights steadied, the machines chimed merrily again, and the cameras went dark. It was as if nothing had happened—except for the heavy tension that settled over the room.

Myrrh and I were paralyzed, fear tightening around my chest like a steel vise. I’d heard stories about cybernetic implants in Xyraxis—advanced technology that allowed people to merge their minds with machines using microchips embedded directly in their brains. It was similar to the WEEB system I was familiar with, but these implants could connect to anything—Bluetooth, Wi-Fi, even nearby networks. And then there were the whispers of those who took this technology to dangerous extremes: cybercriminals who could seize control of any electronic device, hacking entire systems with a flicker of thought.

Ismail Arondight was one of them—someone who could wreak havoc with a glance. This wasn’t just a threat; it was a demonstration, a warning of the chaos he could unleash if he wanted.

Myrrh moved swiftly, her hand darting to her belt. She pulled out her morpher, its surface gleaming with readiness, and held it at the ready. Her eyes never left Ismail, her whole body tense and coiled like a spring. At the sight of the device, Ismail chuckled and raised both hands slowly in mock surrender.

“Whoa there, WAIFU,” he said, his tone light but mocking. “Are you seriously going to transform here, in a packed casino? You wouldn’t want the place to end up a bloody mess, would you? Imagine all these fine people turned into strawberry jam.”

Myrrh’s face twisted in frustration, and with a low, angry hiss, she lowered the morpher. Her knuckles turned white around the handle as she fought to keep her anger in check.

“Good girl,” Ismail taunted, his smirk widening. His gaze shifted to me, and he cocked his head slightly, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Now, let’s not make a scene. Just let me have a little chat with Mister Callahan.”

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

We exchanged a quick, uneasy look. Trapped with no clear way out, I gave a barely perceptible nod. For now, there was no other choice but to go along with whatever game Ismail Arondight had planned.

<><><>

I found myself seated at a small, circular poker table, isolated from the bustle of the casino. Myrrh stood between us, assuming the role of our card dealer, her gaze sharp and unflinching. Across from me sat the enigmatic Ismail Arondight, a pleased, almost predatory smile playing on his lips. The lights overhead bathed the table in a dim, golden glow, casting long shadows across the green felt. As Myrrh began to deal, I caught a glimpse of her tense expression before she leaned close to my ear, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“If anything goes wrong,” she murmured, her breath warm and urgent against my ear, “head straight for the exit behind you—six o’clock. I’ll cover you as best I can, but make sure you get to security or the mall cops.”

I barely had time to nod before Ismail’s smooth, taunting voice interrupted. “I wouldn’t waste your breath, Miss Alicent.” He leaned back in his chair, his cybernetic eyes glowing a brighter crimson, the circuits sparking faintly in the dim light. “My implants allow me to ‘hear’ everything you say, even when you think you’re being quiet.” He chuckled, a low, almost mechanical sound that sent a chill down my spine. “You can’t hide from me. But relax—so long as you play by the rules, everyone stays safe.”

Myrrh’s face darkened, her fingers tightening around the deck as she struggled to keep her composure. Her jaw was set, her lips pressed into a thin line of frustration. I could sense the weight of her dilemma; the lives of everyone in the casino, and possibly the entire mall, hung on this tense, delicate balance. If we didn’t play along, there was no telling what kind of chaos Ismail would unleash.

“Rest assured,” Ismail continued, his tone oozing with false reassurance as he adjusted his fedora with a slow, deliberate movement, “I’m not the sort to bluff.” His smile widened, showing the edges of teeth that gleamed unnaturally white under the casino lights.

Myrrh’s hands moved in a practiced rhythm, shuffling and dealing the cards with a precision that betrayed no hint of her inner turmoil. I swallowed hard and forced myself to meet Ismail’s gaze. His eyes seemed to burn with a cold, calculated amusement, as if he already knew every card in my hand and every thought in my head. It felt like a game of cat and mouse—but I wasn’t sure who was the prey.

The first three cards were flipped face-up, spreading out across the green felt of the table. Myrrh’s hand hovered over the deck, still as a statue, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. I kept my gaze locked on Ismail, my heart beating like a drum in my chest, waiting for him to make a move, to reveal his next play.

A flicker of amusement danced in Ismail’s crimson eyes as he glanced from me to the table. Then he spoke, his voice low and almost conversational. “Tell me, Mister Callahan, have you ever heard of Project HUSBANDO?”

“HUSBANDO?” I repeated, confused, shaking my head. The word didn’t mean anything to me.

Ismail leaned forward slightly, his eyes catching the light, making the circuitry beneath them gleam with a mechanical brilliance. “Hybrid Utility Sentinel Battle Augmented Neutralizing Defense Operator,” he said, savoring each syllable like he was revealing some great, dark secret. “In other words, male humans who are capable of transforming into Frame Units.”

“Absurd,” Myrrh interjected sharply, her voice cutting through the tense silence. “Only female humans can turn into Frame Units. The genetic enhancements aren’t compatible with the male chromosome.”

Ismail’s laughter was a deep, mocking chuckle that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “Ah, I see you were paying attention in your university lectures,” he said, his tone teasing. “You’re correct—in theory. But what do you think happens when they attempt genetic modifications on male subjects, knowing full well about the incompatibility?”

A cold silence settled over the table. Myrrh’s eyes widened, and I felt a chill run down my spine. None of our professors had ever mentioned what would happen if those modifications were forced on a male subject. The ethical risks were too great; no reputable researcher would entertain such dangerous experiments. But deep down, I already knew what he was getting at.

“They would develop a genetic disorder,” I said softly, the words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

“Ding ding, that’s correct, Mister Callahan.” Ismail’s smile stretched wider, a disturbing blend of satisfaction and malevolence. “Those poor souls—those HUSBANDOs—they turn into monsters. Abominations who can’t even control their own minds, driven mad by the chaos in their genes. The first HUSBANDOs, you see, were the prototypes of the WAIFUs. Yet, despite every catastrophic failure... despite the horror of it all... Xyraxis continues these twisted experiments.”

"Again, that's absurd," Myrrh said, her voice laced with a controlled anger. "Using human test subjects like that is a violation of basic human rights." Her eyes burned with a righteous fury, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of the determination that had gotten us through so many tight spots.

"Heheh." Ismail only chuckled, a low, almost predatory sound, and casually peeked at his cards. “I have an ace,” he said, his tone deceptively calm as he revealed the corner of one card, letting the dark letter ‘A’ flash under the casino’s muted lights.

I glanced down at my own hand—my pulse quickening. I had the chance to build a straight. If Ismail wasn’t bluffing, the best he could have was a pair of aces. I was in a strong position to win this round, but my gut twisted as I tried to read him.

He was staring at me, his crimson, cybernetic eyes practically boring into my soul. There was something unsettling about them, as if those artificial irises weren’t just observing, but calculating every breath I took, every twitch of my expression. His face remained eerily still, a mask of quiet amusement, until he caught me scrutinizing him and gave a slow, knowing smile.

I tried not to show my discomfort and tapped my knuckles lightly on the table. “Check,” I said, keeping my voice as steady as I could manage. The air felt thick and heavy, like the silence that settles before a storm.

“Check,” Ismail echoed, his fingers rapping softly on the edge of the table. There was no hesitation, no crack in his unnerving calm.

We both laid down our cards. I flipped mine first, the straight lining up perfectly from Ten to King. Ismail’s eyes flickered down to my hand, but his expression didn’t change. Then, with a casual flourish, he revealed his own cards—a single ace paired with a four. Just as I’d suspected, he had nothing more than a simple pair.

I’d won.

The tension in my chest loosened as I exhaled sharply, and my pile of chips swelled with Ismail’s losses. The adrenaline left me light-headed, a giddy thrill that danced in the pit of my stomach. This unexpected fortune meant I could survive the month, maybe even splurge a little—enough gambling money to replace my dwindling allowance.

Ismail, however, seemed utterly unperturbed by his loss. “I told you,” he said with a sly smile, his voice oddly calm as he rose gracefully from his seat. “I never bluff.” He tipped his hat, the shadows deepening over his pale face, and gave a polite, almost gentlemanly nod. His cybernetic eyes lingered on me for a moment longer, as if committing my face to memory. “I’ll be seeing you again, Zaft Callahan.”

Suddenly, the entire casino was plunged into darkness. The lights overhead flickered wildly, and for five heart-stopping seconds, the world felt as though it had been swallowed by a shadow. I could hear the gasps of surprise from the gamblers, the muffled clinking of chips dropping to the floor, and the frantic beeping of slot machines resetting. Myrrh’s eyes darted around, every muscle in her body tensed and ready for a threat.

Then, just as quickly, the lights snapped back on, flooding the room with a harsh, artificial glow. The casino’s hum returned—the buzz of conversation, the dings and jingles of slot machines—but something was wrong. I blinked, adjusting to the sudden brightness, and realized that Ismail was gone. He’d vanished, as if swallowed by the shadows during those brief moments of darkness.

“Where did he go?” Myrrh’s voice was a whisper, barely audible above the resumed chaos of the casino.

I spun around, scanning the crowds for any sign of him, but it was as if he’d never been there at all. My gaze drifted back to the poker table, and my breath hitched. There, on the smooth felt surface where Ismail had been sitting, lay a single photograph.

Slowly, I reached out, my fingers trembling, and picked up the picture. It was a shot of a bulky, crimson Frame Unit—one I recognized all too well. The hulking machine’s angular armor gleamed a menacing red, and its eyes blazed with a cold, mechanical fury. This was the same Frame Unit we had fought back then, during the blackout incident. A name was scrawled in sharp, jagged letters across the bottom of the image:

The Red Meteor.