Chapter Text
The dim lights flickered overhead, casting long, twitching shadows across the warped floorboards. Each creaking step on the stairs groaned under the weight of movement, though most of the group had already retreated to their chosen corners of the cabin. Murmured conversations had dissolved into silence, broken only by the wind rattling loose panes. Dust clung thickly to the stale air, and the quiet wasn’t peaceful—it lingered like something unfinished.
In the farthest corner, Chance slouched in a chair, one leg dangling off the armrest, the other bent up to their chest. Arms folded, he spun a coin slowly between his fingers—not flipping it, just turning it. The faint whirr of the metal brushing against calloused skin was the only sound near them.
Not tonight. No flips.
As much as that sharp click brought comfort, it had recently become a point of contention. “Obnoxious.” “Grating.” And Elliot—ever direct—had once called it “grounds for smothering.”
Chance had ignored worse, but when most of the survivors chimed in—and Elliot threatened violence—he agreed to cool it. Temporarily.
Didn’t mean they didn’t want to.
“Still up, huh...? Should’ve guessed.”
The voice came from behind—groggy, tinged with annoyance, but warmer than the words let on.
Chance didn’t need to look to know. The pizza boy. Kind-hearted, exasperated, and perpetually one eye-roll away from giving up on all of them. He'd saved Chance more times than anyone—patching wounds, dragging him out of skirmishes when their gun jammed or when his health dipped too low.
Chance tilted his head back with a lopsided grin. “Heh, don’t go tellin’ me you’re worried now. You’ll ruin your grumpy charm, pizza boy.”
A knuckle jabbed into their ribs. Not painful—just enough to make a point.
“Quit flappin’ your gums.”
Elliot trudged past them, dragging his blanket behind like a cape of resignation. He flopped into his beanbag chair, curling sideways with his back to the room—but not before giving Chance that look. The one that never said enough. The one that lingered even after he'd turned away.
Chance winced with mock offense, rubbing their side. “Aww, you do care. Sleep tight, sunshine. Hope the spooks don’t chew too loud.”
No response. Just the soft rustle of Elliot burrowing deeper into his blanket, the beanbag shifting with a tired sigh.
Chance let the coin settle in their palm. Unmoving. His sunglasses caught the orange glow from Builderman’s rigged desk lamp, reflecting the light like cooling embers. His hat was tilted low, casting shadows across their expression—but even in the low light, his grin didn’t quite reach their eyes.
The others were settled—or something like it.
Shedletsky was curled near the stairwell, hunched protectively over his bucket of chicken fries, one hand resting on his sword like always. He hadn’t moved in ten minutes, but his eyes were wide open, tracking every sound that might creep up from below.
Two Time had slumped against the window, half-shrouded in the curtain’s shadow. Still. Breathing slowly. But Chance knew better than to assume they were asleep. That individual could sit statue-still through a firefight.
And 007n7?
Chance’s gaze shifted to the far corner. There he was—propped awkwardly against the wall, arms crossed, half-sitting like he was trying to merge with the drywall. Not a word. He hadn’t spoken since they got back. He never did unless he had to.
“Geez, who sleeps like that? Bet he's rackin' up dream killstreaks right now.”
Chance muttered, eyeing the rigid posture.
“Probably dreams in straight-up kill feeds. Nerd.”
Even so, they all had their corners.
Their silence.
Their own problems.
Chance shifted in his seat, the smirk they'd worn earlier slipping under the weight of faint glow. Shadows pooled beneath his glasses, swallowing any trace of expression in their eyes. His fingers twitched around the coin again—itching to flip it. Just once. Just to hear the click. The certainty of it.
He wanted to sleep. They really did.
But every time he closed his eyes, the world warped. Bent at the edges. Dreams that weren’t dreams. Voices that weren’t theirs. Blood that wasn’t real—until it was. Faces he’d never seen, whispering his name like they owned it. Like they knew them. Dragging them under. Always deeper.
Sometimes he’d wake up sweating, fists clenched around nothing.
Sometimes... they didn’t wake at all.
His laughter used to keep the darkness back.
It wasn’t working anymore. Not unless he got medicated again.
His shoulders dipped with a slow, exhausted exhale. The day pressed into their spine like a lead weight, but his mind refused to rest. Always ticking. Always louder in the quiet. He wanted to scream—but all that came out was a brittle chuckle. Softer this time. Cracked around the edges.
He stared into the dark, sunglasses still perched on his nose, the coin balanced flat against their palm. Sleep tugged at the corners of their vision, patient but relentless.
Hold the line, hotshot.
No one needs to see the cracks.
They never do.
Poker face on—‘til the lights go out.
The coin began to roll again, slipping across his knuckles with familiar ease—pinky to index, back again. Over and over, like muscle memory. His limbs stayed loose, hat tilted low, the illusion of calm carefully preserved.
But the flick had slowed.
Unnoticed, their eyelids drooped behind the tinted lenses. The hand with the coin faltered. The rhythm stuttered—like static in a fading signal.
His body resisted. Their mind slipped.
And before he could wrench themselves back—with a joke, a lie, or the flip of that damn coin—
It was too late.
…
…
...
The light above flickered like a dying pulse, casting a sickly, surgical glare across the table’s splintered surface. Beyond its reach—nothing. No ceiling. No walls. Just an endless, crawling void that devoured sound and dissolved memory. Every breath felt thinner here. Every second stretched like sinew, taut and trembling.
The table stretched long and narrow, scarred by deep gouges and stained with dried, rust-colored smears—blood, or something worse. It vanished into the dark like a plank over the abyss. Like a corpse being pulled apart at the seams.
And there, at the center, sat the gun.
A single revolver. Old. Rusted. Caked with dried blood around the muzzle, as if it had fed one too many times. As if it had grown tired of killing—but couldn't stop.
Just like always.
Chance blinked. His hands were bare—raw from ropes, twitching, trembling. Across the table sat someone they used to trust with their life.
The crown, once proud, now leaned crooked over flaxen hair. His coat still carried that same crisp fold over the shoulders, its stitching intact. Familiar. Almost comforting.
But something was wrong.
His eyes were gone.
Gaping sockets shimmered with writhing static, each surge like insects clawing just beneath skin. The void within them pulsed—distorted flickers of light fracturing outward, each accompanied by the sound of tearing flesh.
And yet—he smiled.
That grin. That same grin. That same friend.
But the teeth were wrong now. Too sharp. Too mean.
"Do relax, Chance. It’s merely a game," said iTrapped. His voice didn’t belong to one person anymore—it fractured, layered with echoes, whispers, and half-screams curling in on themselves. Each syllable was coaxed from his lips like syrup, thick and cloying. "You remember the rules, surely. We’ve played so many times before."
Chance’s stomach knotted. He tried to shift—but the ropes clung tight. Fingers spasmed, useless. Their eyes locked on the revolver.
Then back up.
“Hhh… not feelin’ too up for games tonight,” he muttered, voice dry, cracking at the edges. “Dead tired, pal. And I mean dead.”
The smirk trembled—meant to be cocky. It came out broken.
iTrapped tilted his head, that crooked crown gleaming dully. "But that would make you the loser, wouldn’t it? he murmured, voice all gentle condescension. "And you loathe losing. It's so… unbecoming of you."
His hand inched toward the revolver.
“Hey now—hands off! Don’t even look at it!”
Chance lunged forward. The chair scraped violently against the unseen floor—but the ropes fell slack just a second too late.
Click.
An empty chamber.
Still, the sound echoed like a gunshot through bone. Final. Absolute.
iTrapped laughed.
Convulsed with it. His shoulders bucked, his ribs audibly cracking beneath his coat as he bent backward, wheezing and howling.
“Ohh, Chance,” he crooned, distortion climbing into his words like rot, "You poor, predictable thing. You always know how this ends."
Chance froze.
Ears ringing. Heart hammering against ribs like it wanted out.
Why did this feel familiar?
He remembered this.
No—they shouldn’t remember this.
This wasn’t real.
iTrapped leaned forward again. His face spasmed, expressions flickering too fast to follow. But the smile remained—stretched, immovable.
"One final round, dear friend. For old times' sake."
“No.” Chance’s voice cracked louder now—desperate. “No—no, cut it out already! I’m done, y’hear me?! Game’s over!”
But iTrapped wasn’t listening.
He never did.
The gun rose.
“Wait—waitwaitwait—buddy, don’t do this—!”
BANG.
Blood exploded across the table in a thick, wet spray. It hit Chance full in the face—stinging their eyes, soaking their shirt, and clogging their breath. His mouth opened in a silent scream. The taste of iron flooded their tongue.
iTrapped slumped.
Bone and brain scattered in jagged chunks across the table, shards of white and red splattering onto Chance’s arms, their lap. The crown spun slowly—elegant, absurd—before skidding to a halt in the spreading pool of blood.
A twitch.
Then stillness.
“…N-no…” Chance whispered, stumbling forward. The ropes hung loose around their ankles. “No, don’t—don’t pull this crap, not on me, man—not again…”
He dropped to his knees and reached for the body with shaking hands, trying to lift it, hold it, force the shattered pieces back into place—undo it. Their palms slipped, smeared with blood.
“Come on, man…” he begged, voice breaking. “This ain’t funny, this ain’t a bit—get up. Please—get up…”
Silence swallowed the plea.
But it wasn’t emptiness. It was too heavy. Too aware. Watching.
Chance choked on a sob, his legs folding beneath them. He leaned over the ruined body, forehead resting on iTrapped’s cold shoulder, blood pooling around them.
Then—
A breath. Hot and cold at once, ghosting against the shell of their ear.
Then—pressure. A hand, gloved and heavy, pressed to their shoulder. The grip was familiar and foreign all at once. Cold. Wet. Wrong.
He turned.
No one.
Until the blade sank through their back—shhk—krrk—bursting from their stomach in a slick, tearing thrust. Their body jolted. Blood sprayed from their mouth in hot, sudden gouts.
He tried to scream.
But choked.
The blade twisted.
He felt their insides unravel—flesh peeling, slick coils spilling into their lap. His knees hit the floor. Vision flickered. The table… the gun… the crown… all awash in red.
Then a voice, low and inhuman—metal dragged across glass—whispered beside their ear.
“You were always meant to lose.”
…
…
…
Chance jolted awake.
The chair beneath him screeched across the floor, its legs rasping against rotting wood as it nearly tipped backward. Their chest heaved. Cold sweat clung to his skin. Hands flew to his stomach—trembling, expecting to feel torn flesh, the wet warmth of blood.
Nothing.
Just silence.
A single coin spun wildly across the floor where it had fallen, catching dim lamplight in frantic, flickering flashes. The sound was sharp—a metallic ring carving through the stale
Clink.
It toppled flat.
Their breath came in ragged gasps. Fingers clawed into the arms of the chair. Sweat dripped down his brow, soaking into the rim of his hat. The silence wasn’t peaceful.
It watched.
Across the room, a blanket rustled.
“…What the hell—” Elliot stirred, voice raspy. “Did you have a seizure or something?”
He rubbed a hand over his face, pushing his hair back with the groggy irritation of someone used to being woken by bad dreams—but never this kind of quiet.
Chance didn’t reply.
He just stared—blankly, glassy-eyed—at the coin. It lay still now, face-up on the warped floorboards like a bullet casing waiting to be claimed.
Elliot sat up fully, squinting at them.
“...Tch.” His tone shifted. “Hey. Seriously. You good or not?”
Chance blinked. Once. Then again—slow, deliberate. A smirk curled onto their lips, twitchy and brittle.
“Hah…” A breath rasped past their teeth. “Dreamt I hit the jackpot. Woke up lookin’ at your mug. Real downgrade, not gonna lie.”
Elliot frowned and lobbed a pillow at them.
“Keep yappin’, I’ll smother you with that next time.”
Chance caught it against their chest and let it rest there. He didn’t answer.
He leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling—its warped boards like veins under skin. Their gaze was distant. Darker than usual.
“Heh… If only dyin’ was that sweet, I’da done it with style.”
His hand drifted to their stomach again. Just to check.
Dry.
Still alive.
The coin rested where it had fallen. Silent now. Like it understood what it had seen.
Chance didn’t.
Or maybe he did—and just couldn’t bring themselves to admit it.
He pressed the heel of their hand into one eye socket, shifting their sunglasses. Slowly, he pushed up from the chair, unsteady, and dragged a hand across their forehead. His skin was clammy.
Tch. Maybe he really was a wreck without ‘em.
Wouldn’t that be a laugh?
The floor creaked under their boots as they crossed it. The safehouse groaned with them—boards shifting in protest, windows whispering with wind slipping through cracked seams. Somewhere outside, metal scraped along pavement. A moan echoed faintly between the trees.
Night music. At least that was familiar.
He reached the door.
Their hand hovered on the knob. Gloved fingers flexed—once, twice. Their fedora dipped low, shadowing their eyes.
He didn’t look back.
He stepped into the cold.
The door clicked shut behind them with a whisper.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
The air out here bit sharper than inside—crisp, metallic, grounding. Like cold steel against the gums. The skyline loomed jagged and broken, distant treetops and crooked rooftops silhouetted like shattered teeth against the ash-dark horizon. A sound tore faintly through the night—some distant, warped cry too mangled to be human. It vanished just as quickly, swallowed by the wind and the weight of distance.
Chance didn’t move. He stood in the overgrown brush just past the safehouse door, arms loosely crossed. The coin stayed in their pocket. Unflipped.
“C’mon now, get a grip,” he muttered, voice barely audible over the breeze. “Ain’t losin’ it. Just… runnin’ on fumes, that’s all.”
Their breath fogged in the cold, curling upward into a sky that hadn’t seen stars in weeks—if not longer. The clouds above were thick with soot, stained amber like dried blood beneath a dying sun.
Hah... sleep’d be real nice without gettin’ punched in the gut for it every time.
The mist crept slow along the ground, seeping between dead ferns and skeletal roots. The forest behind groaned like an old wound—trees split down the center, hollowed out and teeming with things better left unseen. Even the ocean, just visible beyond the ridge, seemed off. Flat. Colorless. The water didn’t reflect. It moved like it was breathing.
Their hand dipped into their coat, fingers brushing the familiar, rattling shape.
The bottle was still there.
They glanced back toward the safehouse. The boards moaned against the breeze. A faint, flickering light leaked through one of the window slats—a fragile rectangle of warmth in the gloom. Someone was still up. Maybe Elliot, maybe not.
He looked down at the bottle like it owed them something.
“Well, partner,” he muttered, tightening their grip, “just you and me again.”
He knew the math. He’d stretched the pills longer than anyone else could’ve. Got clever with it—starved out sleep until it sucker-punched them cold, just to preserve the dose. Did it work? Nah. Never did. But hey—worth a shot, right?
The Spectre always refilled it before it hit bottom. Like the pizza. The Bloxycolas. The medkits. Just enough to keep crawling.
Not out of kindness. Just enough to make them last. Just enough to watch them break.
And Chance knew it—he was cracking. Piece by piece. Like a busted coin, split down the middle.
Their fingers trembled as he twisted the cap off.
“Addiction,” he said aloud this time, voice rough. “That’s what this is?”
There was no answer. Only the whisper of wind.
He stared at the pill a moment longer. Elliot’s voice surfaced uninvited—soft but unrelenting.
“There’s always another way, Chance.”
Then Guest’s, clipped and precise.
“This isn’t sustainable. You know that.”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “And yet, here we are.”
He swallowed it dry. No water. No hesitation. The bottle disappeared back into his coat. His breath escaped in a slow, heavy exhale.
Chance dropped down against the warped siding of the safehouse. The wood groaned beneath them as he slid to the dirt, knees bent, arms resting slack.
Their hat dipped low, casting their face in deep shadow.
“Five minutes,” he whispered, somewhere between a laugh and a prayer. “That’s all I’m askin’.”
…
Sleeping
…
The world before them slowly began to emerge.
Chance had always been a lucid dreamer—capable of rational thought and control within the haze. A blessing, and a curse. Because in the quiet lull of sleep, it meant he couldn’t just forget.
Especially not the nightmares.
Especially not that one.
Over and over again, he was forced to relive it:
A friend—dying.
Powerless.
Just a helpless little creature behind glass, clawing at the walls of a memory that wouldn’t fade no matter how many times he blinked it away.
His body lurched with a jolt—too familiar, too real. Like being yanked mid-sleep into a killer round. But… that couldn’t be right. There was no countdown. No briefing. No crowd of players scrambling to gear up around them.
Just—
Silence.
Their mind lagged half a second behind, blinking blearily as they found themselves standing beneath a canopy of towering, jagged trees. They loomed overhead like broken spears, polygonal and unfinished.
The terrain around them spiraled in dream-logic: sloped grass plains, cliffs that dropped off into nothing, floating platforms stubbornly suspended midair, vines swaying with no anchor, no breeze.
He shifted uneasily. The ground beneath their boots gave just slightly—soft, hollow. Plastic. Like stepping into someone’s idea of a forest instead of the real thing.
“…This ain’t right,” Chance muttered, fingers drifting instinctively to their sidearm.
But something was off. The rhythm. The air. The flip.
Tails.
He frowned. Flipped the coin again.
Tails.
He tried stacking them—a gambler’s trick, cheating the chaos into order.
Tails.
Mid-flip, he stopped.
Snap.
A branch broke behind them.
Reflex screamed through their bones. He dove aside just as a gleaming blade tore through the mist, carving through the space where he’d stood. Like paper.
He hit the ground hard, rolling with practiced precision. Boots skidded across the warped terrain. Pistol drawn in a flash. His breathing quick—but contained.
Focus, faster.
The coin was gone. Didn’t matter.
He had more.
He always had more.
But when he looked up—
He froze.
The figure before them was unnervingly still. Like something sculpted out of shadow. Broad-shouldered. Perfect posture. Wrapped in a long, dark coat that moved too fluidly, too softly—as if made from smoke and blood folded into cloth. Beneath it, a sleek black suit. Tailored. Untouched by mud or decay.
A fedora dipped low, veiling half his face in darkness—except for the glint of a sharply trimmed goatee. And then—
The ears.
Twin rabbit ears poked from the top of the hat.
They should’ve been comical.
They weren’t.
Chance’s eyes narrowed, lips curling into a half-smirk despite the looming threat.
“Well hey. Nice getup. You from a poker deck or a rejected audition for Mobsters 'n’ Mascots?
He cocked their pistol with a smooth flick, brushing imaginary dust from their lapel. “Either way, you're crashin’ the wrong dream, pal. And I don’t remember sendin’ out invites.”
The man didn’t respond. He just stood there, silent. Watching.
That faint smile lingered on his face—flat, humorless. The kind people wore when they didn’t bother pretending anymore.
His sword gleamed faintly in the mist. Long. Elegant. Much too heavy to be wielded so effortlessly—yet it hung from his hand like it weighed nothing.
Chance felt their trigger finger twitch.
He didn’t pull.
“You do not belong here,” the man said at last.
Not a question.
An accusation.
Chance’s expression tightened, cocking a brow in irritation. “Buddy, that’s my line. Don’t think I’ve seen your mug in my head before—trust me, I’d remember the ears.”
He gave the stranger a once-over.
“So, what is this? First time crashin’ someone’s noggin’? Or you freeload in people’s heads on the regular? If you're my subconscious manifesting, then damn—bit on the nose, don’t you think?” He gestured vaguely at the mist, at the floating geometry. “Unless I got real weird tastes lately, I ain’t askin’ for a mobster bunny to gut me like a fish. So how ‘bout you don’t?”
Still, no response.
The silence grew heavy. The air thickened, soaked with that familiar hum of something watching—old and patient, peering through the seams of the dream.
Chance had had enough.
He gritted his teeth.
“Y’know what? I’m done playin’ nice.”
He was done guessing. Done with silence and sword-dangling freaks in too-clean suits. The dream logic, the static air, the sense of being hunted—it was wearing thin.
With a huff, he adjusted their fedora and tilted their chin up with that signature smirk that tried too hard to look casual.
“Heh. Not much of a chatter, huh?” He spun the coin lazily into the air. “Guess I’ll catch you on the flipside... ‘less you catch me first.”
It flipped once.
Twice.
It never landed.
BANG!
The pistol fired—a crack like thunder shattering the fog. The bullet slammed into the man’s shoulder, clean and centered.
He staggered—just slightly.
Chance didn’t wait to admire the result.
He turned and ran, sprinting across the jagged landscape—platforms floating in defiance of reason, cliffs diving into voids. The world blurred as he moved, but the air thickened with each step—fighting them. Slowing them. Like the dream didn’t want them to leave.
Their boots pounded against plasticky grass. The geometry warped and twisted in the corners of their eyes.
No roar behind them.
But he felt it.
A quiet, simmering fury winding behind their ribs. Thick and invisible, coiling like smoke in the back of their spine.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Mafioso stood still, the mist curling around him as if even the fog knew better than to cling. The Gambler's silhouette had already vanished into the haze—like the smug little bastard had planned the encounter down to the last second.
Smoke spiraled from the bullet wound in Mafioso’s shoulder, slow and steady. His coat was scorched at the impact site—edges burned to a brittle black. The fabric hissed faintly in the damp air, like a dying ember. The skin beneath was likely far worse, but if he felt the pain, he gave no sign.
Not even a wince.
Instead, he exhaled through his nose—slow and deliberate. A thin stream of steam escaped his nostrils, curling in the cold like a final warning. His hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, fingers flexing once—just enough to suggest violence.
That little bastard had shot him.
First.
His head tilted ever so slightly—a motion almost imperceptible, like a predator weighing the cost of the kill. His breathing remained even. His posture, collected. Only his eyes moved beneath the brim of his hat—sharp, cold, merciless.
Something gleamed near his boot.
A coin.
It must’ve slipped from the gambler’s hand in the rush—left behind like an afterthought.
He took a step forward. The false grass gave beneath his boot, soundless, like walking over a lie. He crouched slowly, gloved fingers pinching the coin from the earth.
He turned it in his hand once. Inspected it.
Tails.
A breath. “Amusing,” he muttered—flat, almost bored. “But meaningless.”
And then he closed his fist.
The metal groaned under the pressure—warped, crushed flat between his fingers until it was nothing more than a ruined disc.
He let it fall.
It struck the false grass with a dull, muted clink—barely more than a whisper. A sound swallowed whole by the silence.
The fog waited.
Then—
He moved.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Chance’s boots slammed against the warped, polygonal terrain—each step jarring, his momentum barely stable on the map’s bizarre geometry. Platforms jutted at crooked angles, bridges spiraled into impossible loops, and vines drifted in midair, swaying as if breathing with the land itself. The whole place felt half-rendered, like a memory still buffering.
He ran.
No voices. No allies. No other survivors scrambling for cover.
Weird.
If that guy really was the new killer, there should’ve been chaos. Screams. Footsteps. Some poor soul vaulting a pallet. The absence only led to one conclusion: this was their dream.
No—their nightmare.
Chance ducked down a side path. Vines clawed at their coat like greedy fingers, slowing them. He shoved past and stumbled into a clearing, where a crumbling gate leaned—half-swallowed by mist. Just beyond, a generator blinked faintly. It hummed low and offbeat, like a dying machine pretending to work.
He groaned. “Aw, c’mon... even in my dreams I’m stuck on gen duty? That’s sick. That’s actual psychological warfare.”
There wasn’t even a timer.
Still, instincts kicked in. He dropped to a crouch, laid his pistol beside them, and got to work. Every few turns, he flipped his coin—trying to wrestle fate and to force his luck into line, to buy themselves a miracle.
Tails. Tails. Tails.
“Come on,” he muttered, eyes flicking toward the mist curling in the trees. “Don’t make me fight dreams and RNG at the same time.”
Still nothing.
Too quiet.
Time dragged. The hum grew steadier, the progress meter ticking up. Seventy-eight. Eighty-five...
He exhaled, shaking the ache from their shoulders.
“Well, that wasn’t so—”
SHHHHNK.
“Ghh—AAAGH!”
White-hot pain exploded across their back as cold steel split flesh. Their chest slammed into the generator, knocking the breath from their lungs. Blood choked their throat. The machine let out a warped whine beneath their weight.
He staggered, knees buckling.
Their vision doubled, edged in static. Every nerve screamed.
It’s just a dream, he told himself. Just a dream—
But it hurt.
Too real.
Behind them—closer now—stood the man.
Towering. Imposing. That long coat barely stirred. The fedora shadowed his face, but the faint curl of his lip remained—relaxed, unreadable.
“Undisciplined.” The man stated, his voice clinical and impassive. "Sloppy.”
His eyes flicked to the damaged generator—now sparking erratically, wires loose. Its hum faltered like a dying heartbeat.
Chance coughed. Blood dripped from their lips. Their coat clung wet and dark to their side. Still, he laughed—a hoarse, defiant sound—as he twisted on one foot and threw a punch.
The man sidestepped without effort.
Unbothered.
“Heh…” Chance wheezed. “So you do talk. Lemme guess—the hat comes with a monologue package deal?”
The man tilted his head ever so slightly. “A fool. With no control. That’s all you are.”
Chance’s hand moved. The coin flipped—arcing through the foggy light.
Heads.
Finally.
About damn time.
He raised their gun again, cocking it with a tremble in their wrist. Despite the blood, despite the pain, that worn-out gambler’s grin curled across their face.
“Hate to disappoint, pal,” he panted, lifting the barrel, ”but I’ve kicked the bucket in worse dreams than this. This ain’t even top ten.”
The man stepped forward, sword low at their side. Their smile thinned to a line—less amusement now, more inevitability.
“You speak as if your life—or your words—holds weight,” he said. “They don’t.”
Chance’s finger hovered near the trigger. He didn’t lower the weapon.
“If I’m just blowin’ smoke,” he snapped, taut and biting, “why’re you stickin’ around to breathe it in?”
They faced each other.
A potential murderer and a gambler.
Steel and smirk.
The silence cracked.
BANG—
Chance fired.
The man’s blade moved.
The fight began—and ended—in a heartbeat.
Their gun exploded with a violent snap—smoke and shrapnel bursting from the chamber.
“GHH—!”
The backfire slammed into their face. Fire tore through their palm and cheek. The blast hurled him backward, crashing hard into the grass. Their fedora rolled into the mist, headphones skittering after it. Smoke curled from the ruined pistol. The world tilted, spun—gray and red smearing together at the edges.
Chance coughed, wet and ragged. Blood streaked from the corner of their mouth as their fingers clawed at the grass. Reaching. Searching.
The coin had fallen.
Somewhere close.
Footsteps.
Measured. Calm. Unhurried.
They blinked, blearily, toward the silhouette cutting through the mist—sharp, composed. The fedora was unmistakable. So was the long black coat dragging across the ground, soaking in the red that now leaked from where Chance had—once again—become their own worst enemy.
The figure stopped before them.
Towering.
The sword didn't lift.
Not yet.
He just stared down.
There was no mockery in his gaze. No gloating. Only something distant. Disconnected. Like a man watching a riddle unravel without ever understanding how it was assembled in the first place.
“Why?” he asked, voice low—barely audible above the hum of fog and blood.
Chance spat crimson, lungs wheezing, and still managed a crooked grin. “Heh... you’re gonna have to narrow that down, bun-bun.”
The man’s brow knit slightly. He ignored the nickname, but their voice darkened—gaining weight.
“Is it death you seek... or do you simply waste your breath?
Chance’s breath hitched—but their grin held.
“Aww. Don’t sound so heartbroken,” he rasped. “Thought you’d be thrilled.”
No response.
The man only stared—like Chance was some tragic anomaly. Fragile. Stupid. Still breathing out of sheer habit.
With a groan, Chance rolled onto their side. Their fingers scraped through dirt until they found the coin—half-buried, slick with blood.
He flipped it.
Clink.
Tails. Again.
Their smile turned dreamy. Almost... peaceful. “Adrenaline ‘n luck keep me goin’,” they slurred. “Ain’t much of a game if the gun don’t blow up now and then.”
A hoarse laugh tore from them—more rattle than sound. Their head lolled to the side, meeting the man’s gaze.
“C’mon now... life’s just one big coin toss. Live, die—s’all part of the show.” Their voice was thin, breathless. “If I ain’t riskin’ it all... then what’s the point of breathin’, huh?”
Another flip.
The coin spun.
Heads.
The man crouched—slow, controlled—until their eyes were level.
What he saw wasn’t bravery.
It wasn’t even madness.
It was emptiness—hidden behind a poker face. A compulsive spiral wearing a grin and a tattered coat. No survival instinct. Just a ritual. Just the game.
This gambler didn’t fear death.
He didn’t feel anything at all.
The man had never witnessed such a foolish bastard.
So pointless.
Chance smirked again, half-lidded eyes flickering.
“So... got a name, Mister Tall-and-Slice-y? If you're gonna gut me, least we can do is exchange pleasantries. Bit rude otherwise, don’tcha think... bun-bun?”
Silence.
The coin flipped again—slow, sticky in their fingers.
Clink.
Tails.
The man’s hand closed around the hilt of his sword.
“You are a fool,” he said flatly. “The worst kind—willing.”
Chance grinned wider. Teeth stained red.
“Y’know,” he coughed, half-laughing, “for a guy with a sword, you’re startin’ to sound a little… fond of me.”
The man stood.
“Let the fog take you.”
SHHK.
In one swift, merciless motion, the blade fell.
Chance twitched once.
Then went still.
Their fedora rolled, then settled in the grass—brim upturned toward the mist-choked sky.
The coin—bloodied, bent—landed beside their severed hand.
Heads.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
A hard jolt ripped Chance from unconsciousness—
CRACK.
Their forehead slammed into something solid. Bone met bone with a brutal thunk. A sharp hiss of pain escaped before he could stifle it.
“The actual—?!”
Elliot reeled back, clutching his own head. “You idiot! Watch where your skull’s flying!”
Chance groaned and slumped forward, cradling their head like it might roll clean off. Their fingers swept instinctively to their throat—
Still there. No blood. No gash. Just clammy skin and a pulse hammering far too fast.
Their body trembled, still buzzing from leftover adrenaline. That dream…
That man.
The calm stare. The black coat. Those twitching, stupid bunny ears. And the sword—
He could still feel it. Sliding through them like parchment.
Sticking—just for a second—
Then gone.
But he was awake now. Still in one piece. Again.
Outside the safehouse, Elliot paced the crooked porch boards like a stressed-out clock hand, muttering curses under his breath. Chance barely caught the words over the ringing in their ears.
“—seriously, you’re gonna get yourself killed sleeping out here like some damn raccoon. You weren’t even breathing right...!”
Chance blinked up at him, slow and dazed. Then he smiled. Not kindly. Not genuinely. Just habit. A bluff laid flat across a hollow table.
He tilted their head lazily. Like none of this was their problem.
“Y’need somethin’, or were you just enjoyin’ the view?”
Elliot stopped mid-step and shot them a glare sharp enough to skin bark.
“Why the hell were you out here again? You were slumped against the siding like a drunk scarecrow. I shook you, and you didn’t move—I thought you were... like, gone-gone!”
Chance gave a one-shouldered shrug and straightened, brushing dry dirt from their sleeves with precise casualness.
A faint clink came from his pocket.
The coin.
They fished it out. Flipped it without looking.
Click .
Caught clean.
“Maybe I was,” he said with a crooked grin. “Pulled a Lazarus. Real crowd-pleaser.”
The smile that followed was all teeth—too bright, too practiced. Like a joke meant only for himself.
Elliot didn’t laugh. His expression didn’t even twitch.
“You were frowning,” he muttered. “Twitching. Like your soul was trying to crawl out your damn mouth.”
His gaze flicked toward the door behind him.
“Next time a dream pulls you in like that, you’ll wake up inside it. Better you’re up before it grabs you empty-stomach.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Just turned and stepped through the doorway. The screen door screeched open and slammed shut behind him with a hollow bang that echoed through the trees like a distant gunshot.
Chance lingered.
Fog crept around their boots like something with a memory. The branches whispered above—wind threading through the canopy like it had secrets to share and no one to whisper them to.
He flipped the coin again.
Tink.
The sound was clean. Familiar. Comforting in a way nothing else was.
Something churned low in their gut. Not fear. Something murkier. Sour. Like nausea brushing the edge of something he didn’t want to name.
Their hand drifted to their temple, pressing against it—not hard, just enough to feel real. To anchor.
“Shoulda known mixin’ dreams and pills was a bad bet...” he muttered under their breath.
The bottle was still tucked deep in their jacket pocket.
He hesitated, his thumb brushing the cap. Then they let it go. Rolled their shoulders back. Forced the weight off like a bad hand.
That’s a tomorrow-Chance problem.
Present Chance? Still walkin’.
Mostly.
He cast one last glance toward the treeline—
Silent. Still. But not empty.
Then he turned and stepped inside.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Future Chance’s here.
And yeah—in hindsight? They really shouldn’t have left it at that.
Despite laying off the pills—just trying, y’know, sleeping like a functional human being and not seeing that man again—rest didn’t come. Not the real kind. Every time their eyes shut, the same looping nightmare yanked them down like an anchor.
iTrapped’s skull splitting open again and again like some cursed slideshow. That scream—wet and broken—still echoing behind his ribs long after he jolted awake.
Now, Chance looked like death reheated in a microwave—eyes shadowed deep, movements sluggish, aim worse than usual. They nearly shot Dusekkar in the face last round.
Thought he was John Doe.
The bullet didn’t fire.
Unfortunately, Dusekkar’s glare did. And that was somehow worse.
Never before had Chance been on the business end of such a look from the pumpkin-headed admin—who usually held his wrath like a blade still sheathed.
“Honest mistake,” Chance muttered, trying to pass off a sheepish, half-baked grin. “Coulda happened to anyone. Y’know—anyone runnin’ on trauma, five days no shuteye, and whatever the hell’s in that Bloxy Cola sludge.”
Dusekkar was floating now. Not stomping. Not striding. Floating—like judgment in formalwear.
He stopped at the base of the stairwell, arms folded neatly behind his back. The faint candlelight shimmered off the polished steel of his mask, eyes burning beneath with that quiet, righteous fire.
“You endangered the sanctity of this refuge for a delusion,” he said—his voice calm, but laced with that slow, brittle fury. “And worse—you found it amusing.”
Chance winced. “I didn’t laugh,” they said quickly—then again, “Okay. Maybe a snort. Barely counts. Tiny thing. Blink and miss it.”
Dusekkar moved closer. Just one step, but it was enough to eclipse everything else.
“There are souls here,” the admin said, low and firm, “whose sanity hangs by threads finer than breath. And still—they endure. Yet you, gambler, toss disorder like dice across a crumbling floorboard. I will not allow your unraveling to become ours.”
Chance raised both palms, surrendering like a man still half-joking but rapidly losing ground. “Alright, alright—‘Don’t shoot the admins,’ message received loud ‘n’ lethal. Full accountability, scout’s honor.”
But Dusekkar wasn’t done.
“There is no humor in madness worn like a mask.” Dusekkar added sharply, tone razor-sharp. “You are unwell, Chance. And what once passed for charm now reeks of rot.”
Silence. Thick and hollow. Just the sound of the wind outside rattling loose panes.
Then—
“...Damn,” Chance muttered, eyebrows lifting. “You ever think of a side hustle in poetry? That was... whew. Brutal.”
Dusekkar turned on his heel without a word. His cloak flared behind him like smoke being sucked into a furnace.
“Find a mop,” he called over his shoulder. “Clean what you’ve marred. Perhaps in toil you will exhume some fragment of sense from the wreckage of your wit.”
Chance stared after him, visibly deflated. “...Was my mop,” he grumbled. “Guess dignity’s optional now.”
And so there they were. Mopping in one hand, coin flipping in the other—each flick sending a soft ting through the hollow corridors of the mansion. Dust twirled in shafts of amber light slanting through the cracked windows. The warped wood creaked beneath every step, like it resented his weight.
Their eyelids drooped. Head dipped.
The coin danced across his knuckles, slower now, losing rhythm like the rest of him.
“C’mon…” he muttered, coaxing the flip. “Keep rollin’. Don’t you start fallin’ apart too…”
Then—
“Hey.”
Chance flinched—hard.
The coin slipped from his fingers and hit the stair with a sharp plink, rolling away in a wide arc until it clattered somewhere out of sight.
At the bottom of the staircase, Elliot stood with arms crossed, red sleeves shoved halfway up, expression caught somewhere between unimpressed and faintly alarmed.
“You gonna keel over right there,” he asked dryly, “or should I grab a shovel and pre-dig the grave?”
Chance exhaled, a raspy chuckle snagging in their throat as he leaned against the railing.
“Hey now, that’s no way to talk to someone who’s definitely not seein’ a dead friend’s brains go splat like party favors every time he blinks.”
Elliot blinked once. Slowly.
“You’re seeing what?”
Then, “…Actually, no. Don’t answer that. Just—sit. Or something. You look like a busted vending machine.”
Chance gave a lazy salute and slumped onto the middle step, head tipping back, arms hanging limp over his knees. He tried for a smirk—it barely lifted one corner of his mouth.
“I am sittin’, pretty face. And do me a favor—let me know when it’s safe to close my eyes without ghosts tryin’ to Black Friday rush my frontal lobe.”
Elliot stepped up a stair and crouched beside them, the floorboard creaking under his weight. The quiet stretched—muted wind pressing against the warped windows, distant groans from the mansion’s bones settling deeper into rot.
“You still off the pills?” Elliot asked, casually—but his eyes were too sharp for the tone.
Chance paused. The coin, halfway up their knuckles, froze. He glanced at Elliot sideways, brow raised, then let it fall into his palm.
“How do you—?”
“You’re not exactly good at hiding, you fool,” Elliot cut in, arms folded with practiced deadpan. “You’ve looked like roadkill for three days. I'm just surprised you haven't tried to blame it on allergies or the moon.”
Chance grumbled, clearly offended. “Rude.”
But the protest fizzled. He just clicked his tongue and slouched further, flicking the coin again. The movement lacked its usual flair—hesitant. Tired.
A shriek tore through the edge of the courtyard—sharp, metallic. A beat later came the roar of John Doe’s hand slicing through concrete.
Chance didn’t move. Just turned his head and watched as Guest 1337 vaulted over a crumbling generator to pull aggro, while Shedletsky—laughing like a madman—lobbed his sword and another terrible pun into the fray.
Chance’s expression softened. Brow furrowed. Something flickering in their eyes that wasn’t quite envy or fear—just distance.
Elliot followed his gaze, then looked back.
“So. Seriously. Why’d you stop?”
No answer.
The light above them flickered—casting warped shadows down Chance’s face. Long, sunken shadows under the eyes. Hollowed cheek. His coin slowed to a stop in his palm.
Elliot waited. Patient, but tense. His voice had gone blunt again—but not cold. There was something else hiding behind it now.
He didn’t know.
Didn’t know what the pills did. How they didn’t just knock Chance out—they drowned them. Dragged him into dreamscapes where the air stuck to your lungs like tar and the monsters watched from reflections you couldn’t break.
Didn’t know that someone was down there. Waiting. A man with a smile too still to be real.
Still, after a long pause, Chance spoke. Quietly. Almost too soft for the wind to carry.
“Ain’t gonna be a next time. I promise.”
They stood up without fanfare, stretching their arms behind their head with a lazy yawn, the earlier heaviness tucked away behind their usual grin.
He reached down and gave Elliot a light pat on the shoulder.
“Careful with that frown, champ. Get wrinkles, and who’s gonna be the cute one? Spoiler—it’s still me.”
Elliot opened his mouth, likely to object—
—but Chance was already tipping his fedora down with a wink and strolling off toward the fray like nothing had happened.
“Oi! You lottin’ fun without me again?! Unfair advantage!” he called, voice rising as he jogged into the courtyard, flipping their coin in one hand and drawing their pistol with the other.
Shedletsky hollered something back—probably awful. Guest 1337 waved him over without looking.
Elliot watched Chance go, brow furrowed. Still confused. Still uneasy.
He knew Chance had lied.
But not why.
And Chance?
They knew he would probably have to take the pills again.
Eventually.
Not for themselves.
For the team.
Even if it meant seeing him again.
Even if it meant remembering.
He just… really, really hoped not to.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
No such luck for Chance.
The pill had barely hit their tongue before the world cracked in two and fell away beneath them.
A hallway.
Endless. Shattered concrete stretching in every direction. Walls layered in peeling paint and grime so thick it looked alive. The floor buzzed faintly beneath their soles.
Bare feet.
The lights above them stuttered—fluorescents blinking in a broken rhythm, like dying hornets caught in jars. Their hum was distorted. Louder than it should’ve been. Wrong. Every flicker stung the corner of their eyes.
The air was sour—metallic, slick with rot and something electric. It buzzed under his skin, crawled into his gums. The walls were sweating. Breathing. Watching.
And something else was breathing with them.
Chance stood in the center of it all, barefoot and shivering, flipping a coin like that somehow grounded him.
“Goddamn it,” they muttered, glaring down at their toes, which were already going numb. “Why am I barefoot? What, dramatic tension’s cheaper without socks?”
He turned his gaze upward—half-hoping to find some carnival flare, at least something absurd to break the dread.
“No circus music? No blood balloons? C’mon. Let’s commit to the bit.”
His voice echoed. But even the echo was wrong—muffled, like something was swallowing the sound halfway through, chewing it up before it could bounce.
This isn’t a dream. It’s too vivid. Too detailed.
Their teeth ached from the cold. Every blink dragged like molasses.
And then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Measured.
The sound of leather on concrete, calm as a heartbeat. Familiar now. Weighted. Intent.
From the far end of the corridor, a figure took shape—emerging from the darkness like it had always been there, simply waiting for the cue.
Tall. Broad. Wrapped in black.
A long coat swept the floor behind him, the hem whispering like sandpaper. One hand hung at his side. The other dragged a blade—slowly, purposefully—along the wall. The screech of metal against cement sliced through the hallway with teeth.
Light caught on polished gloves. Silver buttons. The faint flick of bunny ears at the top of that too-still silhouette.
Him.
Chance’s stomach dropped. His fingers stilled.
The coin paused mid-air.
And fell.
They didn’t reach for it.
“You,” Chance said, flat. Tired. “Oh, great. You again.”
The man said nothing. Just kept walking. The lights above them stuttered harder as he approached, glitching like the hallway itself was resisting him.
His face stayed cloaked beneath the brim of his hat, but the eyes—those sharp, inhuman eyes—gleamed through the dark, with something hot. Not quite rage. Not quite hatred. But close. Feral. Focused.
Like a knife being sharpened just by looking.
Chance folded his arms across his chest, trying to look unfazed.
Or maybe just pretending.
“Look, I already got my ass beat last time,” they said. “Actually—no, you decapitated me. Very classy. Very subtle. Real creative. You’re running outta material, pal.”
They step back—just once. Not retreating. Repositioning. Still, he's clearly measuring distance now.
“I don’t even know what your damage is, but trust me—not a lot of things get under my skin like this. And here you are. Again. Taking squatters’ rights in my subconscious.”
Their voice gets louder. Angrier.
“Congrats. I haven’t slept properly in four days because every time I close my eyes, you show up to—what? Glare? Stab me? Deliver cryptic monologues and commit aggravated homicide? Is this performance art? You wanna be a mime next time?”
The hallway hums louder. Lights stutter—blinding, then dim. The air pulses like it’s breathing with something else.
The man stops just a breath away.
His jaw tightens. The corners of his mouth twitch—not quite a scowl. Something deeper. His voice, when it comes, is ragged iron dragged across steel.
“Tch.”
“You presume I choose to be here?” he growled. “You think I want to crawl through this filth—your filth? Do you honestly believe I have any say in this nightmare loop you’ve conjured?”
Chance’s bravado flickers. Their stance slips. The coin tumbles from their fingers and hits the ground—
Clink—clink—clink.
It spins in a trembling circle.
“…What?” he breathes.
No answer.
No time for one.
The man lunges.
“Hey—!”
It’s a blur—black coat whipping, steel flashing, boots slamming. Chance barely flinches before he’s slammed down into the dream-floor, ribs cracking beneath the force of the impact.
The air punches out of them.
And then the blade—
SHHK—
It doesn’t just enter them—it violates.
Cold steel tears through flesh, parting muscle, gutting him like a fish. A scream claws its way up their throat but dies in a gurgle as blood floods their mouth. His body jerks, spine bowing off the ground in a grotesque arc, fingers scrabbling at the hilt like he could somehow pull the agony back out.
But it’s too late.
The wound gapes. Hot, dark blood pulses between his fingers, slick and thick, spilling over their hands, soaking their shirt, pooling beneath him in a spreading crimson halo. Their breath comes in shallow, ragged hitches—each one a knife twisting deeper. His vision blurs at the edges, tunneling, but not fast enough to spare them the sight of the man looming over them, merciless.
The man looms above him. Not triumphant. Not even satisfied.
Just furious.
Cold. Controlled. Present.
He leans in.
Close.
Close enough for Chance to smell the gunpowder and sweat on him. Close enough to see the barely restrained tremor in his jaw.
His voice is a whisper.
A razor across raw skin.
“Next time,” he hisses, breath hot against Chance’s ear, “don’t fucking talk so much.”
And with a final, brutal twist of the knife—
The world shatters.
…
WHAM.
Back in the cot.
Wood creaks beneath them as reality slams into place like a snapped vertebra. Air tears from their lungs—raw and ragged.
Chance bolts upright with a strangled gasp, hands flying to his stomach—
Nothing.
Dry. No blood. No blade. Just sweat, slick and cold, clinging like a second skin. Their pulse hammers behind their eyes, thundering in their throat. Each breath shudders out of them in panicked jerks.
The room tilts slightly—like the air hasn’t caught up to their body yet.
The safehouse is still.
Oil-lamp light flickers soft and gold across warped wood and peeling walls. Dust floats in lazy spirals. Somewhere across the room, someone shifts under a blanket, mumbling incoherently before rolling over.
No one’s awake.
No one saw.
Good.
Chance exhales—shaky, uneven—then collapses back into the cot, limbs boneless. His eyes stay wide, locked on the rotting beams above like they might shift into swordpoints.
“Son of a bitch,” they mutter, dragging a hand down their face. The words barely make it past their cracked throat.
His heart refuses to slow.
“But goddamn,” he croaks, a dry, fractured laugh hitching in his chest, “he is fun to piss off.”
The sound dies almost instantly. Not enough air for laughter.
Their hand curls tighter around the coin—the same one that had been there when they fell asleep. Cold metal against their palm, edge digging into the soft skin like it wanted to draw something from them.
The tremor in his fingers won’t stop.
Not fear. Not quite.
It’s something sharper.
A pulse of confusion, maybe. At the man’s voice. At what he said.
You presume I choose to be here?
Chance presses the coin to his chest like a charm. Like armor. The edge bites in, grounding. Real.
Their gaze stays fixed on the ceiling beams, unblinking.
They don’t sleep the rest of the night.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
From that night on—once they started dosing regularly, just enough to perform at the top of their games as to not worry the others—Chance discovered a new favorite pastime:
Seeing how many times he could prod the tall bastard before he snapped and killed him again.
Which, unsurprisingly, was pretty damn fast.
Chance had come to adjust to the new presence quite quickly.
After all, it was technically his dream, right? That had to count for something. And if it was their space, then maybe—with enough focus—they could twist the edges, shift it into something dumber, just to see if the big guy would flinch.
The mere image of him in a bubblegum-pink suit, bunny ears still flopping, made Chance actually snort aloud.
But the truth settled in slower, heavier.
He was getting distracted. Or more accurately—disconnected.
Even awake, his attention drifted—fluttering in and out like the flickering lights down that endless, looping hallway. He was still there, technically. Still upright. Still smiling.
But their fingers never stopped moving—coin flipping, catching, flipping again with practiced ease, the little clink of metal rhythmic like a ticking clock in a broken house.
They weren’t fully checked out.
But they were miles from checked in.
Some survivors noticed.
Guest didn’t say anything—he never did—but he kept looking. That silent kind of glance, tilted head and faint frown. The kind that saw too much but didn’t speak unless it had to.
Chance sidestepped it easily, flashing a wink and that grin that never quite touched their eyes.
He was still hitting shots. Still top of the scoreboard. Still—technically—fine.
That was enough. For now.
Elliot, on the other hand, was never one for subtlety.
It was halfway through a round—Jason again. Five gens, split across the map.
Elliot ducked behind cover, breathing hard—his hair damp with sweat, red sleeves rolled back, and half a medkit slung over his shoulder. He turned, expecting Chance to be where they were supposed to be.
They weren’t.
They were still leaning in the corner of the room—completely still, like part of the map geometry. Jason had run past them not a minute ago, chasing 007n7 across the hall while Shedletsky trailed after them with that same smug, dead-eyed stare.
And no one said a word.
Not after the last time.
After that big blowout argument—after everyone watched Shedletsky try and twist “team strategy” into an excuse to shadow 007n7 like some lovesick admin creep—it was kind of... an unspoken thing. No one liked it. But no one wanted to deal with the fallout, either.
The visual was funny, in a pathetic kind of way. Admin-in-love trailing after a pathetic ex-hacker with the patience of a mother. A sitcom if you squinted.
Not to Elliot, though.
Elliot’s scowl deepened. Just seeing them made his temples throb.
He rounded on Chance, voice tight. “You gonna help, or are you trying to get clipped on purpose?”
Chance looked down with that same slow-lidded smirk, coin glinting as they flicked it up and caught it midair. They leaned a little further against the gen. “I am helpin’.”
“By standing there?”
“By protectin’ you, obviously.”
It was said with such outrageous smugness, Elliot almost choked.
“Protecting me,” Elliot repeated, deadpan. “By being stationary.” He huffed while continuing to do the wires.
“Exactly.” Chance grinned, sharp and lazy. “It’s tactical. You’ll thank me later.”
He flipped the coin again. Tink. It landed perfectly in his palm.
Elliot huffed. “You’re so lucky you don’t get motion-sick from your own bullshit.”
He didn’t press further. Partly because there were wires to fix.
Partly because... something was off.
Chance lately—almost giddy. Their sharp edges had softened, their pacing slowed. For once, they didn’t look like they were seconds from imploding. Hell, they looked like they wanted to fall asleep mid-round and for it to all be over, which was strange, as Chance used to have this air to him. Like he saw everything as a game, and dying was part of it, and in general, he never seemed to want the match to end—literally gambling with his life by purposefully putting more gunpowder than he needed, just to see the chance if it were to explode in his face.
That was good, though. Wasn’t it?
But Elliot wasn’t stupid.
Lightness in this hell always came at a price.
Chance didn’t talk about what kept him awake and smiling or what he saw when he did sleep. But the way his hands shook when he thought no one was watching? The way he blinked a little too long, like expecting to wake up someplace else?
It wasn’t nothing.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Later, in the quiet between rounds, Chance sat on the porch with the bottle in their palm—white plastic, label half-scratched off, pills rattling softly inside like bones.
Insomnia suppressant. Prescribed or scavenged—who knew. Who cared. All it meant was: no dreams. Or at least, no hallways.
He weighed it in his hand.
Because everything has consequences. And nothing here ever comes for free.
Not even sleep.
But at this point in time—
Chance didn’t know that yet.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
It was beginning to grate.
The moment Mafioso began to collect on debts—or draw his blade—he was yanked from the frozen soul’s world and dropped like a sack of bricks into that damn gambler’s dreams again.
Which made his next disruption particularly irritating.
He’d been mid-conversation. A delicate one, at that.
…
…
The back room of the small shop buzzed with static and low-frequency hums, the lights above pulsing like artificial heartbeats. Chrome walls reflected warped silhouettes; mirrored panels flickered faintly as if unsure of their own reflections. The air was thick with the sterile sting of alcohol wipes and warm circuitry.
Eunoia stood behind the counter, perfectly still, a portrait rendered in ice and logic. Her form was regal in that peculiar way only she could make seem unintentional—snowflake-stamped, metallic-textured fabric draped with plain elegance, like a scientist who’d accidentally wandered into royalty. The emblematic “E” still glowed faintly on her torso.
Blue hair framed her snow-pale features, crowned with icy filigree. Her skin was so pale it looked immune to sunlight—like a flower grown beneath a glacier—and her eyes, those red, gem-like irises, tracked movement with the quiet precision of a system running a diagnostic.
She always wore that same serene, guileless smile—the kind that made it impossible to tell if you were being welcomed or catalogued. Blinking slowly, patiently, behind the counter, she regarded the man before her as if he were both client and case study.
“You’re giving migraines a bad name, Mafioso,” she said gently, voice soft as a hum. “I asked you not to loom. The clientele flinch, and flinching makes them frugal.”
“Fear is a debt,” he replied flatly. “I only collect what’s already owed.”
Behind him, two of his men—goons, as Eunoia insisted on calling them, often and without irony—exchanged idle glances. One adjusted his gloves with theatrical slowness; the other brushed lint from a perfectly lintless sleeve. They were dressed like they were auditioning for menace but had settled into the comfort of choreographed disinterest.
Beneath the polished floors, the hum of generators thrummed steady and low, a mechanical heartbeat masked beneath layers of velvet and sterile elegance. The lounge smelled faintly of chamomile, ozone, and recently-cooled alloy. Somewhere, a speaker whispered lazy jazz from no visible source—just ambiance that had always been there, whether anyone wanted it or not.
Mafioso stood at the window, arms crossed, posture rigid. The faint glow of security lights reflected off the glass, distorting his silhouette—tall, motionless, and cold.
Eunoia, meanwhile, was curled into a velvet bench behind him, legs folded neatly beneath her. Chin rested on her hand, red gem-eyes half-lidded, dreamlike. She looked far too pleased for someone who had just been glared at by three men in full suits.
But it was thanks to them the lounge looked this polished—Eunoia had insisted on a full renovation for “atmospheric coherence” and had them haul in every piece of furniture themselves. She said it built character. And obedience.
“So,” she began, voice sugar-laced and light, “still prying value from the noncompliant? Or have they grown wise to you?”
Mafioso’s jaw ticked. “Adequate. For now.”
“Ambiguity,” she said, blinking slowly. “Statistically suspicious. That implies interference.”
There—a twitch. Barely perceptible, but her eyes flicked to it. His gloved hand curled into a fist against the counter, knuckles creaking against leather. The crumpled list between them remained untouched.
“Ah,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “External disruption? Or are the fractures coming from inside the pattern?”
“Both,” he muttered. “Interference without… and within.”
Eunoia rose without a sound. Her steps were weightless, practiced. She approached the counter and poured tea with the kind of precision that made machines jealous. The soft clink of ceramic against glass was the only reply for several seconds.
“And the list?”
He didn’t touch the tea. That told her more than he meant it to. Mafioso always took the tea. Politeness, discipline—ritual. Not today.
He placed the list beside the cup with a controlled thunk. His gloved palm flattened against the counter, pressing down like it might steady him against something intangible. His other fist remained clenched.
“There’s a fool,” he said at last. “Some lunatic with a coin and a death wish. Keeps dragging me into their dreams.”
Eunoia looked up. Her eyes gleamed. “Oh?”
“I cannot leave,” he continued. “Some force pulls me back in. Every time. It whispers in my ear—tells me to kill him. And I do.”
“A compulsion,” she said, delighted. “Possibly externally scripted. Or psychosomatic. Does he survive?”
“Sometimes. He runs. Slips away. Reappears. It always resets.”
She tilted her head, fascinated now—visibly. “A recursive dream-state with active resistance. And you can’t control entry or exit?”
“It’s random,” he said through clenched teeth. “Day or night. I’ll be mid-operation, then—gone. Ripped into whatever fragmented hellscape he’s constructed.”
“And what happens when you’re there?”
“I end them.” Mafioso said simply. “Repeatedly. Brutally. He always comes back.”
“Fascinating.” Her voice was warm, like hands cupping a match flame. “A recursive loop built not on logic, but emotional inertia. Rare. Deeply inefficient. I’m intrigued.”
“You’re not concerned?” Mafioso asked, voice low and even, like the edge of a blade pressed flat.
“Concern is a choice,” Eunoia replied, folding her hands formally at the center. “And you speak of him fondly.”
Then, softer—like a thought slipping out before she could catch it.
“He must be more interesting than I initially assumed.”
He scoffed. “He’s pathetic. Weak. Reckless. The type who thinks defiance is charm.”
“That’s a common descriptor for threats we don’t understand.” Her tone remained light, like tea steam curling upward. “But do go on. He dreams of you. Frequently?”
A pause—tight, too long. Mafioso’s jaw flexed. He’d realized too late how much he’d said.
“Enough. This doesn’t concern any sentimentality—”
“You’re not malfunctioning,” Eunoia interrupted gently. “You’re responding—intensely—to unpredictability. That’s very human of you.”
His eyes narrowed. “…I’m not human.”
But you are, she didn’t say. Because she knew—knew the weight those words carried. Knew the shape of the fear they carved in him. His hand clenched and unclenched, jaw taut, gaze unfocused. There was anger, yes. But beneath it: hesitation. Hurt.
Instead, she pivoted.
“Do you know what I find most statistically endearing about Valencia?” she asked suddenly, her voice turning curious as she smoothed the hem of her dress. Mafioso followed her movements as she glided past the counter.
“No.”
“She lies so inefficiently,” Eunoia continued, almost fond. “Like watching a newborn fawn try to balance on stilts. Endearing. Catastrophic.”
His brow lowered. “You asked me here to talk about that debt-payer?”
“Natrasha,” she corrected softly. “‘Valencia’ is her mask. Natrasha is the one who leaks debt like perfume and watches the world like it’s made of overdue apologies. It’s important to distinguish.”
Mafioso exhaled through his nose. “She’s unstable. Dangerous. You know that.”
“She’s a variable,” Eunoia said simply, stepping into the window’s pale light. Her silhouette shimmered faintly in the reflection—delicate, but unshaken. “Unstable. Entropic. My favorite kind. And even absent, she resonates. That’s worth documenting.”
“She already costs lives. Sooner or later, one of them will matter.”
“She already has,” Eunoia said. Her smile was small, almost private. “Repeatedly.”
A beat.
“But her chaos,” she added, “smells like longing. That’s… uniquely beautiful.”
“You’re not in love,” Mafioso said sharply. “You’re addicted.”
She tilted her head in agreement. “Is there a difference?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, then it must be both.” she said, voice lilting. “Fascination first. Affection by inertia. Thank you for the distinction.”
She turned to face him fully, finally. Her expression was calm, composed, and just a touch too knowing to be comforting.
“You’re wondering if I’m too delicate for this industry. You wonder that often. It’s charming.”
“Your attachment clouds your judgment,” he replied coldly. “It always has.”
She laughed—soft, chiming, utterly unbothered. There was no mockery in it, only warmth. Understanding. Pity, maybe.
“Such poetic disdain,” she murmured. “You always speak in italics when agitated.”
She moved with fluid precision to tend to a nearby flower arrangement—white petals, precise symmetry.
“You bring me the world’s worst people in neatly tied packages,” she said, gently adjusting a stem.
“But her?” Eunoia’s voice drifted wistfully. “I’d dismantle every system I built, if she asked—nicely, of course.”
Mafioso turned his head slightly, just enough to meet her eyes.
“She’d sell you out without blinking.”
“Yes,” Eunoia replied, as if confirming the color of the sky. “Isn’t that lovely? Tragedy is the precursor to truth. And tragedy is the first step to intimacy.”
He stared. Her words should’ve disgusted him. Maybe they did. But he didn’t move.
“I wonder what she dreams,” Eunoia murmured, her voice far away now. “Is it equations? Wildfire? Or the quiet ache of being someone she’s not?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he said stiffly.
“You should ask her,” she said, brushing past with featherlight contact. “You’re always chasing, after all. Poor dear. She does run beautifully, doesn’t she?”
He didn’t answer.
But he didn’t leave, either.
Behind them, the jazz slipped into something slower. Something aching. The lights dimmed on cue, part of the building’s subconscious. Eunoia stood still in the fading glow, smiling faintly—as if nothing she said had ever been wrong.
Mafioso opened his mouth.
But before any sound could form—he flickered.
And vanished.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Mafioso looked down at himself. Then back up.
He was dressed—head to toe—in his usual tailored suit and long coat. But it was pink. Not a soft blush or muted rose. Blinding. Vibrant. Offensively pink.
His gloved hands curled into fists.
Across from him, the gambler was doubled over, laughing so hard his back hit a tree. Shoulders shook. They slid halfway down the trunk, wheezing.
“Pff—whoa there, don’t end me just yet—” he gasped, clutching his stomach. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. “I mean—look at you! How’m I s’posed to die serious-like when you’re rockin’ a Pepto-Bismol power suit?”
Mafioso’s jaw tensed. His voice came out like crushed gravel.
“Explain. Now.”
They wiped at their eyes, still grinning like a drunk imp at a crime scene.
“I had a hunch,” they said, trying—and failing—to suppress a giggle. “Turns out this whole dreamscape thing’s pretty flexible. Just needed the right mental image.” They gave an exaggerated bow. “So thanks, big guy. You’re officially my lab rat.”
“Thinking doesn’t suit you.” Mafioso growled, glancing down at his sleeves like they’d personally betrayed him. He punched at the fabric, eyes narrowed in disgust.
The gambler clicked his tongue, leaning lazily back against the bark.
“Aww, c’mon now, you wound me, bun-bun. I am smarter than I look—wait…” They paused, squinting up at the sky. “Hold up. That might’ve been an accidental self-own.”
“If you were smart,” Mafioso said, slow steps closing the distance, “you’d stop before the losing starts.”
The sword was already in hand, its edge catching the warped pinkish glow of the dream like it didn’t belong there. He raised it—pointed directly at the their chest.
The gambler didn’t flinch.
Instead, they smiled.
“Got a problem with my gambling?” they said, flipping their coin high. It spun like it had its own gravity. “Try stoppin’ me. Who knows—win me over, I might just cash out early. Just for you, sweetcheeks.”
“I don’t deal with filth.” Mafioso snapped. “Boastful. Unruly. The type that abuses their own dreamworld like it’s a joke.”
“Then what’s your deal, huh?” they stepped forward now too—still calm, but the grin had dulled. Their eyes were sharp. “Why do you keep showing up? If it’s not your choice, why haven’t you figured out how to leave yet? Unless…”
He tilted his head, studying Mafioso like he was the puzzle now.
“Unless you can’t. And you don’t got the how. Which you did say last time—but then you stabbed me before I could even put a sentence together. Very rude, by the way.”
A beat.
“So if it ain’t you bringing you here, and it sure as hell ain’t me…” His brow furrowed. “Then who the hell’s steering the wheel?”
Mafioso didn’t answer. His expression froze. Cold. Unreadable.
Then—he moved.
He lunged like a beast off its leash, taking a bullet to the chest without so much as a flinch. The shot went clean through, smoke curling from the wound—but he didn’t slow. His blade dropped from his grip, forgotten, as both hands clamped around the gambler’s throat.
The grip closed like a vice.
The gambler gasped, pistol slipping from their fingers and skittering uselessly across the dream-ground. Their boots kicked reflexively. Their hands scrambled at Mafioso’s wrists, nails dragging against leather. The strength pinning them down wasn’t human—it was mechanical. Merciless. Inevitable.
Mafioso leaned in close, his face a grim mask of fury. Hat shadowed his eyes, but the heat behind them burned through.
“If you had answers, I’d be free.” He growled, voice low and ancient and rotting, “I wouldn’t be dragged back—forced to slaughter you over and over.”
His fingers dug in deeper.
“You’re beneath it.”
They choked, eyes wide and watering—cheeks flushed red from lack of air, but somehow still managing a grin.
“Y-You got a real nasty way with breakin’ hearts…”
Then—barely breathless, half-laugh, half-whimper—
“Least tell me your name before you snap me like a glowstick—fair’s fair…”
CRACK.
The sound tore through the dream like a snapped branch in winter.
…
…
Chance jolted awake, hand flying to their throat.
It ached—no marks, but it burned deep, a phantom bruise curled tight around his windpipe like a memory that hadn’t faded yet.
He coughed—harsh, dry. His breath came in shaky bursts, eyes watering. For a long moment, he didn’t move. Just sat there, head in his hands, letting the static in his chest settle.
Then, slowly, they reached for their fedora—adjusting it with a familiar flick of the fingers. Slipped their headphones down around their neck. Tilted their sunglasses back up into place. Every motion smooth. Practiced.
He took a breath. In through the nose. Out through the teeth.
The smile returned.
Neutral. Maybe a little crooked. Not all the way real—but enough to wear.
Tonight had ended badly. Sure. But he’d gotten some sleep, which counted as a win these days.
And honestly?
Teasing the boogeyman of his own dreamscape until he snapped and broke character?
Totally worth the pills.
…Or was it?
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Days bled into weeks.
They had stopped keeping count after realizing the pills didn’t just mess with their head—they locked them here. This place. This dreamscape. A loop of half-lit alleys and broken curbs, where time didn’t move and neither did the rules. It was familiar, sure—but wrong in all the subtle ways that made the hairs on their neck stand up if they ever thought too hard.
Still. If he was stuck, he might as well make it entertaining.
Sometimes, that meant leisure. Other times, it meant agony.
Tonight was very much the latter.
The man wasn’t in a bad mood—he was beyond it. Gone was the usual smooth control and silent menace. What followed Chance now was darker. Sharper. A presence like a wire drawn too tight and ready to snap.
Chance, in his infinite wisdom, had said something. He couldn’t recall what, exactly—something stupid, probably, about the coat being compensatory. Or maybe something about Mafioso's sword being just slightly overcompensating. Either way, it got him stabbed. Again.
He limped down the middle of the ruined street, the world quiet in the way that only dreams could manage—too still, like the air was waiting. Blood soaked through the shoulder of his coat where steel had kissed too deep. One arm hung slack. The other tossed his coin into the air with lazy defiance.
Clink.
Tails.
Behind them was the rhythmic sound of leather soles on wet pavement. Slow. Deliberate. Mafioso never ran. He didn’t need to. They would burn out first—and they both knew it.
God, he was so smug about it too.
Chance exhaled through gritted teeth. Then stopped. Spun on his heel, boots grinding broken glass, and grinned through bloodied lips even if the smile didn’t reach his eyes this time.
“Wanna raise the stakes?” Their voice rang down the street, cocky and cracking at the edges. “Betcha fall for me first. I’m real charming once you stop tryin’ to gut me.”
Mafioso didn’t stop walking. Didn’t even glance their way. He was speaking low to a group of unfamiliar men—four of them, in fact. Clean suits. Unreadable expressions. Mafioso’s personal shadows. Mafialings.
Chance blinked. “Huh,” they muttered. “Didn’t see you four in the signup sheet.”
He opened his mouth to call it cheating—but then Mafioso tilted his head just slightly, and one of the suited men flinched like he’d been slapped. The moment passed.
Chance snorted. “Oh, don’t be shy. I know that look. I get it a lot. Usually right before I die.”
The first time they’d joked about Mafioso being jealous, they’d been sliced clean in half.
So this time? They bit their tongue. Literally. It bled.
Across the way, the man finally turned. The brim of his hat cast deep shadows over his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice came low. Measured. Each syllable was clipped like it cost him.
“Absolutely pretentious of you, gambler.”
A sharp nod.
Two of the mafialings stepped forward. The others held rope—thick, coarse, and already knotted.
“Joking about affection, while leaking from the seams.”
Chance didn’t move from where they leaned against the ruined newsstand. Their grin widened, and with a flick of their good hand, the coin spun up again into the dead air.
“Joking? Oh, I’m dead serious actually,” he said, flipping the coin again with his good hand. “You keep dragging this dance out—stab, chase, repeat. You sure this ain’t just foreplay? We’ve been seein’ a lot of each other lately.”
Clink.
Heads.
Chance winked, even through the ache. “Statistically speaking, you’re overdue. Even ice melts, bun-bun. Can’t out-stonewall me forever.”
The man walked forward—soundless, like the dream was bending to his pace. His sword dragged against the concrete behind him, the dull screech carving a warning into the silence. His men tensed behind him, ready to pounce.
He raised one hand—halt. He’d deal with this personally.
Chance straightened, slowly, still smirking. Their coat stuck wet to their wound, but their eyes burned with something bright.
“No entourage tonight?” they said, spinning the coin between fingers. “I feel special.”
The man’s voice cut in, sharp and low. “Your voice is a curse I’ve yet to silence.”
“Correct-a-mundo,” Chance replied, bowing with mock flourish, wincing at the movement. “And tragically good-looking, which makes me your worst nightmare.”
He stayed slouched, relaxed despite the pain radiating through his side. The coin danced again, catching a flicker of dreamlight.
“You gamble with everything,” the man said darkly. “Your breath. Your blood. My patience.”
“And you don’t gamble at all,” Chance shot back, grin feral. “That’s the rub. You think it’s all rigged in your favor. That’s what makes you so damn punchable.”
They didn’t see eye to eye. Never had. One loathed, the other provoked. Yet here they were, again and again—drawn in by something neither of them could fully name.
Truth be told, Chance had started feeling oddly refreshed after each round. Like brushing death in his sleep gave him some kind of clarity. Or maybe he was just used to the knife by now.
He let the coin land in his palm and didn’t even look at it this time.
“Alright, new wager.” They flicked blood from their lip. “I bet you catch feelings before I do.”
A pause.
“Spoiler: I’m a slow burn.”
The silence roared. Neon lights flickered above, humming like nerves.
Then—
Step.
The sword snapped upward.
SLASH—
It halted just beneath Chance’s chin. Not deep—barely a graze. But enough for a line of blood to bloom red against their skin.
A warning.
The man leaned in. His voice was cold and close, brushing the edges of something primal in Chance’s brain.
“You’re not worth loving. Even rot has more use than you.”
They laughed—a little too loud, a little too ragged. “That’s the best kind, isn’t it? Broken things with good hair?”
He coughed, then smiled wider. “I’ll put my life on it—you’re falling for me.”
No reaction.
But they noticed the shift. A flicker at the corner of the man’s mouth. A twitch in the jaw.
Tiny tells. Chance lived for those.
“You ever think the reason you’re always in my dreams is because you can’t stay away?”
He paused, then lowered his voice like a secret.
He tilted his head. “Maybe you’re the one dreaming me.”
That—that—got something. The man’s eyes narrowed, nearly imperceptibly.
“Oh, struck a chord,” he said, delighted. “Easy there, bun-bun. Keep this up and I might start thinkin’ you’ve got a soft spot.”
The man’s head tilted slightly. The blade never moved.
“I finish you,” he said, voice scraping like gravel across steel, “and still the noise returns.”
“It’s a talent.” Chance whispered, still smiling.
“I could take your tongue.”
Chance beamed. “Kinky.”
A long silence.
The man didn’t blink.
Chance’s grin faltered—barely—but they kept it up. That was the game. Always was.
He flipped the coin one last time.
Clink.
“Call it, sweetheart.”
The man didn’t.
Instead—
SLICK.
The blade carved across their belly in one brutal sweep. Fast. Clean.
Chance choked—a sound like air and blood fighting each other. The coin slipped from his fingers mid-toss, spinning once, twice, then vanishing in the gutter.
They hit their knees first. Then their side. Their coat bunched beneath them as they collapsed, breath ragged and wet, pooling out in little gasps. The world blurred, dreamlight draining into grayscale.
The man stood over him—unmoving. Imposing.
“Wagers require risk,” he said simply. “You had none to give.”
Chance’s vision fractured. They could still feel the coin—somewhere. The weight of it in their palm, the hum of tension mid-air.
Then nothing.
Just dark.
…
Chance jolted awake.
Air tore into his lungs as if he hadn’t breathed in years, his body twitching like it’d just been yanked from the edge of something terrible. His fingers scrabbled against the cold floorboards of the safehouse—nails dragging, legs trembling under him. No blood this time, but the shake in his limbs said enough.
The coin lay a few inches from their open palm.
Heads.
They stared at it, chest still heaving. Then a laugh, low and breathless, slipped from their throat. Not quite humor—closer to disbelief.
“This again,” he muttered, dragging himself upright. His back hit the wall with a dull thud, head tipping back against the concrete. Sweat clung to his hairline. He wiped it away with the back of his sleeve, then reached for the coin and gave it a lazy flip.
Clink.
Heads again.
Of course.
Chance grinned, something wild curling at the edge of it. They hadn’t felt this alive in weeks—maybe months. Whatever this was—dream, curse, loop, punishment—it was starting to get fun.
Because what else could they do, if not laugh in the face of the one thing that wanted them broken?
He rose to his feet, unsteady but upright, brushing dust from his coat. Somewhere out there, the bastard was probably already moving—sword in hand, eyes like judgment.
And Chance?
Chance was ready to prod the devil again.
After all, he was two-for-two on Heads.
And nothing made a gambler hungrier than a winning streak.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
The dream faded.
But their grin didn’t.
By the time Chance was slouched at the creaky kitchen table, still pale from whatever hell his mind had just played on him, the smirk was back—smaller now, but sharper. Something knowing sat behind it. Something thrilled.
Their fingers idly spun the coin across the scarred wood, letting it whirl in lazy spirals. Their shirt stuck damp to their back. Still too warm. Still too vivid.
But he wasn’t blinking much.
Just watching the coin. Watching it spin.
Across the room, Elliot stood at the ancient oven, muttering to himself while trying to coax the pilot light back to life. The flame finally kicked up with a groan of metal and gas. He shoved the half-frozen pizza in with a grunt, turned—
—and froze mid-step.
Chance was just sitting there. Silent. Still. That stupid little half-smile twitching on their lips like they’d just sold their soul and somehow profited.
Elliot narrowed his eyes.
“…Uh. Yeah, no. What the hell is that face supposed to be.”
Chance didn’t look up. The coin spun one last time and slowed, circling the wood in tight, lazy loops.
“What? I’m sittin’. I’m smilin’. That ain’t a crime.”
“You’re smiling like someone who just buried a body and got away with it.”
Chance’s grin widened a notch. Subtle. Dangerous.
Elliot gave them a long, suspicious stare. “You sleep well?”
Chance hummed again, softer.
“The pills—are they even working?”
That made them finally glance up. “Maybe. Maybe not. That’s classified, partner.”
“Nope. No.” Elliot waved both hands, backing away like Chance had just pulled a grenade pin with his teeth. “Shut it. Don’t say that with that face on.”
“This ol’ mug? Chance asked sweetly, gesturing to himself. “Please. This is my well-adjusted citizen face.”
“That’s your ‘I’m dating danger and thinking about marrying it’ face.”
Chance blinked, all mock-innocence. “C’mon, why limit myself? I multitask.”
Elliot groaned and turned back to the oven, slamming the metal door with more force than necessary.
“You know what? I don’t want to know. Keep your creepy dream problems to yourself. That’s on me for asking.”
Chance rested his chin on his palm, watching him go with that same crooked grin.
“I did warn ya. Classified content, Elliot. Should’ve signed the NDA.”
The door creaked shut behind him.
Silence returned.
They flicked the coin again.
Clink .
Tails.
He stared at it, fingers tapping thoughtfully against the rim.
“Soon, sweetheart. Real soon.”
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Dreamscape. Again.
Only this time, Chance was ready.
He’d made a promise. Placed his bet.
Mission 101: Make the big, bad, bunny-eared menace fall for him.
And this time? They didn’t just wake up in the dream—they built it. Thread by thread. Thought by thought. Like looping a noose but making it red velvet.
Twilight soaked every edge of the scene, deep crimson and low gold bleeding through cracked blinds. Shadows pooled thick across the scuffed tile and polished mahogany. This was his favorite bar in this version of the dream—The Velvet Lounge.
A pool table took center stage, glowing beneath the single flickering light bulb.
The air was heavy with aged whiskey, sharp leather, and a low, jazzy hum that looped through the room like silk in slow motion.
And Chance?
They looked immaculate.
Red long-sleeved shirt. Crisp white vest, a small red diamond stitched over their heart. Gray slacks tailored to sin. Black shoes shined to a mirror. Their white hair was slicked back with gel, bowtie perfect, star-shaped sunglasses perched on their nose even in this moody gloom. A red fedora, a white band wrapped around the crown, tipped low in just the right way.
He sprawled across the pool table like a centerfold in a dimension built just for dramatics. One arm behind his head. The other spinning a cue lazily between two fingers. A few crimson pool balls nestled by his hip, clicking gently together with every sway of his leg.
Then—
Click.
Steel-tipped footsteps.
Heavy.
Inevitable.
Chance didn’t look right away. He just pushed his sunglasses down a notch, letting them settle halfway down his nose. The smirk was already there.
“Hey, big guy. Miss me?” he purred, voice smooth as melted dice.
The man stepped into the light. Impeccably dressed, as always.
His coat swept like smoke behind him. Fedora low, casting his face in shadow—but Chance could still make out the slight frown at his mouth. The faint tick in his jaw.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t even blink.
Chance pouted dramatically and rolled onto his side atop the felt, propping his head up with one palm like a bored Renaissance muse.
“No smile? Not even a twitch?” they teased, voice light. “C’mon, I wore the fancy socks for this.”
Still nothing.
They sighed like a man burdened by beauty and tragedy, slid off the table with unnecessary flair, and dusted invisible lint from their vest before grabbing a cue stick from the nearby rack.
“If we’re gonna keep this intense eye contact thing goin’, might as well do it over a game, yeah? Rack ‘em up.”
The man shifted just slightly—his weight tilting, a warning in the air.
Then, the familiar hum of static.
He raised one gloved hand. The sword shimmered into existence, tip aimed not at the balls but at him.
Chance’s eyes lit up.
Snap.
The sword fizzled out mid-air, dissolving right after.
“Uh-uh, ah-ah—down, boy.” Chance wagged a finger with mock sternness. “We’re off the clock. No skewering me ‘til after dessert. Right now, it’s playtime.”
A low growl rumbled from the man’s throat—gravel and restraint. But then, slowly, he stepped forward. Tense. Controlled.
He took the initiative, grabbing the triangular rack and positioning the fifteen balls at the foot of the table. He set the 1 ball at the apex, the 8 ball dead center, and adjusted them all just so. Then with a twist of the wrist, they removed the rack and passed the man the break.
Without a word, the man lined up his shot.
His form was mechanical perfection—feet shoulder-width apart, cue resting along his bridge hand with the tip lined up just behind the cue ball. A sharp snap of motion—and CRACK.
Balls exploded across the felt.
Two solids dropped into the side pockets with military precision.
He straightened. Silent. Calculating.
Chance leaned back against the table edge, watching the scatter of color.
“Ooh. Solids for you, then,” he said lightly. “Guess I’m stripes. That’s fine. I like a little chaos in my pattern.”
For a while, there was only the rhythm of the game. Balls clicking against each other, low thuds into pockets. Chalk rubbing against cue tips. The man was precise—almost surgical. He never wasted movement. Each shot lined up with geometrical clarity, cue gliding like a blade.
Chance... not so much.
“Oh—” they muttered as they bent low to aim, cue stretching out beneath them. Their back arched a little too much, intentionally flamboyant. “Oopsie-daisy. Butterfingers. Must be all this sexual tension in the air.”
The shot narrowly missed. The 11 ball spun, clipped a corner, and stopped.
His vest had lifted just enough to flash a strip of pale waist.
Still no reaction.
“Whoops,” they added, slowly chalking their cue with dramatic precision. Their rolled-up sleeves revealed lean muscle and a subtle twitch of tension beneath the act. “Whew. This game’s got me sweating already.”
Still, the man played on. Like stone given motion.
Chance wandered around the table as the man lined up his next shot, leaned in close enough to murmur:
“Bet you five chips and a kiss I’m not wearin’ anything under this vest. Wanna check my bluff?”
The cue struck.
The 4 ball rolled clean into the corner pocket.
The man didn’t even twitch.
Chance clicked his tongue, tipping his sunglasses just enough to reveal a glint of mischief.
“Y’know,” they said, “you’re a real buzzkill when you’re tryin’.”
The man finally spoke—his voice like the scrape of a sword unsheathing.
“You think this is a game of hearts.”
Chance grinned wider, flipping the coin idly in one hand. “I know this is my opening move. You just ain’t caught up yet.”
The man leaned his cue against the table, posture sharp, eyes steady. They never dropped. Not to Chance’s hips, not to his lips, not to the tilt of his collarbone.
“You confuse fixation with finesse,” he said coldly. “And lust for leverage.”
Chance placed a hand over their heart, mock-offended. “Rude. This whole getup is mathematically designed to melt hearts. I'm practically peer-reviewed.”
The man turned away without a word, stalking to the far side of the table. He eyed the angle, bent, and tapped the 6 ball gently. It curled along the felt and knocked the 8 ball aside, setting up a lethal path.
Chance’s grin didn’t fade—but something behind it tightened. Just a touch. A glint of thought cutting through the shine.
He flipped the coin once more.
Clink.
It spun.
“Statistically…” they murmured, eyes tracking the spin, “…even concrete splits under pressure.”
The game slowed.
And the dream... deepened.
Even the music in the bar faded to a low hum—like the dream itself was holding its breath.
Chance leaned on the pool table with one hand, watching as the man lined up yet another shot. His expression was carved from marble—stoic, unreadable, annoyingly perfect. He hadn’t missed a single shot. Not once. Not even glanced his way.
It was infuriating.
The cue cracked clean against the cue ball. Another precise angle. Another satisfying clack. One more ball swallowed into the corner pocket without fuss.
Chance clapped once.
Slow. Sarcastic.
“Bravo. I mean it. Truly riveting. You could’ve at least pretended to check me out while I was bent over.”
The man didn’t rise to the bait. He calmly wiped the cue chalk from his glove, motions deliberate, like cleaning the blood from a blade.
“I don’t perform,” he said.
“Oof. Stoic and boring? That’s a helluva two-hit combo.”
Chance spun their cue between their fingers, then leaned it gently against the table’s edge. Their voice dropped, smooth and velvet.
“Alright, let’s raise the stakes. Game’s gettin’ stale.”
The man didn’t speak—but there was a pause. Subtle. Listening.
Chance began circling him. Lazy steps. Hands tucked in his vest pockets. Sunglasses perched casually on his nose. His orbit tightened just enough to be felt.
“If I win…” they purred, tilting their head, “you lay one on me. No take-backs.”
The man’s eyes narrowed by a degree. “Denied.”
Chance let out a laugh, tipping their head back in exaggerated heartbreak. “That was fast. Not even curious what you get? You wound me.”
“Your terms mean nothing.”
“Oh, but they should,” Chance stopped in front of him, coin already flicking between nimble fingers. “Because if you win? I zip it. No more flirts. No more wisecracks. Pinky promise. Scout’s honor.”
Another beat.
Chance raised a brow. Waiting.
Then—the man stepped forward. Slowly. Cue in hand, carried like a cane or a warning.
“You’ve already folded,” he said coolly. “You just don’t know it.”
Chance grinned wide. “So go on, big guy. Call it. You willin’ to place that bet?”
Another pause.
Then—
“Set the table.”
Chance practically lit up.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
They played again.
The mood shifted. The air hung heavy with pressure, like cigar smoke that clung to everything. The music didn’t return—just that low hum, like a heartbeat under the floor.
The man moved like a machine. Calculated. Flawless. Each shot purposeful, as if he were clearing not just balls, but meaning.
Chance—for once—tried.
Their usual smirks faded with every turn. Replaced by real focus. The match tightened. Every shot mattered. They chalked their cue with less flair, more precision. Sweat lined their collarbone, soaking into the crisp white of their vest.
They were tied.
Final round.
Final shot.
Chance leaned low over the table, cue poised behind the ball. His fingers trembled—not from fear. From anticipation. He could already picture it—the stunned look. The stall. The way the man might blush under all that cold control.
CRACK—
The cue ball snapped forward.
The eight ball rolled.
Slower.
Slower—
It kissed the edge of the corner pocket. Teetered.
Paused.
Stopped.
Half in.
Half out.
Still.
The room was silent.
Dead quiet.
Chance stared at the eight ball.
Then at the cue in his hands.
Then—
“…No. No-no-no—”
The man moved calmly. Quiet. Unbothered. He approached the table, leaned down, and with a single gloved finger—
Tap.
The ball sank.
Soundless.
Game over.
Chance groaned and dropped his cue, flopping forward dramatically onto the table.
“Ughhh. Rigged. Biased. This whole dream’s a scam—I built this place!”
“You lost,” the man said, already turning away like it didn’t even matter.
Chance peeked one eye open. “C’mon, just one redo? I call dreamer’s rights.”
“No.”
“Double or nothin’?”
“No.”
Chance straightened, pushing themself up with a defeated pout. “Alright, fine—how about a sympathy flirt? Half a wink? One eyebrow?”
The man paused. Just at the door. He looked back over his shoulder.
His voice, when it came, was low. Like cold steel being sheathed.
“You should stop trying.”
Then he stepped out, vanishing into the dark beyond the dream.
The bar remained still.
For the first time, Chance made it out alive—without dying.
…
…
Chance woke up.
Face-down on the same scarred wooden table in the safehouse kitchen.
The oven hummed softly in the background, its light casting a dull amber glow. The pizza Elliot had left behind was still inside—half-burnt, curling at the edges.
In his palm, warm from sleep and defiance, lay the coin.
Tails.
They exhaled. Slow. Controlled.
Then sat up, movements fluid but heavy. Their hair was tousled, their face shadowed—but their eyes?
They glowed.
With fire.
With focus.
With the kind of quiet fury that didn’t admit defeat. Only delay.
He turned the coin once in his fingers, then murmured—barely audible, but sharp as a promise:
“…Nobody shuts the door on me twice, sweetheart.”
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
The snow whispered against the stone walls, each gust slicing through the stillness like a warning unheeded. It was nearly dawn at Eunoia’s estate—though here, time seemed less like a measure and more like a suggestion. The sky hung in a perpetual limbo of gray-blue, too pale to be night, too cold to be morning.
Footsteps crunched over the untouched snow. Armando jogged up from the clearing, hat flapping awkwardly in the wind. Three others followed, all wide-eyed and alert at the sight of their boss’s silhouette emerging from the treeline.
“BOSS!” he bellowed, voice cutting through the silence like a gunshot. “YOU MADE IT OUT ALIVE! I KNEW IT! I NEVER DOUBTED—wait, why’s your face all—RED, did you—DID YOU WIN?!”
SMACK.
A gloved hand clamped over his mouth before the last syllable could escape.
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Alto muttered from behind him, expression a mix of panic and polished terror as he pulled Armando back by the collar.
Before Armando could protest, Cole tackled him sideways with the smooth precision of someone who’d practiced this move ten times over.
“Mphhh—! Unhand me! I’m your comrade! Your shield! YOUR GLORIOUS BANNER OF VICTORY—”
“Shut up, man,” Cole gritted out, pinning him as the third mafialing stepped in. “You wanna die this early in the morning? We just shoveled this snow.”
Mafioso stood several paces away.
Snow clung to the hem of his coat. His gloves were stained dark at the knuckles. Each breath steamed into the air, sharp and rhythmically strained—controlled, but barely. His eyes, usually blank as winter glass, now crackled with something else.
A twitch at his jaw.
A flicker of heat beneath the frost.
Not anger. Something quieter. Deadlier.
He didn’t speak. Just glared.
And the four froze, like prey caught mid-step. Armando dared not breathe.
Then Mafioso turned.
He didn’t storm off so much as cut through the snowfall, every movement purposeful. His coat flared behind him like a blade slicing the wind, boots sinking with weight into the snowdrifts as he trudged toward the mansion built into the mountainside.
No one followed.
No one dared.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
They watched in silence as Mafioso’s figure grew smaller in the snowfall, each step cutting a path through the white like a blade through cloth.
Only when he was far enough—far enough that even his enchanted rabbit couldn’t hear, and the burn of his glare had faded from memory—did the tension snap.
“What is wrong with your mouth, man?” one of them hissed, smacking Armando upside the head.
“Seriously—‘why’s your face all red’? Are you trying to die creatively?”
Another elbowed him in the ribs. “At least wait until we’re somewhere with fewer consequences, like a warzone.”
Armando winced and took the blows, arms raised in defense, but there was no real heat behind any of it. The hits were light—like bruises traded between brothers who’d bled together too many times to count.
“I was making strategic observations,” he grumbled through his scarf. “Vital morale upkeep!”
“Next time?” one of them said dryly, “Upkeep yourself somewhere silent.”
Still, laughter slipped out between jabs. They were brothers, after all. And Mafioso’s cold fury, however terrifying, couldn’t dissolve the strange warmth that held this ragtag squad together.
But the laughter died fast.
“What are you four gossiping about?”
The voice slithered in like a cat curling around an ankle. The four turned sharply, alarm prickling through their nerves.
Nashatra.
Wrapped in layers of velvet and smugness, she stood beneath a bare tree limb, eyes gleaming like she’d just found a secret she wasn’t supposed to hear. Her reputation preceded her—slick-tongued, debt-heavy, and annoyingly hard to pin down. In any other case, she’d have been dealt with weeks ago. But the big boss upstairs liked her.
So the game continued.
Cat and mouse.
The squad stiffened. No one spoke.
Armando opened his mouth—
SMACK.
The same hand from earlier shut him up again. “Not this time,” one whispered.
Nashatra’s voice cut clean through the air. “You’re quiet. That usually means guilt or gossip.”
She twirled a gold stud between her fingers, gleaming like bait. “The commotion earlier,” she gestured vaguely toward where Mafioso had vanished. “Unusual. Mafioso rarely breaks rhythm. Almost as if something… personal disrupted it.”
They looked at her. Then at each other.
The bribe hit the snow between them with a soft thud.
A moment passed.
Then another.
“…Well,” one muttered, picking up the stud. “There’s this gambler.”
Armando, still muffled, nodded enthusiastically.
“Shows up like a bad coin. Always smirking. Calls the boss stuff like ‘sweetheart’ and ‘stoneface.’ No one knows how he’s still breathing.”
Another added, “We’ve been told to deal with him a lot. Except boss always ends up doing it himself. Doesn’t say why. Just gets real quiet after.”
“Yeah,” the last one muttered. “It’s like… he won’t let anyone else touch the guy.”
Her expression barely shifted. Just a faint nod, as if filing the detail away.
“Noted,” Nashatra said. Crisp. Final. “That’s all I needed.”
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
Inside the cold sanctuary of marble and shadowed halls, Mafioso finally slowed.
The heavy doors of Eunoia’s mansion shut behind him with a soft thud, sealing out the snowstorm—and the eyes of his subordinates. Only then did he exhale, sharp and controlled. His claws twitched at his sides before he dragged one gloved hand down his face with a low, growling sigh.
His skin was hot. Flushed.
Still.
The remnants of that dream clung to him like smoke in the lungs—acidic and intimate.
The scent of chalk dust and aged whiskey. The crack of cue balls splitting across green velvet. And that voice.
That voice.
The gambler’s drawl still rang in his head, slick with mockery and something heavier underneath. Not just amusement. Not just games.
Heat.
Worse still—he’d taken the game seriously. Earnestly. For once, he wasn’t showboating. He played to win. Eyes sharp. Jokes fewer. That flicker of focus had been… dangerous.
Worse than dangerous.
Compelling.
Mafioso had to look away at one point. Not because of a threat. Because of the sweat trailing along the curve of the man’s collarbone. The way it dipped into the hollow of his throat.
A part of him wanted to strike. Another part—
He clenched his jaw.
That should not have made him falter. He was above this. Dreams were dreams. Fantasies. Echoes of a mind corrupted by close contact and inconvenient persistence.
But it had shaken him.
Not because it was false.
But because it wasn’t.
Something coiled in his gut now. Not rage. Not hate.
Interest.
He couldn’t even trace when the shift started. Somewhere between the gambler pressing in too close during a missed shot and actually wanting to win—like the coin flips, the jokes, the touching, meant something now.
It wasn’t bait anymore.
It was invitation.
And Mafioso—
He hated how part of him wanted to accept.
His footsteps echoed up the stairwell like gunshots as he forced himself deeper into the estate, jaw tight, cape dragging like a wound behind him.
That damn gambler.
What was he really playing at?
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
But for once—for once—the gambler kept his word.
And that alone was strange enough.
He was stubborn. Maddeningly so. Always pressing, always poking, always testing how close he could get before Mafioso snapped and shoved him back. And yet… after that final loss—after the eight ball dropped with that smug little plunk—everything changed.
They didn’t flirt.
Didn’t wink.
Didn’t sidle up in the middle of a dream wearing red satin and fake innocence, purring some line about fate and chemistry. Maybe he’d realized it didn’t work. Or maybe—
Maybe he’d stopped trying.
They still showed up, of course. Death had a way of dragging him back into their orbit, no matter how often one of them cut the cord. But now?
Now he kept his distance.
Sat alone in the corner of his own dreams. Quiet. Head bowed, thumb flicking that cursed coin between his fingers. No grin. No sparkle in his eyes. Sometimes—only sometimes—he looked…
Thoughtful.
And that bothered Mafioso more than he cared to admit.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Tonight, the gambler had gotten himself cornered again.
Same ruined street. Same crumbling skyline. Different dream.
This time, Mafioso ran the show.
He lingered in the shadows—half-shrouded in dream-smoke—arms folded tight across his chest as the scene unfolded beneath him. Two of his goons advanced with silent precision, knives catching what little light slipped through the blue-gray mist. They didn’t speak. They didn’t have to.
The gambler stood at the center of it all.
Already bleeding from somewhere—his side, maybe his shoulder. Coat torn. One leg dragging slightly. And still—still—smirking.
Not the seductive kind. Not the smug kind, either.
Just a small, lopsided thing. Strained. Almost tired.
And they were talking. Hands raised in mock surrender, fingers twitching like they couldn’t decide whether to keep joking or just give up and mean it. Their voice floated through the air—gentle, tinged with dry humor. Not quite begging. Not quite bluffing.
Charm, dulled. But not gone.
The mafialings didn’t fall for it.
One slashed. The other lunged.
They slipped past the first with a breath to spare—but the second caught him. Knife sank into his side with a wet sound. He gasped—more out of surprise than pain—and staggered back against the wall.
Blood bloomed in slow, sticky pulses across his shirt.
And they smiled.
They didn’t flinch.
Didn’t break.
Mafioso’s jaw tensed.
Problem number two.
He had written the gambler off long ago. A nuisance. A narcissist. A slippery, unbearable flirt with too many teeth and not enough self-preservation. The kind of individual who’d die with a joke on his lips and nothing real underneath.
And in some ways—they were exactly that.
But they weren’t a liar.
When they said they’d stop flirting?
They had.
When they said they’d keep playing the game, no matter how many times they died?
They did.
Every time death pulled him down, the gambler rose again. Same smirk. Same glint in his eye like the rules didn’t apply to him. Like failure was just another round. Another coin flip.
It was—
Infuriating.
Exhausting.
And—
Admirable.
Mafioso exhaled slowly through his nose, his frown deepening.
He pressed himself further against the cracked brick at the dream’s edge, arms crossing tighter as if that might hold something inside.
He wasn’t supposed to be here.
Not personally.
He’d given the order. Clean. Quiet. Efficient.
And yet—
Here he was.
Watching.
Again.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
Chance stumbled sideways, catching themself against the cracked brick wall with a grunt. His coat dragged behind him like a ghost, tattered from too many close calls.
Blood smeared across their palm as they braced themself, the red blooming like ink on a page—messy, defiant.
Still, he found the strength to glance up and toss a wink toward the enforcer stalking his way, a crooked grin slashed across his bruised face.
“Hey,” he wheezed, voice rough with exhaustion, “you’re quicker than the last one. Been training, pal?”
The mafialing didn’t dignify it with a reply. Just lifted the wooden plank higher—splinters catching the faint light as he stepped forward.
Chance didn’t move.
They didn’t flinch, didn’t beg.
He stood there with that same insufferable tilt of the head, as if pain was just an old drinking buddy he kept meaning to ditch but never quite managed. Blood pooled down his thigh, staining the gray fabric of his pants a deeper shade with every heartbeat. His knees buckled slightly—but not all the way.
…
…
From the far end of the alley, Mafioso watched.
Silent. Still.
Only his jaw moved—clenching once, hard, as the gambler smiled wider.
Like a rabbit.
The thought hit him uninvited. He didn’t want it, didn’t ask for it. But there it was, sinking its teeth in.
His fingers twitched. Dug into the seams of his gloves. Not now.
No.
Rabbits were soft. Delicate. Skittish.
Their hearts beat too fast, and they broke too easy.
The gambler was none of that.
They were a hurricane in a red fedora. A man who cheated fate, mocked death, and had the audacity to make bleeding look like performance art. Reckless. Disobedient. Disgraceful.
Infuriating.
And yet—
That smirk. That maddening, bloody smirk—painted on like war paint, like he knew Mafioso was there in the shadows watching, and had decided to grin at him anyway.
As if daring him to care.
Mafioso’s chest tightened, a quiet pressure beneath the weight of his coat. Irritation. That was all it was. This was just another variable. Another mess to erase.
He turned. Not fast. Deliberate—and then he disappeared into the dark.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
“Where’s your big scary boss?” Chance asked, brushing dust off his coat like this was just another Tuesday.
The lead mafialing—slicked hair, sharp jaw, sunglasses at dusk—tilted his head and smirked.
“The boss doesn't do curtain calls for sideshows. He sent us instead."
“Oh yeah?” Chance raised a brow. “Tell ol’ stoneface to quit hiding—I’m startin’ to feel bad roughin’ up interns. Bet he doesn’t even give you hazard pay. I’d offer better perks: dental, fewer bullets, free pizza Fridays.”
From behind the man, a wiry figure piped up, far too chipper for a street brawl.
“Wait, seriously? Pizza?”
He blinked, almost hopeful—before a firm backhand clap landed on his shoulder.
“Boss is a good man,” another mafialing snapped. “We’re not here to chit-chat or negotiate catering."
He strode forward, eyes like gunmetal. “He gave the order. We follow.”
“Right, right—food, shelter, matching outfits. Real generous guy. But it’s funny—he only seems to scowl when I’m around.”
“That’s ‘cause you make him want to punch drywall,” the goon said, gripping his crowbar like a promise. “You talk too much.”
Chance didn’t get an opportunity to reply before the first swing came. He ducked, sidestepped, grinning.
“Okay, I’ll give you that one,” they said, weaving between blows. “Bonus points for honesty.”
They kept their distance, weaving between swings. They weren’t a close-combat fighter, but they were quick on their feet—just enough to make them miss, just enough to make it look easy.
One by one, they faltered—bloodied, breathing hard. A nosebleed here. A disarmed swing there. Stubborn as hell, they kept standing even when their knees threatened mutiny.
Chance backed up, panting lightly, raising both hands.
“Alright, timeout. You look winded, I like my face unbroken—let’s call it even, yeah?”
The mafialings exchanged looks. One slumped onto a curb. Another leaned against a wall, jaw tight, breath louder than his heartbeat.
Silence bloomed. Awkward. Heavy.
Chance flipped his coin—tink, clack, tink.
He cleared his throat.
“So… about your boss. Were you guys, like, kidnapped or—?”
A crowbar met his throat like punctuation.
“Watch it, clown,” the mafialing growled. “Boss saved us. We don’t take kindly to mockery.”
Chance looked down at the metal, then slowly back up—grinning, not smug. Just… warmer than expected.
“I’m not mocking,” they said softly, nudging the crowbar aside with two fingers. “I’m genuinely tryin’ to be sympathetic here.”
The mafialing froze. For a heartbeat, the street felt frozen in amber.
Then the crowbar lowered. The goon dropped back onto the curb with a grunt, rubbing his temples like Chance had given him a headache and a crisis of faith in one go.
“We each have our own story,” the mafialing muttered. “But the short version? We lived on the streets. No names. No food. No place to go. The lands we squatted in were hostile. Each day was survival—barely.”
He looked away.
“Then Boss showed up. Fed us. Gave us shelter. Purpose.”
Chance slowed their coin flip, brows drawing together.
“Huh. So the tall bastard does have a heart.”
He rubbed his chin, eyes drifting toward the horizon. The man had always felt like a storm in human form—imposing, cold, all sharp edges and calculated menace. But when these four were around him, there was… something else.
Quieter. Focused. Protective.
“So that’s it, huh?” They murmured. “Ride or die? Even if the ride’s straight into hell?”
The mafialing didn’t blink.
“Everything for the Family.”
Chance gave a small, lopsided smile, flipping the coin once more with a flick of his thumb. It landed clean in his palm, glinting like something fated.
“Y’know, if your boss were here, I bet he’d be real proud. Maybe even crack a smile. ...Nah, scratch that—too far.”
That earned reactions.
The smallest mafialing straightened, clearly trying not to grin but failing spectacularly. The tall one shifted awkwardly, his expression halfway between confusion and embarrassment. Sunglasses guy scowled deeper—but the tips of his ears betrayed him, flushed red. And the one leaning on the bin muttered, “I do aim to impress. Some of us have reputations to maintain.”
Chance laughed, low and warm. “You guys are kinda cute when you’re not tryin’ to kill me. Shame I’ll have to mess up those mugs again soon.”
For a breath, the moment almost felt… human.
And then—
“What are you bunch loitering around for?”
The voice sliced through the dusk like a guillotine.
“End him.”
Every mafialing snapped to attention. One dropped his crowbar and fumbled to pick it up, panic in his fingers.
“Yes, boss. Sorry, boss!” they chorused, scrambling upright like schoolboys caught cheating.
Chance didn’t turn around. He didn’t have to.
He knew that voice.
Knew the weight behind it.
Knew the chill that rolled in with it—the scent of gunpowder and old steel clinging to every footstep like a curse.
They just smiled wider.
“Aww, sending your minions again? Thought we had something special, bun-bun. I was gettin’ lonely.”
Silence. Heavy. Expectant.
Then—
Boots clicked on concrete.
A cape fluttered behind a tall silhouette.
The man stood at the mouth of the alley, half-shrouded in shadow, eyes gleaming like coals under the flickering lamp.
He stared.
Long.
And then, wordlessly—
He turned.
The edge of his coat flared as he walked away, steps measured, unhurried.
Like he already knew how this would end.
“You heard Boss,” growled the goon. “Formation. We end this fast.”
They charged.
Chance sighed, tucking the coin back into his coat and drawing his flintlock.
“Well,” they muttered, cocking the hammer with a smirk, “worth a shot.”
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Tonight’s dream shouldn’t have been any different.
Same dosage. Same timing. Same breath caught in the back of their throat as the pill slid down like ritual. Usually, within seconds, the dreamscape answered—warped maybe, but familiar. The flicker of neon. The low hum of a poker lounge breathing in recycled jazz. The chaos, half-dressed in velvet and half in decay.
But not tonight.
Tonight, Chance opened his eyes to nothing.
Not the kind of nothing that feels peaceful or empty. No, this was bliss darkness—thick and pressurized, like standing at the bottom of the ocean in a suit two sizes too small. No sound. No light. Just the distant, creeping sensation that something was watching.
He blinked.
“Huh.” They tilted their head, squinting into the dark. “Did I mess somethin’ up?”
They were sure they’d adjusted the space. Rewired the usual loop—added ambience, charm, a bit of comfort. Maybe a jukebox. Maybe a damn espresso machine. Something to make the void feel less like… this.
Then—
A whisper scraped against his ear, raw and close, like sandpaper dragged across glass.
He spun.
Then froze.
From the black, an outline surfaced—drawn in from static, like an old TV clawing an image through snow. Shadows curled inward, pulsing and alive, twitching like dying nerves. The whispers circled louder now. Words, maybe. Names. Some his. Some not. All soaked in regret.
And in the middle of it all—
Him.
Collapsed.
Kneeling on the ground, wrapped tight in his coat like a dying knight in rusted armor. Shoulders hunched. Fingers buried in his hair. His head bowed so low, it looked broken.
His expression was unreadable, but Chance didn’t need much to see the truth of it.
He looked hurt.
Not the kind of hurt from a wound or a fight. Worse. A soul kind of hurt.
“Bun—?” they tried, voice cautious, half a breath from breaking. “You in there, big guy?”
WHOOOSH.
A blast of wind slammed into them, hard and merciless, ripping the fedora clean off their head and flinging them back into the dark. He hit something—maybe floor, maybe memory—and skidded across it, coat dragging.
He coughed. “Okay. That’s new. And rude.”
Chance sat up, brushing phantom dust from his pants, and tried again.
The same thing happened.
WHOOOSH.
Another blow. Harder this time. Like the dream hated the idea of them getting close.
He groaned, rolling to his knees. “Alright, dreamscape—game on.”
They charged again.
Then again.
And again.
But he kept getting up.
Why? Because the man looked... wrong. The stoic was always composed, even in murder. But now his lips moved soundlessly, calling out into the dark. His hands trembled—not with rage, but with something fragile. Something that scared even him.
Chance stood again, swaying, boots scraping phantom ground.
He saw it.
Not the man who cut through threats like smoke. Not the towering, gloved silhouette that haunted him across dreams and cities and waking hours.
No.
He saw a man unraveling.
And it hurt.
The wind howled again—howled through him, full of grief and guilt and ice-cold longing. Like the dream itself had taken Mafioso’s pain and turned it into a weapon.
Chance clenched his jaw.
Took another step.
“Damn it, big guy,” they muttered, teeth bared against the gale, “what’d you do—snack on sorrow and bad decisions?”
Then steadied themself, arm up, pushing forward—not just against the wind, but against every feeling clawing at their insides.
If Mafioso was calling out to something... then maybe—just maybe—he’d answer to him.
Because despite the chaos. Despite the killings. Despite the anonymous, blood-slicked beginnings that should’ve sent any sane man running for the hills—
Chance didn’t hate him.
Not anymore.
Not even close.
Whatever grudge he’d nursed back then, curled in back alleys with a flintlock and a bottle, had long since wilted under something stranger. Slower. A creeping realization that the figure haunting his dreams wasn’t just a monster in a fine coat—he was something aching. Something broken. Hollowed out.
Human.
Even if he’d never admit it.
And now, seeing him like this—curled inward, surrounded by void, calling out in a voice so hoarse it could only belong to someone who’d screamed for too long without answer—Chance felt something twist deep in his chest.
A tug.
A pull.
He stepped forward again. Gritted their teeth. The dream pushed back—wind clawing like nails, shadows trying to cut them off at the knees—but this time, Chance didn’t falter.
They had something stronger now.
A wish.
The stupid, stubborn kind that lived in gamblers and ghosts. The kind that thought maybe—maybe—he could be the one to reach him.
His arms pushed through the gale. Wind screamed. Black tendrils snapped at his coat, but his heart held. Fierce. Unyielding. His fingers stretched—
Until they caught on fabric.
Cold. Familiar. Mafioso’s coat.
And the moment they touched—
Lightning.
It surged between them, hot and sharp, laced with every memory they'd never spoken aloud. The storm faltered. Just slightly. The dream stuttered like it wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be anymore.
Chance didn’t let go.
Didn’t dare.
He dragged himself forward on trembling limbs, pulled closer until he was kneeling at Mafioso’s side, one hand fisted tight in the thick fabric of his sleeve.
“Hey…” he breathed, voice shredded raw by wind and worry. “You got me, alright? I’m here.”
The man flinched.
Every inch of him tensed, taut as a drawn bow. Breath ragged. Shoulders shaking. A low sound rumbled from deep within his chest—not language, but emotion. It pulsed in the air around them like static.
Betrayal.
That was what it felt like.
His head twisted away, shame folding into his features like shadows folding into dusk. Not rage. Not hatred. Just a terrible, quiet disgust that seemed pointed inward.
“Don’t do that,” he said again, softer. “I know. I know it hurts.”
He leaned in. Rested his forehead gently against Mafioso’s arm.
“Don’t shut me out,” they whispered. “I get it. I do. You’re not the only one hurtin’, y’know?”
He closed his eyes.
And for a moment, just breathed.
…
…
Mafioso was deep in it now.
Trapped beneath the weight of his own making.
The storm roared—not of thunder or rain, but memory. A hurricane of guilt howled through the chasm of his mind, thick with the scent of blood, scorched metal, and betrayal long-buried. And at the center of it stood him.
His father.
Not in flesh—never in kindness—but tall and terrible, cast in cold iron. His eyes held no warmth. Only judgment sharpened to a blade. His hands, always too steady, were drenched in red that wasn’t his own… but might as well have been.
Mafioso was on his knees. Hands braced to the shifting, ash-gray floor that churned beneath him like it was breathing. His coat dragged behind, soaked—maybe with rain, maybe with shame. His breath came out in short, sharp bursts. Not from exhaustion, but from memory.
“Pathetic,” the figure sneered.
The shadows at his back stirred, forming the silhouettes of every voice that had ever condemned him. Their mouths moved in perfect sync.
Weak. Not one of us. Disappointment.
He grit his teeth. Clenched his fists so tight the leather of his gloves creaked.
And then—
BANG.
The gun raised. Silver and familiar. Aimed straight for the scar beneath his collarbone. That old wound—the one that never healed, not really. The one that ached in quiet rooms, even when no blade touched it.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Because part of him was ready.
But fate, cruel and fickle, chose mercy.
The dream fractured. Soundlessly. Like ice underfoot. The edges of the nightmare split and cracked—then shattered.
The father’s form burst apart into ribbons of silver and iridescent scales. His voice silenced mid-sneer. Fins bloomed from shadow. Tail curled where boots once stood. The storm receded, peeling back into blinding blue.
The sky—if it was still a sky—turned watercolor. Gentle brushstrokes of turquoise and pearl spilled across the horizon. Clouds drifted like lazy whales. And floating, weaving between sky and sea, were fish. Dozens. Hundreds. Each scale shimmered like a glass prism under gentle sun.
The ground beneath Mafioso’s knees was water now. Saltless. Warm. It lapped against him in waves that didn’t crash, but embraced. A stingray glided past, almost brushing his glove. The air tasted like seafoam and quiet. Not judgment.
Mafioso just stood there, stunned.
Breathing.
Watching.
Listening.
The sharp hiss of waves kissing the shore. The soft swish of fins slicing skywater. The breeze combing through his hair like a mother’s hand once might’ve. He didn’t know if it was real. Didn’t care.
It was...
Peaceful.
He hadn’t known that word could feel like something. But now—it did. It sat in his chest, gentle and foreign. Not a weight. A warmth.
Somewhere in the blue, beneath the sky-swimming fish and soft gusts of wind, he heard it. A voice. His voice.
The gambler’s.
Low, familiar, threaded with that same damn smirk—but gentled now, like sandpaper softened with age.
Mafioso stirred.
He felt it first—the light pressure of a hand brushing his temple, the faint shift of cloth against his arm, a presence nearby. Then the words came, half-laughed and half-whispered:
“Geez, big guy... when you sleep, you really sleep, huh? Thought I lost ya to the void for a sec.”
Mafioso tried to open his eyes fully, vision blurred with drowsy confusion. A silhouette. A flicker of sunlight through hair. He blinked.
…
…
He woke to the velvet quiet of his room.
No crash. No scream. No desperate gasp clawing for air.
Just silk sheets. Dim morning light. The distant tick of the grandfather clock in the hall. His ceiling, high and vaulted, stared back.
And he was breathing.
Steady.
Whole.
No bloodied hands. No shaking limbs. Just fingers curled lightly into fabric, as if still reaching for something that wasn’t there.
His chest rose slowly. Fell just the same. For the first time in what felt like years, he didn’t wake from the dream clawing at his own skin. He didn’t bolt upright, drenched and gasping.
Instead, he let his head rest against the pillow.
Eyes half-lidded.
Confused. Hushed. At peace.
A faint scent lingered in his consciousness. Smoky. Sharp. Faintly citrus. Like... maybe someone had stayed behind in the storm just long enough to pull him out.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Despite the twisted comfort of seeing that brooding figure in his dreams—broad shoulders hunched in silent vigil, always just out of reach—it did nothing to shake the crawling truth beneath Chance’s skin:
Something was wrong with them.
Not loudly. Not violently. But quietly. Like mold behind paint. Like a grin that didn’t reach the eyes.
The more pills he took, the less himself he felt. Like his own name was turning foreign. A stranger’s echo in his head.
Just moments ago, they’d been laughing—grinning with that sharp-toothed flash, cocky as ever—as he squeezed off a final shot, right into C00lkidd’s side.
“Woohoo! Right in the side, pal!” Chance hollered, pistol still smoking as they spun it theatrically before holstering it.
“I’m telling Dad!” C00lkidd screeched, doubling over like he'd been mortally wounded, one hand over the burn mark, the other shaking with fury.
Chance gave a lazy salute, flipping their coin with a snap. “Yeah? Go tell your pops. Tell him I aimed low.”
As he passed Elliot, he threw them a wink and a crooked grin. Elliot chuckled softly and tossed a pizza his way.
“Don’t push it,” Elliot murmured.
“Pushin’ is how I get cardio,” Chance replied, slipping the slice into his mouth as they split up seamlessly—flawless rhythm born from dozens of runs together. One wordless nod, and they were gone in opposite directions.
Luck was on their side today.
Or so it seemed.
Once they’d put distance between themself and the skirmish, their steps began to slow. The coin danced across his fingers—tick, tick, tick—but something about the motion felt wrong. Too slick. Too distant. Like the metal didn’t recognize them anymore.
His hands had started shaking again.
Lately, he quivered when idle. They blinked harder now, too—their vision kept swimming at the edges. And more than once, they’d fired at shadows that weren’t there.
Guest still hadn’t let him live down the time he emptied a whole clip into a tree.
“Sheesh, that Jason getup’s gettin’ scarily lifelike,” he’d grumbled, finger still twitchin’ on the trigger. No one bought it.
The coin stilled in their palm.
Then—movement.
A flicker at the edge of their vision.
Yellow body. Blue coat. A shimmer of blue in the ruinlight. A glint of ice—crown catching just enough of the dying sky to gleam.
Their breath caught.
No. No, no—he wasn’t—
But before the thought could finish, instinct dragged them forward. He moved without thinking, ducking under fractured beams, slipping through cracked archways. The ruins leaned like watchers, casting long shadows that wrapped around them like whispers.
His heart hammered, low and fast. A warning drum.
The figure darted behind a wall.
Chance didn’t think.
He ran.
Their coat flared behind him as they tore through the ruins, boots thudding against fractured stone, each stride frantic but driven. The sky above was bruised violet, low clouds dragging like torn cloth across the heavens. Rubble pressed in on either side—broken archways, half-eaten walls, ghost-light flickering across the cracks.
Then—movement. A flicker of gold and cobalt vanishing behind a crumbled pillar.
Chance didn’t hesitate. They lunged, hand shooting out, seizing the figure’s shoulder with a grip born of hope too stubborn to die.
“iTrapped?!”
For a heartbeat, everything froze. Same cocky tilt to the mouth. Same lean build. Same fingers—right down to the old scar just beneath the knuckle. But the eyes—
The eyes were wrong.
Clouded. Lifeless. Like mirrors left out in the rain.
When he spoke, the voice sounded dislocated—dragged up from a place it no longer belonged. Hollow, distant. Like a memory choking itself on playback.
“That’s not me.”
Chance’s breath hitched. His hand didn’t let go. He couldn’t.
“You’re lying—c’mon, quit messin’ around, pal. That’s you! I—I know that face. Don’t do this—don’t pretend I don’t—please…”
The figure’s expression shifted. The tone turned silken. Familiar. Poisoned honey.
“Oh, Chance...” His lips curved into something cold, theatrical. “Do be reasonable. You always leap to conclusions.”
“And suppose I were your dear friend. What then?” The head tilted with slow, unnatural grace. “Would you grovel? Weep? Offer penance?”
A pause. Long enough to curdle the air between them.
“Or would you do what you do best?” The voice sharpened. “Pretend none of it ever happened.”
Chance recoiled, like the words had claws. “I didn’t—I never wanted you gone. I didn’t mean to—God, I didn’t mean to—”
The figure’s neck twitched. His fingers spasmed briefly before curling against his side like a dying puppet.
“No,” he whispered. “I think not.”
Then his voice changed. Richer now. Grounded. Real. The mask slipped just enough for the venom underneath to rise.
“You did it. You pulled the trigger.”
Each word landed like a slap. Cold. Final.
“I died, Chance. Because of you.”
Red bloomed.
Blood welled up from beneath his collar, trailing down his chest in thick, syrupy lines. It trickled from the corner of his mouth, staining his teeth when he smiled too wide, too wrong.
He clutched his side, fingers pressing into the bullet wound like he was savoring the pain.
And then—
He laughed.
Ugly. Shaky. Wet.
“You ended me. And for what? A coin toss? A whim?”
“No—no, you’ve got it wrong, you’ve got it all wrong!” Chance’s voice cracked, rising, ragged at the edges like it’d been dragged over gravel. “I didn’t want any of this—I didn’t ask—!”
They gritted their teeth, breath trembling. “You think I wanted to hurt you?! I begged you not to make me choose, I begged you to stop, and you just kept smilin’—”
His fingers twitched against the lapel of the coat—his grip slipping.
“I swear—on my flintlock, my luck, my soul—I didn’t mean for it to go that way... I didn’t mean it…”
The figure chuckled.
At first, it was barely a breath. But then it grew—wet, bubbling laughter that clung to the air like rot. A noise too human to be empty, too empty to be human.
“You know what’s truly tragic?” The figure rasped. “You still think we were friends.”
“I still do!” Chance’s voice caught as their hand trembled against iTrapped’s bloodied coat. “We were friends—I thought we were—!”
He coughed mid-sentence, choking on a sob before forcing it down.
“I called you my brother. I looked up to you. I trusted you. You—you patched my coat, you said I was your lucky charm—” He staggered forward a step. “Why’d you say all that if it meant nothin’ to you?!”
“Oh, I adored playing the part,” iTrapped said smoothly, almost fondly. “The banter. The charm. That pitiful grin of yours whenever I tossed you praise like scraps to a dog.”
He leaned in then. Close enough that Chance could see the cracks in his skin—hairline fractures laced with shadow.
“But tell me, Chance,” he whispered, voice slick as wine over silver, “did it never occur to you?”
The words dropped like iron.
“All I ever wanted... was your inheritance.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Not a gunshot. Not a breath. Just the soft hush of wind moving through the open map.
“Not your trust. Not your loyalty. Certainly not your idiotic, bleeding-heart friendship.” Blood stains his coat now, dark and glistening, but his posture never wavers.
Blood now painted his coat like an artist’s brushstroke—thick, dark, deliberate. But he stood tall, unflinching, like royalty surveying the aftermath of a massacre.
Chance staggered back half a step. Like he’d been punched.
Their lips moved, but no sound came.
The blood—his blood—spread wider now. It didn’t fall. It simply was. As if the scene itself had accepted it, absorbed it into its bones.
iTrapped tilted his head.
“So go on, then.” His tone curled with venomous amusement. “Flip that coin again. Pray it lands on redemption.”
He smirked.
“But know this, Chance—luck never favored fools.”
“Stop...” Chance rasped, throat closing. “Just stop! Don’t say it, don’t look at me like that—like I’m the one who left you bleeding—!”
They lunged forward.
“I’m sorry, alright?! I’m sorry! I’d take it back if I could—I would! I swear—I’d do anything—”
And just like that, the illusion shattered.
The figure trembled. Their shoulders hitched. Their hands—so steady a moment ago—shook like leaves in a storm.
The blood vanished.
The smirk melted.
And with a blink—
It wasn’t iTrapped at all.
It was Noob.
Small. Pale. Terrified.
Their wrist was clutched tight in Chance’s trembling grip, skin already bruising under yellow fabric.
“D-Dude—s-stop!” Noob whimpered, voice cracking. “Y-You’re hurting me..!”
Chance’s heart stopped.
They looked down.
His hand—his own hand—was clamped tight around Noob’s wrist. Bruises were already forming where his fingers had dug in. Purple splotches blooming on yellow skin like guilt made visible.
Noob’s lip quivered. Their voice shrank to a whisper.
“W-Why’re you yelling like that…? D-Did I mess up…?”
Chance let go. Instantly. Stumbled back like he’d touched fire.
But it was already too late.
Arms wrapped around him from behind—rough, quick, steady.
“Buddy,” Shedletsky muttered, voice low. “Easy.”
There was no signature smirk. No glib joke. Shedletsky didn’t want to be here—anyone could see that—but orders were orders, and Builderman had made it clear: “Watch him. Something’s off.”
Chance didn’t fight. He just stood there, the weight of what he’d done sinking into him like a stone. And Shedletsky had seen it too. The way Chance moved when he chased after Noob—too fast. Too unnatural.
Chance didn’t fight.
He didn’t speak.
He just stood there, the weight of what he’d done sinking into him like a stone through ice. Heavy. Silent. Inevitable.
He watched as Noob, shaking, clutched their arm and backed toward Guest and Builderman. The two moved in close, flanking them with quiet urgency. Guest glanced over his shoulder, expression tight with concern.
All Chance could see were the bruises.
He couldn’t stop seeing them.
“You’re okay, man—” Guest started, gently, after checking Noob.
“I’m fine.”
Still that raspy gambler's twang, but something was broken under it. Too sharp. Too fast.
Guest caught the undercurrent and gave a subtle nod to Shedletsky, who released him wordlessly, hands raised in a gesture of calm. Chance didn’t bolt. He looked shaken.
Instead, they stared at the ground. Then at their own hands. Then back to Guest.
“Go on,” he muttered. “Check on the kid. He’s the one that matters.”
And then, softer—quieter than he’d ever spoken, like the guilt had hollowed out his voice from the inside:
“I did that. Me. Ain’t no excuse.”
Guest hesitated.
But Chance had already turned their back
He walked the other way, leaving behind the aftermath, and Guest’s outstretched hand fell to his side.
A beat passed.
Shedletsky exhaled, rubbing his arm. His voice came low, quieter than usual. No sarcasm. No bravado.
“Something’s wrong with the gambler.”
Guest didn’t respond right away. He just kept his eyes on the dark where Chance had vanished.
“…Yeah,” he murmured. “I think you’re right.”
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Chance didn’t wait for the stares.
Didn’t wait for the whispers.
The second the safehouse materialized around him—those familiar walls flickering into place like a stage set—he slipped out. No word. No fanfare. Just a blur of motion and a muttered, “I’m fine,” tossed over their shoulder like it meant anything.
They didn’t look back.
Guest called after them softly, but Chance didn’t answer. Just pulled his coat tighter, head low, stride too quick to be casual.
Elliot moved to intercept—eyes narrowing, mouth just parting with concern—but Chance ghosted past with a shrug and a forced grin.
“Don’t worry ‘bout me, pal. Just need some air.”
His voice was too light. Too sharp around the edges.
The safehouse door thudded shut behind them.
Outside, the mist was thick. The kind that clung to your skin and whispered things you didn’t wanna hear. The world here was dim—gray skies hanging low like a curtain pulled tight. Windless. Still. Too quiet.
He walked until the path faded. Gravel crunched beneath their boots, rhythm unsteady, like their legs couldn’t quite remember how to move without purpose. The silence pressed against their ears, loud in its emptiness.
And then it hit.
The pressure.
Like something caving inward.
Like a dam cracking wide behind their ribs.
Chance staggered. Their knees buckled. And without grace or warning, he collapsed—palms digging into the cold, damp earth, fingers curling like claws into the dirt.
His breath hitched.
Then again.
And again.
Too fast. Too shallow.
Their chest seized, lungs clawing for air that wouldn’t stay, wouldn’t settle. Each gasp came sharp and high, like he’d been sucker-punched. Their shoulders shook. Their coat dragged in the dirt, forgotten.
He couldn’t see the island anymore. Just the blood.
It wasn’t there.
He knew it wasn’t there—
But his hands—
His hands were covered in it.
Slick. Red. Dripping down his wrists in phantom streaks, seeping into the cracks of his knuckles.
They choked on a sob.
…
The room had been dim. Metallic. Silent, save for the slow, deliberate spin of the revolver’s barrel.
iTrapped had smirked—always too calm for his own good. He leaned forward across the metal table, fingers laced, crown catching a glint of low light. That glint matched the dangerous amusement in his eye.
“Let’s make it interesting, gambler,” he purred. “One bullet. One truth.”
“You kiddin’ me?” Chance had laughed, half-hearted. Nervous.
iTrapped slid the gun across the table with the ease of someone who already knew the outcome. “Deadly.”
Click.
…
BANG.
The sound was burned into them.
Even now, Chance couldn’t shake it—the image of iTrapped’s body hitting the floor. The sound of breath leaving him. That soft, surprised little exhale… like it was a mistake.
The blood. Gods, the blood. It had spilled over Chance’s fingers when he tried to stop it, frantic hands pressing too hard, too late. And iTrapped? He hadn’t resisted. He hadn’t begged.
He’d smiled.
That same smug, knowing look. Like Chance had dealt exactly the hand he was always meant to.
…
His breath caught, sharp.
Fingers clawed at the dirt below, curling into fists as if they could tear the memory from the ground itself. The warmth of iTrapped’s blood clung to their skin. The weight of the revolver still echoed in their palm.
“Why’d you make me do it…” they rasped. “Why the hell would you…”
His voice cracked.
The bravado was gone. No coin tricks, no cocky grin. Just guilt—hot, choking, and too big for their chest.
They had killed iTrapped.
And now—Noob. They’d hurt Noob.
Left bruises blooming purple on a boy who couldn’t fight back. Who looked up at them with wide eyes and trembling lips and just wanted to survive.
“Damn it!” Chance slammed his fist into the ground.
Once. Then again.
Knuckles scraped raw, skin splitting open. But the sting—he welcomed it. Let it crawl up his arm like penance.
He dropped his head into his hands, body folding in on itself. Shaking.
“I’m not supposed to be the bad guy…” he whispered.
But maybe he was.
Maybe he always had been.
Behind them, the fog stirred.
No voices. No judgment. Just silence. Thick, breathless silence, like the whole world was watching.
Even the lobby behind them seemed to hold still. Frozen. Waiting.
Chance remained on their knees, fists half-buried in crumbling earth, breathing jagged and fast. Each inhale felt like swallowing glass. Each exhale like something inside them was breaking.
He didn’t know how long he stayed like that.
Minutes. Maybe hours. Time didn’t exist here—not in the same way.
Eventually, his hand found the pill bottle.
It trembled in his grip.
He stared at it like it might speak. Like the plastic might finally tell him he wasn’t a monster. That what happened wasn’t his fault. That he was still good. Still salvageable.
But it didn’t say anything.
The rattling inside was loud.
One pill. Dry throat. Then another. And a third.
They burned going down.
Chance leaned back against the cold concrete wall just outside the lobby’s edge. The corner where the hum of voices couldn’t reach, where no one would look too long.
The world blurred at the edges. Spun gently.
Somewhere between his guilt and his shame, he forced his thoughts toward something—anything—he liked.
Music. Piano keys. Stillness.
And for once… peace.
He slumped there, letting it all take him.
Letting go.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Mafioso didn’t remember getting here.
He never meant to dream—never meant to drift. But this place didn’t care what you wanted. It waited. Patient. Hungry. The moment your guard slipped, it dragged you under. Into a fog that felt like guilt given form.
Thick mist curled around his boots as he strode forward, each step muffled like the world was swallowing sound. It wasn’t silent, though.
There was music.
A piano.
Low and hollow at first—barely there, like a wound whispering open. Then clearer. Closer. Each note stretched long and aching, like it hurt to be remembered. Like the piano itself was crying, and every keystroke bled sorrow into the air.
It wasn’t the dreamspace Mafioso had come to associate with them.
No roulette wheels. No coin-flipping shadows. No distorted laughter slithering down the walls.
This was quiet. Raw. Wounded.
He followed the sound. His coat stirred behind him as he walked, brushing against ground he couldn’t see—soft beneath his boots. Ash, maybe. Or dust. The fog thinned just enough to show a silhouette at the center of it all.
The gambler.
They were seated at a grand piano, hunched just slightly, not in laziness—but like the music weighed something. Their back straight, hands poised. Fingers hovered above the keys, trembling for a breath, then began again—pressing down with slow precision. Not polished. Not practiced. But real.
Mafioso stilled, watching. Listening.
The gambler wasn’t a virtuoso. Some notes hesitated. Others hit too hard, too soft. But they played like the piano was speaking for them. Like each mistake mattered less than the meaning behind it.
Their left hand laid down slow, steady chords in the lower register. The right danced uncertainly, tracing a melody that rose like a question and fell like regret.
It wasn’t polished.
It was human.
And it was heartbreakingly beautiful.
He’d never seen him like this. Not even once.
Their shoulders were tight with restraint, and his hands trembled slightly between phrases—as if unsure whether to keep going or stop. Yet he did neither. They just kept playing. Like the song would break if they looked away.
Mafioso stayed quiet until the last note shivered into silence.
Then, softly—like sound might break the spell—he stepped forward.
“…This isn’t your usual performance,” he said, voice low and measured, each syllable cutting through the fog like a blade.
The gambler didn’t answer right away. Their fingers rested on the keys, frozen in place. Then he slowly turned, slipping into a familiar grin—but it didn’t hold the usual shine.
It was all teeth. No joy.
“Surprised, huh?” The gambler teased, flicking a coin into the air and catching it with theatrical flair. “Didn’t peg me for the dramatic type with refined tastes?”
Mafioso narrowed his eyes. “No. I didn’t think silence was in your repertoire.”
They gave a chuckle—thin, worn at the edges. It echoed in the mist around them, warped and uncertain, like even the dream didn’t believe it.
“Hey, even chaos needs a rest now and then.”
Mafioso walked closer, arms folded beneath his coat. “Still hiding behind theatrics, I see.”
The gambler tensed. The coin slowed in their fingers. He laughed again, this time more defensively. “Man, what’re you—"
“Enough.” Mafioso reached out, catching their wrist. Not harshly. Just firm enough to stop the escape. "I can tell."
They blinked, pretending to be offended. “Me? Deflectin’? Nah, pal, I’m an open book—just got a few chapters goin’ up in flames. Did the serenade win you over or what?”
“That wasn’t performance,” Mafioso said, voice low. “That was mourning.”
The gambler looked away too quickly.
Mafioso watched him closely. The glasses couldn’t hide the avoidance, the tightness in his jaw, the way he wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I know when someone’s lying to me,” he continued, quieter now. “I’ve broken liars who trembled less.”
The coin stopped spinning. They let it fall to his lap. His wrist slipped free as Mafioso eased his grip.
“Who says I’m not?” He muttered, barely audible. He turned back to the piano like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just peeled back something raw.
Their shoulders hunched, not like a performer this time—but like someone trying to keep warm in a cold place. One hand hovered over the keys, uncertain.
Mafioso watched them.
He had always seen the gambler as a fraud, a cheat, someone who used charm like a dagger. But he’d never seen this—this quiet ache the gambler wore like a second skin. Not since—
And then, before he could stop himself, Mafioso spoke.
“…Mafioso.”
They froze.
His hand hovered in place above the keys, trembling faintly.
The silence tightened between them like a held breath.
Mafioso’s jaw clenched. It wasn’t the first time the gambler had asked for his name. Every time before, in every version of this dreamspace, he’d brushed it off. Stabbed them. He’d turned his back. He’d let silence do the bleeding.
But this time… he didn’t.
They turned, slow as if afraid it would vanish.
There was no smirk on their face. Just quiet disbelief. Then something warmer crept in—something gentler. Startled joy. Like someone had opened a locked door he’d long given up on.
“You said it,” they whispered, stunned. Then again, louder this time, incredulous—like hearing a ghost speak. “You actually said your name!”
Mafioso looked away, heat prickling the edge of his bunny ears.
He wasn’t sure why he’d said it.
The name felt foreign in his own mouth, like it belonged to someone else. He’d never had reason to speak it aloud—especially not here. Especially not to him. He always kept to his own. Always operated without the need for names, only orders.
So… it felt new. Wrong. And yet—
That look on the gambler’s face…
That strange little glow like someone had reignited something long cold?
It uncoiled a tension in him he hadn’t even known was there.
The gambler stood from the piano, their smile curling unevenly—but this time, it reached their eyes.
With a dramatic little flourish, they extended a hand toward Mafioso as if brushing off the weight of the world with a flick of their wrist.
“Chance,” he said, tipping his fedora with mock-formality. “Nice to formally meet you, bun—uh, Mafioso.”
Mafioso arched a brow, unamused. “Did you almost call me ‘bunny’?”
“Guilty.” Chance winked. “And if that’s a crime, take it up with whoever gave you those adorable ears in the first place.”
Mafioso’s glare was immediate and cold. Intimidating. But Chance just grinned wider, like he’d won something.
“Hey, I thought we were doin’ the vulnerability thing. Name for a name—seems fair, don’t it?”
But the smirk didn’t hold long.
Their hand faltered slightly mid-air, hesitation creeping in like a chill. That brightness—the warmth that had flickered up just moments before—dimmed. Their eyes dropped, shoulders slightly sagging.
“…But real talk,” they mumbled, softer now, “why’d you say it? Kinda fancy for a guy who usually answers with a knife to the ribs.”
Mafioso didn’t respond.
Truth was—he didn’t know. Not really.
So instead… he moved.
Wordlessly, he stepped past Chance. As he did, he gestured toward the piano bench. The seat was still warm from where the gambler had been sitting.
Chance blinked. “You tryna take the bench now?”
Mafioso shot them a look. Not quite a glare, but firm. Expectant.
“Slide over.”
Chance huffed, amused. “Alright, alright, scootin’—I’m scootin’. Don’t gotta bulldoze me.”
They slid aside—only to yelp as Mafioso sat beside them with the elegance of a wrecking ball.
The bench creaked in protest.
Chance wobbled, nearly shoved off the edge as the sheer size of Mafioso’s presence overtook the space. His view was abruptly filled with black coat and pressed folds of wool. He spluttered, half-smothered.
“Ghh—! You ever hear o’ personal space, big guy?!”
“Play like that,” Mafioso grunted, adjusting his sleeves, “and of course I’ll listen.”
Chance peeled the coat away from their face, shooting him a dry glare. “You’re built like a freight train, y’know that? And no, I couldn’t play quieter with you watchin’ like a hawk.”
“Your mouth is louder than the keys.”
Chance opened their mouth—ready to fire back something snarky, probably about their coat or their ego—but the words caught.
Because Mafioso laid his hands on the piano.
No flourish. No introduction.
Just the weight of his long, steady fingers resting on the ivory keys like they’d always belonged there.
And then—he played.
The first chord rolled out rich and low—full-bodied, like thunder echoing through cathedral stone. It rang in the dreamspace with impossible clarity and weight.
Mafioso’s hands moved with precision. No hesitation. No flourish. The notes cascaded down the register like silk drawn across steel—layered, commanding, restrained, but undeniably powerful.
This wasn’t some simple tune.
It was grand. Structured. A composition meant for marble halls and candlelit stages, born from discipline and an intimate understanding of silence. Something designed to hold attention without ever asking for it.
Chance stared, frozen.
“…You serious, Mafioso?”
The name barely left his lips.
But he didn’t respond—didn’t look at them, either.
His focus was fixed on the keys. His posture, perfect. But it wasn’t just muscle memory—he was feeling the piece. Letting it speak for him in the only way it seemed he could right now.
Each note etched itself into the dreamscape like ink on glass.
And the dream responded.
The fog that had choked the air—grief in gaseous form—began to shift. That black void of haze and echo lightened, slowly, like dawn pressing through stormclouds.
Above them, the sky cracked.
The abyss peeled back to reveal pale, cloud-streaked blue. The kind of color you almost forget exists after too many sleepless nights.
Chance’s breath caught.
Something warm tugged behind their ribs—familiar, aching.
They reached out.
Fingers hovered.
Then settled—gently—beside his.
Their touch was softer. Tentative. But sure.
Chance didn’t copy. Didn’t follow. They answered.
They built a countermelody—woven in sorrowful minors and tremulous chords. Where Mafioso was architecture, Chance was air. His song was control. Theirs, confession. His tension. Their tenderness.
The melodies entwined.
Each note wove itself into the other—grit and vulnerability, structure and soul. Mafioso’s thunderous chords became the frame. Chance’s additions, the light leaking through the cracks. Their tremolo curled between his precision like breath between words.
It shouldn’t have worked.
But it did.
And slowly—without meaning to—they leaned into one another. Not physically. Not yet. But musically. Emotionally.
They played like two voices mourning the same thing from different ends of a hallway.
For the first time in months, Chance’s mind stopped racing.
The guilt, the noise, the ache that gnawed at the corners of every waking thought—it quieted. Not gone. Just… distant. Drowned out by something deeper.
Connection.
He smiled. Not wide. Not forced. Just… peaceful.
When the final chord came, it wasn’t planned. They both simply knew. And let it fall.
The last notes hung in the air like autumn leaves, suspended, before settling into silence.
“…You been hidin’ this from me?” Chance whispered, glancing sideways, eyes still wide from the aftermath. “What are you, some kinda mafia Mozart?”
Mafioso didn’t look up. His fingers rested still on the keys, unmoving.
“You sound like grief dressed in scales,” he said flatly.
Chance gasped, scandalized. “Excuse you—I do not!”
A pause.
“…Okay, maybe just a smidge.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It just was. They sat there, elbows nearly touching, as the sky above them stretched wide and open—a canvas scrubbed clean of shadows. The last note still seemed to hum faintly in the air, like a breath held too long.
Then Chance let his hands fall from the keys.
They stared at their fingers for a moment—quiet, thoughtful—before letting out a soft laugh. Barely audible. Almost unsure it belonged.
“Y’know…” he began, voice gentle, like a secret they weren’t used to sharing, “I used to play when it felt like the world was closin’ in. Back before all this mess.”
Their fingers absently tapped a few silent keys, not pressing, touching them like one might a memory.
“It was the only thing that felt… honest. No masks. No sleight of hand. Just me ‘n the keys. That was the real me.”
He turned slightly, and offered a smile—faint, crooked. A rare kind. Honest.
“Thanks, big guy. For lettin’ me remember what that felt like.”
Mafioso didn’t meet their gaze.
He gave a quiet grunt, shifting his weight slightly on the bench. The gesture was subtle, but grounding—like stone adjusting under wind.
“It was never gone,” he said.
Chance blinked.
“You only forgot where you left it.”
The gambler stilled.
Mafioso’s voice, always rough around the edges, softened just enough to cut through.
“Stop tearing yourself apart for a mask that doesn’t fit.” he added. “You’re not broken, Chance. Just bleeding.”
His breath caught at those vulnerable yet honest words.
For the first time… Mafioso wasn’t pushing him away. He was offering something steady. Something solid.
A shoulder, maybe. A foundation, even.
The dreamscape shifted in kind.
The fog surged once more, light folding into the air like silk. The piano beneath them began to melt away into haze, keys dissolving like frost under morning sun.
“Keep playing,” Mafioso said.
His voice was fading now—softer than it had ever been. But when Chance turned to look, he saw it.
A glint. Just a flicker.
Gold.
Buried in those otherwise cold, storm-dark eyes.
“Even when your hands tremble.”
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
When Chance opened their eyes, the sky outside the lobby windows was a dull gray—same as always.
Heavy. Endless. Like it could swallow a person whole if they stared too long.
But for once, it didn’t match the way he felt inside.
His body ached. His throat was dry. There were dried tear tracks at the corners of his eyes.
And yet…
He felt warm.
Not physically. Not in the fingers or toes. But deeper than that. A warmth that bloomed quietly behind their ribs—like safety. Like someone had reached into the storm and pulled them out, gently.
He sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.
A soft clink drew their attention down. Their coin had slipped from their lap, tumbling to the floor.
He didn’t reach for it.
Not yet.
Instead, he just… breathed.
No screams. No ticking of the countdown. No jarring sound effects or chaos.
Only the ambient hum of the cabin, and the muffled voices of other survivors moving through their routines. Life—normal, if such a thing existed anymore.
Chance stood and stretched, shoulders popping from disuse. Every part of them wanted to fall backward into dreams again, into a world of symbols and silence, piano keys and names spoken like lifelines.
But the weight inside him—the one that had sat on his chest for so long—had eased.
Not gone.
But quieter.
And that was enough to act.
He made his way into the main cabin.
Noob was near the fireplace, standing close with their arms outstretched toward the heat. They was humming—off-key, excited. Their breath fogged slightly in the air, caught in the flickering glow of the flames.
Chance approached slowly, quietly.
He wasn’t good at this. Never had been.
But Mafioso’s words echoed behind his eyes:
You’re not broken, Chance. Just bleeding.
He cleared his throat.
Noob turned—and for a second, Chance tensed, expecting a flinch, a backward step, fear.
But instead—
Noob’s face lit up.
“H-Heya, Chance! Y-You’re up!”
Chance blinked, caught off-guard. “Oh—hey there, kiddo.”
An awkward beat passed.
Then Noob shifted aside and patted the couch beside them. An unspoken invitation.
Chance accepted.
He sank into the couch—stiff, but familiar—and let himself warm in the firelight for a moment. His gaze fixed on the flames dancing inside the hearth. Golden. Calming.
“You ain’t mad at me… are ya?” Chance asked softly, barely above a whisper.
Noob blinked, tilting their head like the question had pulled them from a trance.
“F-For what..?”
“I—I went too hard on you. Yesterday.” Chance rubbed his arm, shame twisting in his gut. “You looked real spooked. And… truth is, I was too. I weren’t thinkin’ straight—thought you were someone else and…”
Noob cut them off with a small shrug and a nervous smile.
“I-It’s okay. Y-You didn’t mean to, r-right? A-And you said sorry, s-so…”
Chance let out a shaky breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “…Yeah. Guess I did.”
“Th-Then… that’s enough for me..! R-Really!”
Just like that.
No accusations. No suspicion.
Just a simple kindness.
Chance stared at them.
Then laughed—quiet, disbelieving. The sound caught in his throat like it hadn’t been used in ages.
“You’re way too sweet for a place like this, pal. You know that?”
Noob grinned, but it came with a small, sad undertone. “H-Heh… Y-Yeah… P-People say that a lot...”
Chance peered at them over the rim of his sunglasses.
Then, gently, he reached over and ruffled the kid’s hair.
“Heh. There ya go. Nothin’ wrong with a little warmth.”
Noob flinched at first, then leaned into it slightly.
They sat like that in silence, side by side, as the fire burned brighter—casting golden light on two unlikely survivors just trying to be a little better than yesterday.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Later, alone again in the quiet hallway near the back door, Chance sat down with their back against the wall.
The hum of the base was distant here—soft enough to let thoughts creep in.
His fingers turned the coin between them slowly.
Not flipping.
Just holding.
They didn’t know what to make of the way they felt. Not happy. Not healed. But… warm. In a way that unsettled them.
It felt borrowed. Fleeting.
Too good for someone like them.
Still, he thought about the dream.
The way the sky cracked open.
The piano—aching, alive.
And Mafioso, saying his name like it meant something. Like he meant something.
And that moment between them. Shoulders brushing. Music shared. A silence that didn’t choke.
That one moment where they didn’t feel like a mistake.
He exhaled.
“…I want to see him again,” Chance whispered to no one.
They didn’t know why. Not exactly.
Maybe because Mafioso had seen past the bluff.
Maybe because—for a second—he’d made the world stop spinning.
Or maybe because in that dream, they were in control. The chaos didn’t drown them. The world bent to their will, shaped itself around their feelings. They weren’t at the mercy of anything.
Not monsters.
Not fate.
Not even themself.
In that dream… he wasn’t running from guilt.
He was heard.
He was held.
He mattered.
He looked up at the ceiling, letting his eyes unfocus—pretending the rough concrete was clouds instead. Pale blue. Shifting. Endless.
And maybe—just maybe—if he fell asleep again, the dream would find him.
And so would Mafioso.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Chance had long stopped fighting sleep.
It used to be the enemy—where memories bled in, where guilt took shape and wore familiar faces. But lately… every time he drifted off, something different waited for him. Something softer.
This time, the dream was kind.
An endless field stretched around them, waist-high grass swaying gently beneath a honey-gold sky. The sun above glowed warm but never blinding, and the wind curled through the field in lazy spirals—enough to brush against their skin like a lullaby.
Chance let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. The dream didn’t need him to shape it anymore—it just was. Calmness responded to calmness
Behind him came a soft thump, like someone had dropped a sack of pillows onto the earth.
They turned, already grinning.
“Spade…” he breathed, his grin spreading like the morning sun.
The massive black rabbit blinked at them with wide, dopey eyes, ears twitching high with attention. She looked exactly the same—towering, fuzzy, blissfully unaware of everything that haunted them. She padded forward on heavy feet and sat with a practiced flop, thumping the ground once with her back paw.
Chance dropped to his knees beside her without hesitation, arms winding into her fur like a lifeline. “Missed you somethin’ fierce, girl.”
Spade let out a low, affectionate snort, her nose wiggling against his side as if to say ’bout time.
“I know, I know… and I swear, forgettin’ to feed you was a one-time thing, ”Chance mumbled, voice muffled by her fur. “You didn’t even starve. You had… whatever smuggled snacks Mother slipped you when I wasn’t lookin’.”
She snorted again. Definitely judging.
Chance laughed—soft and genuine. “Alright, alright—twice. Ya got me.”
They stayed like that for a while, curled against her like a child hiding from the world. The grass whispered all around them, and the sky shimmered with streaks of amber. Somewhere in the distance, a piano note echoed—just one—and faded like a thought half-remembered.
And then… flowers.
They bloomed without ceremony, dotting the field in every color. Violets, lilies, even daisies with petals shaped like stars. As if the world remembered what Chance had forgotten. What he used to love.
They tilted their head up to the sky.
“…If this is what sleepin’ feels like,” he whispered, already drifting, his voice tucked into the wind, “maybe I ain’t in a rush to wake.”
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
From a distance, another figure emerged—quietly, as always.
Mafioso stepped through the mist with his usual precision, coat catching the breeze like it had been stitched from shadows. His boots didn’t crunch. Didn’t disturb. The dreamspace bent around him like it was used to his presence, weary and unsurprised. His hands stayed tucked in his coat pockets, shoulders squared—but his brow was drawn tight. Wary. Tired. Like he was growing far too accustomed to having his world flipped on its head at random hours of the day… or night.
The fog peeled away with each step, revealing a picture so bafflingly serene it made him stop.
Just inches ahead, Chance lay sprawled in the grass, curled half-upright against the bulk of a giant black rabbit—its fur glossy, its ears twitching gently as if sensing him too. Flowers dotted the field like a painter had flicked their brush across the earth.
Wind stirred the grass and fur in tandem, soft and slow. The sunlight dripped down like honey, catching on strands of silver-grey hair that spilled from beneath a tilted fedora.
Chance looked… ridiculous.
Their sunglasses had slid crookedly down their nose. Their mouth hung slightly open, a thin line of drool clinging stubbornly to the corner. One arm was tossed over Spade like a forgotten coat, the other curled close like they’d dozed off mid-thought.
Mafioso frowned.
It wasn’t the scene. It was the feeling.
The stillness of it. The softness. The way the grass bowed in waves around them like the dream itself wanted to cradle Chance where he lay.
Something in his chest clenched, then twisted—tight.
He didn’t like it.
He pressed his thumb into the inside of his palm out of reflex, seeking grounding through pressure.
It didn’t help.
Chance stirred.
They blinked blearily, wiping their mouth with the back of their sleeve before adjusting their sunglasses with sluggish precision.
When their gaze found Mafioso’s, they didn’t flinch.
Didn’t jolt upright like they’d been caught red-handed.
They just blinked again and muttered, sleepily:
“Sheesh—y’ever heard of knockin’?”
Their voice was rough with drowsiness, laced with warmth but no bite.
“You ghosted in like a stagehand with a grudge.”
Mafioso didn’t answer at first.
He simply stepped closer, coming to stand beside where Chance still half-lay against Spade.
His coat fluttered faintly as the breeze caught it, but otherwise he was still—stone carved from habit, not from comfort.
“Dreams don’t come with doors,” he replied, dry as dust.
Chance grinned and patted the grass beside them.
“Well hey, since you’re already hauntin’ my dreams, might as well meet Spade. She’s nicer than you, promise.”
Mafioso hesitated.
He looked down at the creature sprawled across Chance’s lap—massive, plush, and entirely out of place in a dreamscape that once gnawed at the edges of sanity. Then he blinked.
“…That’s a rabbit.”
“Had,” Chance corrected gently, fingers running down one of Spade’s velvet ears. “Continental Giant. Big as hell, soft as sin, and greedy as a raccoon. Used to swipe my cereal if I so much as blinked.”
Mafioso gave a look, the corners of his brow twitching in something that could almost pass for disbelief.
There was a pause. Then, without fanfare, he stepped forward and crouched beside them. His coat pooled onto the grass with a rustle, sharp edges made soft against the earth. The breeze tugged faintly at his lapels.
Chance raised a brow. “Don’t tell me—a tough guy like you spooked by a bunny?”
“I don’t mind them,” Mafioso replied simply.
And for the first time, his voice wasn’t cold. It wasn’t clipped.
It was gentle.
Spade sniffed at him, then butted her nose under his palm. Mafioso flinched—barely—but his hand responded, slow and unsure. He scratched behind her ears the way Chance had. The massive bunny let out a grunt of approval and flopped onto her side with a heavy thump, toes twitching.
Chance stared. “Huh. Look at that—she likes you. That’s… new.”
“Animals usually sense who won’t hurt them.” Mafioso muttered. And though his tone tried for flat, it couldn’t quite mask the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth.
Almost a smile.
Chance’s breath caught.
They shouldn’t have been staring. Should’ve said something clever, kept it light. But the sight of him—calm, the tiniest sliver of a grin curling on that otherwise stoic face, those damn bunny ears twitching ever so slightly in the sun…
Chance suddenly felt like they were the one being held. Like Mafioso’s stillness wasn’t cold anymore, but sheltering. Like maybe—just maybe—if they leaned a little closer, they could press into that warmth and be allowed to stay.
His fingers twitched at the thought. He found himself wondering, absurdly, what it might feel like to be petted like Spade. Held like that. Gently.
He—
They snapped out of it.
“Uh—here!” Chance blurted, a bit too loudly, shoving the bunny straight into Mafioso’s lap. “Real quick, hold the fluff queen, would ya?”
The color rising in their cheeks was criminal. His voice cracked slightly on the last word. They turned away fast, sunglasses skewed, heart pounding like they’d sprinted across the entire dreamscape and back.
Mafioso blinked, then adjusted Spade without question, settling onto the long sweep of his coat. The rabbit curled contentedly against his chest, satisfied beyond measure. If he noticed Chance’s strange behavior, he gave no sign.
They sat like that for a while.
No talking.
No piano.
Just the wind playing through the grass and Spade’s content grunts, like little puffs of approval.
Chance breathed slowly. Let the stillness soothe his nerves, quiet the roaring in his chest. When they were mostly sure their treacherous heart had stopped trying to beat its way out of their ribs, they reached down and plucked a wildflower from between their boots.
He twirled it absently between his fingers, stealing glances at Mafioso every now and again—just long enough to be noticed if the man ever looked back.
But he didn’t.
And somehow, that made it safer.
Chance twirled the wildflower between their fingers a few more times, then cleared his throat. It was quiet—too quiet. That awkward, awareness-of-your-own-heartbeat kind of quiet.
“So…” they ventured, “uh… you always this charming in dreamscapes, or am I just lucky? You got a day job, or is squattin’ in my head your full-time gig?”
Mafioso didn’t look at them.
“Depends. Are you always this irritating?” he said dryly. “And no. I have better things to do than haunt your subconscious.”
Chance snorted. “Wow. Rude. I’m delightful, I’ll have you know. Practically a gift.”
Silence again.
He shifted, resting one elbow on his bent knees. “Had a dream once I got chased down by a sandwich. Not kiddin’. Fangs, mustard breath, whole nine yards. Nightmare fuel. Real vivid.”
Mafioso gave a slow blink. “Gripping.”
Chance deflated a little, hunching their shoulders with a half-hearted chuckle. “Yeah, I know. Not exactly poetry.”
He tossed the flower into the grass with slight disdain and leaned back on his palms, gaze drifting up to the sky that shimmered gold without ever turning. The silence settled again—gentle, like breath held between two heartbeats. Soft. Heavy. Still.
And then—
“I had rabbits.”
Chance blinked. Their head turned.
Mafioso didn’t look at them. His gaze stayed fixed ahead, focused on the horizon or maybe nothing at all, while his gloved hand continued to stroke Spade’s fur with absent precision—slow, methodical. Like the words had escaped before he could stop them.
“Not like this one. Sleek. Small. One had a crooked ear.” A pause. “My subordinates named him. ‘Sir Nibbleton.’ Ridiculous name.”
Chance’s brows shot up, and then his face cracked into a grin so wide it nearly split his face.
“Sir Nibbleton? You’re kiddin’. That’s incredible.”
“…You close with ‘em?” Chance asked, tone gentler this time. Not teasing.
Mafioso’s fingers paused—just a breath—before resuming their motion.
“They're loyal,” he said. Simply. Quietly.
Chance tilted his head, watching the faint movement of Mafioso’s hand against Spade’s fur. The way his voice dipped just slightly—not with fondness, not openly. But something close. Something private. Like a truth left out in the sun too long.
“They’re what I have.”
There was a pause. A longer one.
“…He still around?” Chance asked, meaning the rabbit.
The wind stirred, brushing through the tall grass like it meant to answer for him. Mafioso didn’t speak for several seconds.
“Gone,” he said at last. “Most things are.”
Chance didn’t press. They just nodded, eyes softening, and let the silence settle once more.
But it was different this time. Not awkward. Not empty. Just… quiet. Shared.
The kind of silence that only happens when neither person feels the need to run from it.
Eventually, Chance let out a breath, leaned back, and tilted his head toward Mafioso with a familiar grin.
“Y’know… you’re full o’ surprises,” he said. “All that broody edge, turns out you’ve got a soft spot for cotton balls. Shoulda known, what with those big ol’ ears on your head.”
Mafioso’s head turned just slightly. He raised an eyebrow, unamused.
“Keep talking, and I’ll reconsider the truce.”
Chance snorted. “Sure you could. But you won’t. Not while Spade’s watchin’. She’d never forgive you.”
Right on cue, Spade let out a deep, pleased grunt and thumped her foot once against the earth, slow and heavy like a seal of approval.
Mafioso didn’t reply. But Chance caught it—that tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile.
But not nothing.
And for some reason, that tiny expression sent something spiraling through Chance’s chest again. It wasn’t just a flutter this time. It hurt, a little. In a good way. Like something cracking open.
Like he was finally feeling something he didn’t know how to name.
He turned his face back to the sun, blinking against its endless warmth.
God, I’m falling, he thought.
And it scared the hell out of him.
Not because Mafioso was cruel.
But because Chance already knew—he wouldn’t catch him.
Wouldn’t even see him falling.
Still… being near him like this, even if it meant burning alone—Chance didn’t move away.
And Mafioso?
He didn’t ask him to.
They sat there, side by side, under a sun that never set.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
There was something fundamentally wrong with them.
Chance knew. Maybe not outright—not with clean, clinical clarity—but in the restless hollows of his sleep-starved brain, in the heat-haze flickers behind his eyes, he knew.
When he’d opened them that morning, he didn’t see a ceiling. Not even a sky.
He saw a tunnel.
Not darkness—no, something worse. A spiral. Like the world was draining inward, collapsing into a pit that had no bottom.
He blinked it away.
Didn’t matter.
They ate breakfast like normal, chewing dry crust with the mechanical rhythm of someone trying to be convincing. Sat on the cracked stone bench outside the yard with their back to the wall, legs stretched out, dice pouch settled in their lap like a pet. No active round. The Spectre hadn’t turned the sky red yet.
That meant it was time to pretend everything was fine.
Shedletsky, naturally, was mid-rant. Something about 007n7’s new cape—“Custom made. Velvet lining. Triple-stitched. It swishes when he walks—does your outfit swish when you walk?” He punctuated it with a smug toss of his hair, striking a pose that caught a bit too much sun.
Chance didn’t catch most of it.
He was watching the clouds—or were they eyes?—drift past overhead. Sometimes the shapes shifted when he blinked. Other times, they whispered.
His revolver lay in pieces beside him, guts spilled out in neat little rows. Most people asked why he still used it. Why not swap it out for something functional?
"That's the fun part," they’d say. Still said.
He thumbed the edge of his dice pouch, muttering blackjack odds under his breath like a gambler trying to anchor himself to math instead of madness.
“Seventeen. Soft hand. Dealer’s showin’ six—yeah, you’d stand. But what if that six’s just pretendin’? What if it’s starin’ you down like it knows somethin’ you don’t?”
The words came out smooth—habitual, even amused. But his fingers wouldn’t stop twitching.
He didn’t notice the way the courtyard had gone still. Or maybe he did. Maybe that was the point.
“You guys ever notice,” Chance said suddenly, his voice lighter than it had any right to be, “how, like... the stars move weird here?”
Elliot, half-slouched on the base’s wooden steps with a half-frozen slice of pizza dangling from one hand, didn’t even glance up.
“You ever notice how your brain moves weird?” he said flatly, eyes trailing over to the sore-eyed “couple” sitting way too close for comfort across the yard. “Congratulations on catching up.”
Normally, that would've drawn a snort. A wink. Some deflecting quip from Chance.
But not today.
Chance didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smile, not properly. His mouth held the shape of one, but it was waxy and trembling—like he’d forgotten what a real one felt like.
Their eyes never left the sky. The dull grey-blue dome above was just as dead as always. Nothing visibly moved—but they kept watching, like something was slithering just under the surface of it..
Their voice dropped, barely audible. “They’re watchin’, I swear. Not the stars—the things inside ‘em. Real hush-hush. But I hear it. Feel it, even. Like breath on the back of my neck.”
Elliot froze mid-bite. Pizza slice paused halfway to his mouth.
“…Back up,” he said, straightening. “What did you just say?”
Chance didn’t answer directly. His hand hovered, fingers trailing through the air like he was tracing invisible cracks.
“It’s noise,” they whispered. “but not noise, y’know? Like... like teeth. Somethin’s up there, chewin’ through the sky. Or maybe through me.”
Elliot stood fully now, stepping off the stairs. His expression wasn’t annoyed anymore.
It was alert. Sharpened.
He crossed the courtyard in a few fast strides, placing both hands on Chance’s shoulders—firm at first, then tightening as he saw the gambler’s state up close.
“Chance. Snap out of it. Say that again. Slowly.”
Chance didn’t seem to hear. Their eyes were blown wide—pupils stretched to black marbles, eating up the whites. Their skin looked sickly pale beneath the usual grey. Their mouth opened and closed, words sticking like static before they finally fell:
“They’re—auditory illusions, right? That’s what you call ‘em? But I see ‘em too. All of it. Can’t tell what’s real anymore. Maybe none of this is. Maybe I’m still in there. Still stuck—”
“Chance—look at me. Focus.” Elliot shook him hard now, enough to rattle the sunglasses down his nose. “You're not dreaming, alright? Ground yourself. No one’s watchin’ you from the stars, there’s nothing in them.”
They blinked rapidly, chest heaving. But their hands were shaking harder. Laughing, just barely, like they already knew it was useless.
“I can’t. If I look away, they might—might—”
SMACK.
The sound echoed across the quiet courtyard.
Chance went still.
Their sunglasses were knocked askew, one lens catching the sky’s dim glow. But the other lens—the one that usually kept people out—was clear.
And the eyes behind it had finally dropped.
His breathing hitched. Shallow. Fast. His face had drained of color, turning almost translucent against grey-toned skin. His hands trembled violently, like someone had cut the strings of a marionette too fast. His pupils were huge—completely dilated, swallowing what little color he had.
But for the first time in minutes—he was looking at Elliot.
“...Thanks,” he croaked.
It was a whisper dragged across gravel. The smirk had melted off completely. All that was left was rawness—open, unguarded, and shaking so violently he looked like he might shatter.
Then, blood.
Not from the slap. That hadn’t been enough to bruise, let alone bleed. But still, it came—slow, thick, trailing from one nostril to his upper lip in a metallic drip.
They wiped it away with the back of their hand, mechanically. Like it didn’t matter. Like they were used to it.
Elliot recoiled. His eyes widened, all the irritation from earlier bleeding out of him—replaced by something rawer.
Fear.
Confusion.
Dread.
“Chance,” he said, voice taut, “this isn’t just paranoia anymore, is it? What the hell are you on?”
The gambler didn’t answer.
They were already moving—too quickly, too purposefully. Scooping up scattered dice with trembling hands. The pieces of their revolver clicked against their fingers as they reassembled them on instinct alone. Their pouch jingled as they slung it back over their shoulder with uneven rhythm, like their own heartbeat had gone syncopated.
He turned halfway, voice too light to be real. “Ain’t nothin’ to fuss over, peach. Just the cosmos peekin’ in, askin’ questions they got no right to. Y’know, usual Tuesday.”
“Cut the act.” Elliot stepped toward him, face hardening again, but not out of annoyance this time. “You’ve been spiraling for days. No sleep. Barely eating. Jumping at shadows. Now you're bleeding from nowhere and talking about sky having eyes?”
Chance hesitated—just long enough to be noticed—before they rolled their shoulders in a shrug that didn’t quite land.
“Probably just stress,” they muttered. “Can’t fault a fella for gettin’ twitchy when a trenchcoat demon’s doin’ curtain calls in his nightmares.”
Elliot’s jaw clenched.
“It’s the pills, isn’t it.”
That stopped them.
Chance froze. One hand still raised to wipe at the blood crusting beneath his nose. The smear across his knuckles was a deep, rusty red now. He didn’t look back.
Elliot stepped closer, quieter this time. “Tell me what you’re taking. Dosage. Duration. All of it. Because this? This is not withdrawal, and it sure as hell ain’t normal.”
A beat of silence.
Then, Chance turned.
Only barely. Just enough to throw a grin over his shoulder—quick and crooked, teeth bared like a bluff gone sour.
“What can I say?” they said, too flippant, voice too thin. “I’m special.”
“No,” Elliot said, deadpan. “You’re reckless. And whatever you’ve done to yourself? It’s catching up. Fast.”
Then it happened.
Chance bolted.
Without another word, without another look. They moved fast—faster than Elliot had ever seen outside an active round—boots scraping hard against the tiles as they broke into a sprint. Their coat flared behind them like a warning flag. Dice clinked and rattled with each jarring step.
“Chance!” Elliot shouted, lunging forward.
Too late.
The gambler was already disappearing down the hall.
They didn’t look back.
Couldn’t.
Their ears were ringing now—no, not ringing. Voices. Hissing. A dozen voices whispering at once. No language, just sound. A rising, awful pressure behind their eyes.
Chanting.
He clamped his hands over his ears and kept running.
Down the corridor. Around the corner. Past the terminals and the cracked tiles and the walls that flickered when you stared too long.
He didn’t stop until the world blurred. Until he was somewhere forgotten.
Behind one of the old, broken columns near the edge of the unrendered storage room—one of the glitched-out corners of the base that nobody patrolled, where the geometry was wrong and the light didn’t fall right.
There, finally, they collapsed to their knees.
Breathing hard.
Heart pounding against his ribs like it wanted out.
Shaking, he reached into his coat. Dug past old tokens, lint, bits of folded paper he didn’t remember writing.
Until his fingers closed around the bottle.
The pill.
Still in its rattling plastic tomb. Light caught the edge of it, making it look more like a game piece than medicine.
They held it between thumb and forefinger. Stared.
The grin crept back, but this time it didn’t have any spark.
Just a curve. Shaky. Sad.
One side lifted. The other drooped. Like he couldn’t decide which emotion to fake.
Their thumb brushed the plastic gently, like it was something precious. Or cursed. Or both.
“…Almost time,” he whispered to no one.
He wasn’t sure if he meant to take it. Or if he meant the end.
Maybe both.
The whisper of voices was louder now. Not real—but real enough. He lowered his head, resting his forehead against the cold surface of the column.
And for a long moment…
They just wished they could stop existing.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
It didn’t take them long to meet again.
Lately, Chance had been dreaming more often—and Mafioso kept showing up, whether he wanted to or not. He used to resist it, teeth grit and fists clenched, annoyed every time the world shifted beneath his feet and dumped him somewhere absurd.
But now? He didn’t even flinch.
One blink, and he was no longer chasing Nashatra down a dark corridor—he was here. Somewhere new.
This time, it was an aquarium.
A cathedral of liquid glass and light. Towering tanks stretched toward the ceiling, casting rippling sapphire reflections across the floor. The silence here was soft. Sacred. Like the hum of a prayer no one remembered the words to.
Mafioso stepped forward slowly, boots echoing against polished tile. In the center of it all stood Chance, gazing up at a massive wall of water, awash in blue and gold.
They turned when he approached, smile catching the glow—bright, boyish, and so alive it almost hurt to look at.
“‘Bout time,” Chance said, grin curling like smoke. “Y’were startin’ to miss the main act.”
Before Mafioso could speak, fingers closed around his wrist—warm, casual, like they had every right to be there.
“C’mon, slowpoke,” Chance urged, tugging him forward with a grin that felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. “You’re gonna miss the jellyfish.”
His voice was low and teasing, but there was wonder in it too. And something else—something soft and unguarded, like he’d let the world rest for a minute.
Mafioso’s breath hitched.
The gambler didn’t even notice. They were already pointing at a bloom of translucent creatures drifting through the tank like ghostly lanterns. Their tendrils swirled like silk, casting quiet halos of color across his face.
All Mafioso could focus on was the heat of Chance’s palm, the way his own breath hitched when the gambler leaned in to point at something, close enough that Mafioso caught the faint scent of his cologne—whiskey and citrus, reckless and sweet.
“They’re like dancers,” they murmured. “Floatin’ ‘round like they’ve got all the time in the world.”
They glanced sideways, and Mafioso found himself staring—not at the jellyfish, but at the faint gleam in Chance’s eye. The kind that hadn’t been there since the piano. Since the night everything fractured.
Chance bumped him lightly with a shoulder. “What, cat got your tongue? I know that look—you get all weird when you’re thinkin’ too hard.”
“I’m not,” Mafioso said, but it came out rough. Hesitant.
Chance huffed a quiet laugh. “Sure you ain’t.”
They moved on. Slowly. Quietly. Chance’s fingers never left his.
From tank to tank, the gambler pointed things out—an octopus shifting colors, a stingray gliding like a shadow. Their commentary was light but laced with that charm only they could pull off.
“Would ya look at that show-off,” he murmured, nodding toward an angelfish gliding through the water, its fins like delicate lace. “Struttin’ around like he runs the reef. Ring any bells, big guy?”
Mafioso should’ve snapped something back—
Your ego’s the only reef here. Something. Anything.
But the words dissolved on his tongue.
Because Chance was looking at him—really looking—and there was something unbearably tender in it, something that made Mafioso’s chest ache in a way he couldn’t name.
Mafioso didn’t move. Couldn’t.
A school of neon tetras scattered past, their bodies flickering like starlight. The reflections shimmered across the gambler’s features—those sharp lines softened by sea-glow, that cocky glint dulled into something tender.
He should have pulled away.
He didn’t.
This is unnecessary.
That’s what he should’ve said. What he would’ve said—any other time.
But his mouth stayed shut.
And his hand didn’t let go.
Something twisted in his chest. A dangerous ache. Not because of the risks they took, the lives they led, but because for the first time, the thought of letting go felt worse than holding on.
Hope was worse.
Chance gave his hand a light squeeze, oblivious to the unraveling happening beside him. “Ain’t this nice?” they said, voice dropping to something quieter. “Kinda makes you forget what a mess the rest of the world is.”
Mafioso didn’t answer.
He wasn’t looking at the fish anymore.
He was looking at Chance.
And the view was terrifying.
The aquarium’s cerulean glow wrapped around Chance like a second skin, painting him in strokes of liquid light. His fedora cast a soft shadow over his face, but beneath the black sunglasses—perched with effortless cool over the frames of his regular glasses—Mafioso caught the faintest reflection of his eyes. Just a shimmer. A tease.
And God, it burned like curiosity in his chest.
What color were they, really?
And why did he care?
He hated questions he couldn’t answer.
Chance’s gray hair, usually wild and untamed, was pulled into a half-up ponytail, strands catching the blue fluorescence like spun silver.
They skipped as they dragged Mafioso deeper into the glowing labyrinth of tanks.
And then—there was the smile.
Giddy. Unfiltered. It wasn’t the gambler’s usual crooked smirk, all teeth and trouble. No, this was real. It melted the sharpness from their features, softened the lines around their mouth. It made Mafioso feel like he was seeing something no one else ever got to. Something private.
Chance’s fingers were still tangled in his, warm and unyielding. Like letting go simply wasn’t on the table.
A school of angelfish drifted past, their iridescent fins trailing like silk ribbons in the water. Mafioso didn’t watch them.
He watched Chance.
The way the lights danced across the curve of his jaw. The way his lips parted in quiet awe as a manta ray glided above, its vast wingspan casting shadows that moved like myths.
Damn.
The word flared in the back of his throat—sharp, unwanted. Like a bullet ricocheting before it hits.
Get a hold of yourself.
He'd seen that look before. Awe. Wonder. Weakness, dressed up in whimsy.
But not on Chance. Not like this.
Damn, he’s beautiful.
No. Not beautiful. Dangerous.
It wasn’t a thought Mafioso allowed himself—ever. Not about them. Not about the reckless fool who flirted with death and danced with luck like both owed them favors. But here, in this underwater cathedral, with Chance tracing idle circles against his knuckles—
Something cracked open in his chest.
Then Chance turned to him, still grinning, still holding on. “They’re somethin’ else, huh?” he breathed. “Don’t they look beautiful?”
You are, Mafioso thought.
The words pressed against his tongue, desperate and stupid.
He should’ve snapped back. Should’ve pulled away. Should’ve reminded them both of who they were—what they were. But his hand stayed right where it was.
The sharks moved in the distance like shadows, sleek bodies cutting through the depths with silent purpose. Mafioso turned his gaze toward them, if only to ground himself, to slow the pulse thundering in his ears.
The light painted his sharp features in twilight hues—steel blues, shadowed purples. He looked every bit the part: a man who didn’t flinch. A man who didn’t feel.
But beside him, Chance leaned against the railing, sunglasses now pushed into his hair.
And that was when Mafioso saw them—really saw them.
His eyes.
Not brown. Not green. But golden—flecked through like sunlight piercing shallow waves. Bright. Unapologetic. The kind of color you wanted to chase.
Mafioso blinked once.
Then filed it away like a secret.
“Y’ever wonder if they got it easier?” Chance murmured, nodding toward a manta ray drifting lazily in the current, its wings rippling like liquid shadow. “Just floatin’ around, no worries.”
Mafioso scoffed quietly. “They’re just fish.”
“Yeah. And they don’t gotta worry about getting injured. Or dying. Or…” Chance trailed off, fingers tapping against the railing in a restless rhythm. “You know.”
Mafioso didn’t answer at first. He just studied him—watched the way Chance’s throat worked around the silence, the way that usual cocky grin had faded into something quiet. Bare. Like a mask half-removed.
“…Why here?” he asked at last, voice low.
Chance exhaled, slow and uneven. “’Member when I sorta made it obvious I ain’t into flowers? Didn’t say it out loud, but y’know—body language, aggressive flower-avoidance, all that jazz—figured you missed it—”
“I noticed,” Mafioso said simply.
Chance blinked. “O-oh.” He flinched a little, visibly surprised. “Right.”
But then they cleared their throat and kept going, waving a hand toward the glowing tanks. “Well—this? This I like. It’s quiet. It’s… still. Makes me kinda jealous, honestly.”
He tilted his chin toward a school of neon fish darting through coral—tiny flashes of light, like scattered coins. "They’re free. Just swimmin’ around like life ain’t ever tried to gut ‘em.”
“They don’t know better,” Mafioso replied.
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water, fragile as a bubble rising toward the surface.
Mafioso didn’t do sentiment. Didn’t do soft. But something about Chance—something about the way he said it, not with drama but with that small edge of broken honesty—tightened something deep in his chest.
“They’re still in a tank,” Mafioso added after a beat. His tone was flat, but softer than usual. Almost reluctant.
Chance gave a dry chuckle. “Heh. Glass cages. Guess that makes two of us.”
And then—for a moment—they just stood there.
Shoulders almost brushing. Silence folding around them like velvet. The glow of the aquarium lit their faces in ever-shifting blues, tracing ripple-light across cheekbones and scars.
Chance turned.
His eyes found Mafioso’s with a quiet intensity—solid, unwavering, cutting straight through the haze. The kind of look that spoke louder than words, and lingered far too long.
Too long to pretend it didn’t mean something.
The fish kept swimming.
But Chance wasn’t looking at them anymore.
He was watching the way Mafioso’s lips parted—just slightly. Like he already knew what was coming. Like he wasn’t going to stop it.
Chance leaned in—slow, deliberate—each breath shorter than the last, like even the air was trembling between them. His voice was rough, barely more than a whisper against Mafioso’s mouth—
“Don’t punch me for this.”
And then he kissed him.
Hard.
It wasn’t sweet.
It wasn’t soft.
It was filthy.
Hungry. Like Chance had been starving for the taste of him and finally snapped. Their mouth crashed into Mafioso’s with desperate force, tongue sweeping in—claiming, demanding—a kiss less like affection and more like a damnation.
Mafioso groaned against them, deep and low, and his hands fisted in Chance’s coat, gripping so hard the seams strained. Like he was afraid Chance would vanish the moment he let go.
Chance shoved him backward, and Mafioso let it happen, let himself be slammed up against the nearest surface. Their bodies collided, heat against heat, friction and need and not nearly enough. Not even close.
Mafioso’s hands dragged up Chance’s chest, nails scraping over cloth and catching on buttons. Chance growled, teeth sinking into his lip before diving back in. The kiss deepened—sloppier, wetter—mouths moving in a rhythm that was nothing short of obscene.
Their breaths turned ragged. Desperate.
Mafioso chased Chance’s mouth when they pulled back a fraction, a low growl tearing from his throat—and Christ, that sound went straight to Chance’s cock.
Mafioso kissed him again, this time slower, taking control, savoring the slick slide of tongues. Like he was drinking him in. Like he was finally giving in to whatever he’d been fighting all this time.
Chance melted against him, every inch of swagger and bravado unraveling beneath the weight of Mafioso’s hands, the press of his lips, the way he meant it.
They broke apart—gasping. Foreheads pressed together. Both of them grinning like idiots.
Until Mafioso’s smile faded. Slow. Uneasy.
“…Shit.”
Chance blinked.
Then he felt it—the heat trickling over his lip.
Thick. Metallic.
“Ah, hell—” they muttered, swiping under his nose. His fingers came away streaked dark. “That’s not—uh—that’s not great.”
The bleeding didn’t stop.
It dripped from his lip. Down his chin. Onto the front of Mafioso’s coat in sluggish streaks.
The grin slid right off their face.
“Okay. Okay. Not ideal,” Chance mumbled, stumbling one step back. “M-Might just be, uh, altitude sickness. Or a dream thing. Or—”
He swayed.
“Or maybe you kissed me so hard my brain exploded. That’s impressive, honestly—”
His knees buckled.
The last thing they felt was Mafioso’s arms catching him.
The black of his coat wrapped around him like nightfall as the world tilted and went dark.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Chance blinked—or thought they did.
The world around him rippled like the surface of warped glass, the ocean tearing open like split skin to reveal a chasm yawning beneath.
Pressure bloomed behind their eyes, a headache that pulsed with something that wasn’t entirely theirs—like a parasite gnawing its way through bone.
His fingers, slick and trembling, came away from his temple smeared in red.
Was it blood? Or just the afterbirth of another dream? Another death?
The air was wrong. Thick. Close. It hummed with a thousand mouths whispering just beneath the threshold of hearing—wet and breathy, like lips brushing against his eardrums.
And there—iTrapped.
Had he always been there?
Perched atop a spire of black rock shaped like jagged teeth, his limbs folded too many times over themselves, bending in places that defied anatomy. His grin sagged like melting wax, dripping down his chin, slick and shiny with a madness that refused to dry.
“Closer,” iTrapped crooned—not in sound, but inside Chance’s head.
It wasn't speech. It was invasion. A thought forced into him, coiling like a velvet rope pulling tight around his skull.
“You’re almost home, dearest. The prodigal fool returns, hm?”
His chuckle was a shredded thing—half rustling leaves, half paper tearing underwater.
“Don’t be shy now. I saved you a place—right beside all the other mistakes.”
Chance didn’t remember moving, but suddenly, the water was lapping at his waist. Thick. Viscous. It clung like oil—black and glimmering—curling up his ribs like it wanted inside. It whispered, too. Low and inviting. Not in words, but in meanings. Shapes of phrases. Tongues he almost understood.
His chest constricted. His lungs burned.
Had he been drowning this whole time?
He looked up.
The surface shimmered above him now—distant. Farther than it should’ve been. Light danced across the waves like a trick of memory, cold and unreachable.
Below him, the water grew darker, bluer, impossibly deep. Coral structures loomed like forgotten cathedrals, riddled with rust and bone. Thin strands of seaweed drifted like fingers brushing their skin.
And still, he sank.
They didn’t fight it.
Didn’t want to.
There was no panic. Just a strange, weightless calm. His limbs drifted beside him, loose and unresisting. His eyes slipped closed, lashes catching on the salt as he let himself fall deeper. Deeper.
Into silence.
Into sleep.
Then—a shift.
From the abyss, something stirred.
A flicker of movement. A glint of teeth.
Something massive, ancient, hungry—a fish that could’ve been a god or a demon, its body lined with phosphorescent scars and eyes that gleamed like submerged stars. It surged forward, jaws opening wide to swallow him whole.
Chance closed his eyes and accepted it.
…
…
Then someone’s hands—cold, too cold—grabbed him by the collar and dragged him upward in a desperate surge.
The world snapped like film burning through a projector—light stuttering, sound warping—and then they broke the surface.
Chance gasped.
Seawater poured from their mouth in thick, choking gulps, tasting of copper, salt, and bile. His chest heaved, every inhale scraping needles down his throat. Another cough. Then another. The shore beneath him blurred as he doubled over, emptying what felt like an entire ocean from his lungs.
His fingers clawed at the sand, anchoring himself to something. Anything. Something that didn’t whisper or writhe or pull him under.
Nearby, water dripped in slow, irritated rhythm. Plap. Plap. Plap.
Shedletsky stood there, his cape and t-shirt soaked, clinging to him in folds. His hair, usually artfully wind-tossed, now hung in wet strands across his forehead. His expression? Unamused. Razor-edged.
"You were smiling as you sank, you idiot!" he snapped, voice crackling with static heat. The fury wasn’t theatrical. It was real. "Grinning. Like the world was ending and you’d finally gotten the joke."
An accusation.
An observation.
A warning.
"You’re lucky Shedletsky believes in inconvenient timing. Otherwise you’d be kelp art by now.”
Chance didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His hat was gone, headphones ruined, soaked through to the core. Everything hurt in quiet, dull ways.
“…Don’t tell the others,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of a trembling hand. His voice was hoarse—tattered at the edges. “Please. Just—don’t. Won’t be pulling that stunt again.”
And Shedletsky raised an eyebrow. One corner of his mouth twitched—not into a smirk, not quite. The expression was something else. Cynical. Tired. Laced with a note of dry concern that he’d deny to his grave.
“And if it does?”
“It won’t.”
Chance forced a smile. It didn’t reach their eyes. “Still shoot straight. Still hit my marks. That’s what matters, right?”
A pause. Too long.
Shedletsky studied him—really studied him—beneath the crooked tilt of his frames. Something shifted behind his expression. Not pity. Not judgment. Just a quiet, unnerving kind of curiosity.
He didn’t say you look like hell.
He didn’t say you’re not okay.
He didn’t have to.
Because the silence said it for them.
“…Fine,” he said at last. “I won’t tell.”
He straightened with a sigh, wringing out his shirt with a disgusted noise. His wings rustled behind him, flaring once to shake off the worst of the seawater.
“But just so we’re clear?” he added, folding his arms, voice deepening into something close to menace, “If you take another dive, don’t count on an encore rescue. Shedletsky saves lives, not habits.”
He started to walk off, but paused. Just long enough to add, with a razor-sharp smirk,
“Take that as advice. From Shedletsky. The life-saving, waterlogged variety.”
And then he was gone—cape flaring, boots leaving a trail of shimmering wet footprints across the rocks.
Chance sat there, motionless. The wind licked salt into their cuts. Their lungs still ached with every breath. Their soaked clothes clung like guilt.
He didn't move for a long time.
And in the silence that followed, with only the sea and the echo of fading static, he realized something unsettling:
He wasn’t afraid of drowning.
Not really.
What scared him was how peaceful it had felt.
How warm the dark had been.
How right iTrapped’s voice had sounded when it whispered:
Welcome home.
Chance was officially losing it. He knew that now. The mask was slipping, the cracks widening.
And the worst part?
They could not hide it anymore… they had been unwell, and something frightening had been consuming them slowly over the past few months.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
The snow fell down in a steady hush, muffling the crunch of footsteps as Mafioso led Eunoia through the frostbitten clearing. His coat flared with each measured step, heavy fabric dusted in white. The air was sharp—thin, cold—but quiet. Almost reverent in the way it held them still, like figures preserved in glass.
Behind him, Eunoia’s oversized coat dragged just slightly, swaddling her mechanical frame in folds of mismatched warmth. It bundled awkwardly at her joints, trailing like a misplaced shadow. She hadn’t argued when he insisted she wear it. Letting him fuss... was data worth collecting.
She slowed, extending a hand. Pale silver fingers stilled midair as a snowflake landed in her palm. “Such fragile architecture,” she murmured. “The human fixation on seasonal variance continues to perplex me.”
Mafioso didn’t answer right away. He had stopped walking, his back still to her, shoulders hunched beneath his coat. Gloved hands folded behind him, but not in formality—more like restraint. Tension crackled beneath the silence.
Eunoia tilted her head slightly. “Something’s off,” she observed. “Is it the world… or simply your perception of it?”
He stood motionless, the wind tugging faintly at his coat.
Then, gravel-voiced: “Something’s wrong with him.”
She glanced toward him, calculating. “You’ll have to narrow the parameters. Dysfunction is hardly uncommon in our circles.”
“The gambler,” he clarified, as though the name itself tasted bitter on his tongue. “Chance.”
Eunoia’s expression didn’t shift, but her tone did—faintly amused. “I thought you’d quarantined your concern away. Or was that posturing for my benefit?”
Mafioso exhaled sharply. Not quite a sigh. Not quite a snarl. “Unnecessary,” he muttered.
Still, he didn’t walk away.
“He hid it well,” he admitted. “But lately—he shakes. Hands won’t stay still. Nosebleeds, random. Eyes gone vacant like he’s somewhere else entirely.” He turned, face now visible beneath the snow’s hush. His jaw was set. “There’s something wrong. Deeply wrong.”
Eunoia watched him carefully, snow collecting along the fur trim of her collar. Her voice, when it came, was soft. Nudging. “You’ve already formed the conclusion. You’re simply resisting its acknowledgment.”
His eyes narrowed. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.”
“No,” she corrected gently. “You’re asking because you do know. And you fear your hypothesis is correct.”
She stepped forward, her boots crunching softly as her stride matched his. Their footprints pressed side by side into the snow, vanishing slowly behind them.
“Remind me—what do you believe we are, exactly?” Eunoia asked, voice light as the snow drifting from the sky.
Mafioso frowned. “Reflections. Half-real. Anchored to dreamscapes.”
She hummed, a low note of confirmation. “Correct. We are not alive—not conventionally. We exist within and between dreamstates. Reflections of self. Shards of fear. Symbols of longing.”
Her gaze lifted to the overcast sky, eyes unblinking. “And still... somehow, you stay. Against all probabilities, you linger in their subconscious. Repeating, looping. But what happens, I wonder, when you enter another’s dream uninvited?”
She looked to him. “You have a purpose there, Mafioso. Termination. Violence. You are not merely in his dream—you are its immunodeficiency.”
Then, almost gently, she patted his shoulder. The gesture held no judgment—only quiet sadness.
“I suspect he’s forcing sleep. Chemically. The side effects are manifesting—through you. You are the consequence. You are what consumes him.”
The words landed like knives, soft in tone but devastating in implication.
Mafioso stared at her. His breath curled in the cold, ghosting between them. “No,” he growled. “He doesn’t fight. He comes looking for me—again and again.”
His shoulders drew back, and his form shifted—taller, broader, darker. A presence meant to unsettle. A shadow blooming into a threat. “I’m not his sickness.”
Eunoia didn’t flinch. She simply observed—watching the descent with the detachment of a scientist and the sorrow of a sister.
“I never asked to be dragged into this mess.” Mafioso snapped, voice cracking beneath the weight of something more than fury.
“He’s grown acclimated,” Eunoia replied, interrupting gently. “That must be why he lets you in. Why he keeps you close.”
She tilted her head. “And that... is the tragedy.”
He shook his head sharply, like trying to dislodge the words. “Then he’s a fool.”
“He is,” Eunoia agreed, utterly without cruelty. “And in loving you, he’s chosen a very poetic form of self-destruction.”
The snow deepened around them, curling against Mafioso’s coat, crusting at the soles of his boots. He turned away, fists clenched so tight the leather of his gloves creaked.
“He knew what it’d cost,” he muttered. “He let me in anyway.”
Eunoia’s reply was calm, factual—like offering a theorem. “He’d rather corrode beside you than heal without you,”
Mafioso didn’t move.
A small smile ghosted across Eunoia’s lips—not smug. Not victorious. Just... knowing. “That kind of loyalty,” she murmured, “illogical. Magnificent. Catastrophic.”
But in her eyes—something else. Sparked fascination. “I hadn’t realized the entanglement had reached such depths,” she whispered. “Delightful.”
With that, she stepped away, her coat trailing behind her like a comet’s tail—an elegant blur swallowed slowly by the curtain of falling snow.
She didn’t look back.
“He should’ve shut the door,” Mafioso said softly, more to the air than to her.
He stayed where he stood.
The cold gnawed through his gloves. The wind sliced along his jaw. And inside, something twisted. Guilt. Fury. That damned ache with no name.
He hated Chance for being weak. For not running. For staying.
For making him feel like this.
And yet…
His fingers twitched.
He missed him already.
The realization hit Mafioso like a bullet to the chest—sharp, sudden, and sickening.
He had fallen for Chance.
Not in the way a man falls for a fleeting thrill. Not like the vices he used to indulge in and discard once they became inconvenient. No—this was worse.
This was dangerous.
The kind of weakness that rooted itself deep. That made a man hesitate when he should strike. That made him care when he should’ve walked away without a backward glance.
And now?
Now he was going to force it back in.
Not because he wanted to.
Because he had to.
The wind howled, lashing against him, but the cold was nothing compared to the fire roiling in his veins. He clenched his fists, leather groaning under the strain.
Stupid.
Chance should’ve bolted the moment he had the chance.
But no—he stayed.
He always stayed.
And that was the problem.
Mafioso’s jaw locked, tight as steel.
He hated him for it.
Hated the ache blooming in his chest at just the thought of him.
Hated the way his fingers itched to reach out—to drag him close, to—
No.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to need anyone.
But the truth lodged itself too deep to deny.
And so, with a low growl curling in his throat, Mafioso turned sharply on his heel. Snow crunched underfoot—sharp, final, like a trigger pulled.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
Things had been going well in the dreamscape.
Not so much in real life.
At first, Chance seemed… better. Smiled more. Laughed easier. The kind of quiet that made people think they were finally finding their footing. But anyone who really looked—who looked past the smirk, the drawl, the swagger—could see the seams pulling apart.
He slept longer. Way too long. Missed meals. Dodged hangouts. Twitchy around shadows. Flinched at things no one else could see. That little coin of his spun faster now—fumbled more often, like his fingers were forgetting how to hold on.
And their laugh? Too loud. Too sharp. Like a blade skittering across porcelain.
Elliot had been watching since the meltdown. The one with the eyes. The nosebleed. The cold sweat pooling under a broken sky.
So, when Chance missed another shot and vanished halfway through the round, citing a “killer headache,” Elliot found him after. Same place as always—slouched in the break room chair like his spine forgot how to sit up, one boot on the table, coin dancing between his fingers in a blur.
“Chance,” Elliot said, firm. “What are you doing to yourself?”
They didn’t even glance his way. “If this is about me sleepin’ in, I already told ya—I dream better than I wake. Kinda my thing.” He gave a lazy spin of the coin like it proved his point.
“That’s not normal,” Elliot snapped. “You’re hallucinating. You’re not here anymore. Your hands are shaking, you talk to no one, you scream in your sleep.”
“That ain’t—” Chance started, voice a little too quick, a little too defensive.
“Look again,” Elliot cut in, pointing.
Chance blinked.
Then stared at his hand.
Nothing. Just his own twitching fingers clenching air. No coin. But they heard it, still—faint and spinning, like it was echoing out from under their skin.
He barked a laugh—short and brittle, like ice cracking underfoot. “What, you gonna boot me next trial for dreamin’ outta bounds?”
“I’m serious.” Elliot stepped closer, shadows cutting across his features. “Whatever you’re taking—it’s wrecking you. What happens when you don’t wake up next time?”
His fingers just hung there, motionless. A breath snagged in his throat.
Then—he scoffed. “So what if I don’t wake up? You act like this place is heaven on earth. Spoiler alert: it ain’t.”
Elliot reeled like he’d been struck. “You really don’t care?”
And finally, Chance looked at him.
Not the usual lopsided grin. Not the easy charm or teasing glint. Just cold. Hollow. Something feral flickering just beneath the surface.
“Don’t pretend this is about me,” they said, voice flat. “You just want your perfect little squad without the dead weight, right? Keep it clean, keep it pretty. Well, sorry, pal—this mess don’t sleep without chemical encouragement.”
Elliot’s jaw locked. “You’re not the only one hurting, Chance.”
But Chance was already done.
Already gone.
Their eyes drifted to the far wall, distant. Like there was something only they could see peeling out of the plaster. Like he’d already stepped back into the dreamscape—and wasn’t coming back.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
The train cut through the sky like a silver blade, far above any real world. Its wheels shrieked softly beneath them—steel biting phantom rails—and with each jolt, the lanterns overhead swung in lazy arcs, casting long, warped shadows that danced across the walls. Blue blossoms bloomed like veins, pulsing faintly across the carriage’s ribbed interior—alive, maybe. Or just pretending.
Chance leaned in the doorway, one boot braced against the frame, fingers twitching with mock ease as he lifted a hand in greeting.
“Well, look who’s ridin’ coach on the express to nowhere,” they drawled, spinning their coin once before pocketing it. “Fancy meetin’ you here.”
The gambler's voice was light—too light. A smile curved his lips, but it quivered at the edges. Their nose had been bleeding when they last met. It wasn’t, now. He rubbed at it anyway, as if smearing the memory away.
Mafioso stood at the far end of the carriage, a silhouette etched in backlight. The sun behind him spilled gold, but none of it touched his face. His coat hung still, untouched by the same wind that ruffled Chance’s sleeves. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. The blue blooms coiled near him froze in their crawl—halted mid-bloom, as if even the flowers feared him.
Chance rocked on their heels, gesturing to the walls. “You lost in one’a your broody monologues, or just allergic to floral patterns?” they forced a grin, gesturing to the spiraling vines, the soft lapis flowers. “Kinda figured all this blue gloom’d match your whole tragic nobility vibe. As for why we’re here—beats me. Brain’s been doin’ its own improv set lately.”
Mafioso didn’t answer. His gaze didn’t waver. A muscle twitched beneath his eye like a trigger pulled too slow.
Chance kept talking.
“Always had a soft spot for this kinda blue. Real fish-tank vibes. You know—shimmerin’, quiet, real peaceful ‘til you faceplant into the glass.”
Still nothing. The silence pressed against Chance’s ribs like a bootheel. He hunched in a little more, arms drawing in close.
Chance chuckled, shaky. “C’mon now, you mad or just doin’ the whole silent condemnation thing? I did bleed on your coat. Nothin’ a nap and a greasy slice wouldn’t fix—unless you’re still holdin’ a grudge. In which case...” He stepped forward, holding out a hand like an offering. “Truce?”
Mafioso moved.
It wasn’t loud. He didn’t shout. He didn’t have to.
“You knew,” he said.
Chance stopped cold. Their hand hung in the air, caught mid-peace-offering.
“Wait—what?”
“You knew what I was.” Mafioso’s voice dropped to a whisper lined with threat. Quiet. Final. Like the second before a knife sinks in.
Each step he took was measured, deliberate, like he was walking across a memory—and burying it with every footfall.
“Don’t play dumb.”
The gambler’s breath hitched. "I—look, I don’t—”
"I’m not real." Mafioso’s tone cracked like a gunshot. "I’m a symptom. A consequence. Your little miracle cure. The one that said it’d help you sleep, keep the dreams manageable. I’m the part it didn’t fix.”
“Whoa, hey—Mafioso, slow down—just listen—”
"I am the side effect, Chance." His voice sharpened into a snarl, seething with something ugly—something between fury and betrayal. "A glitch in your rotten system. And you knew.”
The words struck like a slap. Cold. Irrevocable.
“I’m the tremor in your hands. The burn behind your eyes. The static in your skull.” Mafioso's voice was a blade, sharp enough to flay skin from bone. “I’m why you bleed. I’m why you drown.”
Chance’s lips parted, but nothing came. Just a breath. Another. His throat worked like he was choking on the truth—on the weight of it.
Mafioso kept going.
"And you knew." The snarl dropped to a rasp, tight and trembling—not just with rage, but pain. Raw. Jagged. Unforgiving. “You looked me in the eye. Smiled. Lied.”
A beat.
“Were you planning to die here, too?”
“I didn’t mean—I wasn’t—”
"DON’T." The word cut.
The word tore through the air, final as a verdict. Behind him, the sunset had gone red—bleeding into blistering gold. Shadows clawed long across the floor, reaching for Chance like hands from a grave.
“Why do you care?” Chance whispered. His voice cracked like a coin dropped on stone. “Ain’t it better if I just… clock out?”
Mafioso moved.
One moment, he stood at the far end of the carriage. The next, his hand was at Chance’s throat—lifting him clean off the ground.
"The moment you held me...” Mafioso roared, eyes flaring with molten fury beneath the shadow of his hat, “That was when it started. And now you feed me this?!”
Chance gasped, hands clawing at Mafioso’s wrist, feet kicking uselessly in the air. His face turned a sickly red, veins crawling up his neck. His vision blurred at the edges, darkening.
He was going to pass out.
He was going to die.
At the last possible second, Mafioso dropped them.
Chance hit the floor hard, limbs sprawling. They coughed violently, dragging in air like it might vanish again.
His fingers scrambled at his own throat, as if to make sure it was still whole.
Mafioso stood over them. Loomed. His chest heaved with each breath, fists clenched so tight his gloves were dark with his own blood.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice cracked. Just once. But it was enough. Enough to betray what boiled beneath.
“You let me kill you.”
Chance’s eyes shimmered.
The train rocked again—but they didn’t move. Couldn’t. He stayed on his knees, trembling. Broken.
“I… started carin’ about you,” they breathed, like the words were razors dragging out of their throat. “You used to kill me. Over and over. And yeah, I hated you for it. Thought I did.”
They gave a shaky laugh—more breath than sound. “But then you stopped hauntin’ me and started… stayin’. And I don’t know when that changed. I just know it did.”
A pause—then a crack in his voice, thin and splitting.
“It got quiet. Peaceful, even. Even while my head was goin’ sideways. And I knew—I knew—if I quit the pills, I’d lose you. And I didn’t wanna.”
Mafioso flinched.
Not visibly. But something in his breath stuttered—like a blade slipped between ribs.
“I couldn’t,” Chance continued, voice shrinking to a whisper. “You were the only thing that felt… real. Even if you were cuttin’ me to pieces.”
He swallowed hard.
“Even if I knew I was crashin’. I just…”
Their shoulders shook, barely holding them upright. A bitter little laugh escaped, too hollow to be amused.
“Guess I’d rather go out dreamin’ of you than wake up to a world without you in it.”
A broken grin tugged at the corner of his mouth—sad, tilted, trembling.
“Kinda poetic. Or just pathetic. Hard to tell.”
Outside, the wind howled.
The vines crawling along the windows writhed tighter, thorns gouging the glass. A single blue flower unfurled behind Chance’s ear—small. Fragile. Like a last, desperate plea.
Mafioso stared.
Hands twitching. Jaw clenched. Like he didn’t know whether to reach for him—
—or let him fall for good.
“Don’t.”
A beat.
“Don’t say that.”
But it wasn’t a command.
It was a plea.
Chance smiled. Weak. Defeated. Honest.
“Too late, ain’t it?”
Silence.
The train lurched again—swaying like the world might come off its tracks.
And for the first time—
Mafioso looked afraid.
Not of Chance.
Of what he’d become without the drugs.
“It was a mistake. The kiss—” Mafioso began.
“Knew it.”
Chance’s voice cracked mid-syllable, sharp as a gunshot.
Mafioso froze. The rest of the sentence died on his lips. The moment shattered—like glass underfoot. Irreparable.
Chance staggered back, breath coming in jagged bursts. The shaky grin that had once been there twisted into something awful. Broken. A trembling thing that couldn’t decide if it was a smile or a snarl.
Their sunglasses didn’t hide the shimmer in their eyes, didn’t stop the tears from slipping hot down their cheeks, flushing skin already red from holding it in too long.
“‘Course I ain’t worth lovin’,” Chance whimpered, voice raw—accusatory. Tired in the way that lived in the bones. “Joke’s on me for tryin’, huh?”
Mafioso reached for them—an instinct. Maybe to explain.
Maybe to undo.
But Chance recoiled like he’d been struck.
“Don’t.” The word came out like a blade, cold and shaking. “Don’t you dare.”
The snarl in their voice startled even them—foreign, ragged.
“I knew it!” he screamed, and the train itself seemed to tremble with him.
The windows shuddered in their frames. The blue flowers that crawled the walls withered to black husks on the spot.
“I’m not someone people keep, am I?! I’m the spare part. The easy fix. The punchline that stops bein’ funny.”
Their body shook, sobs ripping out of them as they clawed at their own sleeves like they could tear something ugly out of themself. Something wrong.
“I knew I was never worth loving,” he gasped. “No one bets on me long term. Not even you.”
“Chance.” Mafioso’s voice was rough now, low and desperate.
“Don’t lie.” Chance snapped, eyes blazing through the blur of tears. “Just—don’t. I’m a mess, alright? Cards, pills, danger… people. I get hooked on everything. But I thought…” His breath caught on a sob. When he looked up again, the pain in his eyes was unbearable.
“I thought maybe—just this once—someone saw me. Not the gambler. Not the freak. Me.”
They pressed a trembling hand to their chest, as if trying to hold something in. Or maybe keep something out.
“Was I that far off?” he whispered. “Thought maybe… maybe you wanted me too. That kiss—"
His gaze dropped.
Blood.
Thick and red, blooming from his gloves.
It spread up their wrists, staining the cuffs of their jacket like ink bleeding through paper.
It dripped in slow, steady beats to the floor of the train—soft taps that matched their racing pulse.
“Oh.”
He blinked down at it, dazed.
“Oh, there it is again.”
Mafioso moved—swift, instinctive—but still too far.
Always too far.
“Chance—”
“Why’s it gotta hurt?” Chance croaked, voice hoarse and small. “Why does bein’ used—bein’ tossed out—still hurt this much? Ain’t like it’s new…”
His legs gave out. He collapsed where he stood, a heap of blood, breath, and broken noise. They looked up at Mafioso with a smile that cut deeper than any knife.
“You said it was a mistake.” His voice barely rose above a whisper, every word a wound. “Guess that’s what I am, huh? A mistake you wanna file and forget. Like bad paperwork.”
Mafioso’s face twisted—guilt, pain, horror. Hands hovered mid-air between them, useless.
“That’s not what I—”
“You twisted it.”
“Then say it.” Chance’s voice cracked as he forced the words out, choking on them. “Look at me and say it wasn’t just a mistake. That you don’t regret it. That you—”
He faltered. Swallowed hard. Heart in his throat.
“That you want me.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Mafioso’s jaw clenched. His fists trembled at his sides.
He opened his mouth—to confess? To deny? To lie?
Nothing came out.
And that—that silence—was the worst answer of all.
Chance let out a laugh. Wet. Broken. A sound that didn’t know whether it was supposed to cry or scream.
“Figures,” he whispered. The grin returned—but it didn’t reach his eyes. It never did. “Shoulda known better than to ask.”
The blood on his hands kept spreading, a slow, steady pool that crept beneath him like a grotesque halo.
Mafioso lurched forward, words finally catching in his throat. “Don’t do this.”
But the train shuddered—hard this time. A violent jolt that sent the whole world tilting sideways.
And Chance was falling.
Not just down.
Through.
Through the floor. Through the dream. Through the very fabric of what held this world together.
Mafioso’s hand shot out, reaching—
Too late.
Their fingers almost touched.
Almost.
And then—
Nothing.
Chance was gone.
No noise. No scream. Just absence.
All that remained was the echo of his voice, still ringing—shattered, hollow—and the scent of blood and wilted flowers.
And the space where he had stood—
Wide.
Empty.
Unforgiving.
Mafioso’s outstretched hand trembled in the air.
“…Chance.”
His voice was raw.
Broken.
But there was no one left to hear it.
The train howled like a dying beast. The metal beneath it groaned—splitting down the center as if the world itself couldn’t carry the weight of what had been said.
The flowers turned to dust.
The walls peeled back into sky.
Wind screamed through the hollowed space, and the sun—
Collapsed into shadow.
And then—
Ash.
The entire train burst apart, dissolving like smoke on the breath of something cruel and ancient.
All that remained was the flicker of blue petals—
Spinning, weightless—
Like confetti at the funeral of a dream.
…
…
Chance jolted awake to hands gripping their shoulders, shaking them hard.
“Chance! C’mon—wake up already, wake the hell up!”
Elliot’s voice cracked with fury—but beneath it, sheer panic bled through.
Chance blinked slowly, pupils dilated, vision swimming in pale yellow and sickly gray. His limbs felt like wet sand. His head pounded like he’d been trampled.
And still… he smiled. Weak. Dazed.
“Been out long?” he rasped.
“You’ve been out for two days!” Elliot was shouting now. “Do you have any idea how freaked out we were?! We thought you were—!”
“Dead?” Chance cut in, mouth curling into a crooked grin. “Now that would’ve made a hell of an exit.”
“Shut up!” Elliot snapped, voice cracking as he pulled his hands away. “D-Don’t say that! Don’t ever joke like that again, got it?!”
Behind him, the others had gathered. Guest stood silently, brows furrowed in concern. Builderman hovered nearby, arms folded, tension pulling tight across his jaw. Noob clung to the wall like a frightened animal, eyes wide, fingers white-knuckled in the plaster.
And at the back—Shedletsky.
Still.
Silent.
Arms crossed. Face unreadable. But his eyes…
His eyes didn’t leave Chance.
And in Elliot’s trembling hand—
The bottle.
Empty.
“So,” Chance murmured, glancing at it. “You ratted me out.”
“I—I didn’t want to,” Elliot stammered. “But I had to, okay? You weren’t waking up. You wouldn’t even move. I thought—God, I thought we were too late.”
Chance didn’t answer. Just let their head fall back against the cold wall behind them, gaze sliding upward to the ceiling like it might give them answers.
Maybe nothing at all.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
The Days After
They didn’t let him sleep unsupervised anymore.
Builderman kept a rotating watch schedule, clipboard never far from hand—even when the exhaustion crept into his usually unshakable voice. Dusekkar brewed him tea laced with calming herbs, his silent presence offering more than words ever could. Guest hovered with downcast eyes, guilt etched deep into his quiet frown, like he blamed himself for not noticing the signs sooner. Maybe he did.
007n7 stayed close, awkward but steadfast. He’d sit beside Chance without speaking, sometimes holding out a lukewarm slice of pizza with a quiet, “I, uh… saved this for you.” Most of the time, Chance wouldn’t eat it, but he always took it.
Noob tried to cheer him up in the only way they knew how: by rambling nervously and handing over half-burnt sentry blueprints with scribbled smiley faces. “Y-You could—uh—build this? If you wanna? It’s got…uh…uhm, turbo feet!”
Shedletsky—surprisingly—was the one who acted without show. He was still his usual self in public: cracking jokes, making snide commentary, grinning too wide for anyone’s comfort. But when he thought no one was watching, he swept Chance’s room clean of anything remotely sharp. He left behind nothing but a pillow, a blanket, and one of those joke rubber chickens. Chance never asked if it was meant to be funny or not.
The pills were gone.
Not hidden. Not hoarded. Gone. Either flushed or burned or buried—no one would say where. Only that they weren’t an option anymore.
The withdrawal hit hard.
They couldn’t sleep. Not really. His body was too used to the chemicals, and his mind too frayed.
The first night nearly ended in disaster—Taph had taken first watch, and when they tried to get him to lie down, he thrashed and screamed until the others came rushing in. He shouted that he didn’t want to see it again. That he couldn’t watch his friend die over and over. That they should just let him go.
But they didn’t.
They held him down.
Let him cry.
Let him scream.
And eventually… he slept.
But when he did, there were no dreams.
No Spade.
No golden fields or swaying grass.
No fog curling at the edges.
No piano.
No Mafioso.
Nothing.
Just black.
And every time they drifted off, they woke up gasping. Clawing at the sheets like they were drowning him. Reaching for something that wasn’t there.
He stopped smiling.
He stopped joking.
Not in that manic, self-destructive way—the kind that used to make the coin in his fingers spin faster and his laughter sound like broken glass. No, this was different. Quieter. Emptier.
Elliot noticed first.
He’d glance over while passing by in the safehouse—mid-stride, mid-sentence—and freeze when he saw Chance just… staring. Into a corner. Into nothing. A shadow behind his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
Chance didn’t speak unless someone addressed him first. And even then, their responses were short. Muted. At night, they could hear him whispering into the dark like he expected it to whisper back.
“Missin’ you’s gettin’ real old, y’know.”
His voice was quiet. Worn. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from lack of sleep, but from hoping too long for something that never came.
He was devastated—but not dramatically so. There were no outbursts, no slammed fists or tearful breakdowns. Just the slow, sinking weight of knowing he had loved harder than he was ever loved back.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
The snowfall was near silent—soft as breath. A thousand white petals spiraled from the sky, catching on rooftops, lashes, and the shoulders of heavy coats. The world lay dipped in monochrome, a cold fog stretching so far it devoured the horizon whole. Footsteps crunched faintly over the snow, echoing like muffled gunshots in the empty alleys of a ghost town.
Mafioso walked ahead, cloak billowing slightly with each determined stride. The fur-lined collar of his coat had caught a dusting of snowflakes, melting into the worn fabric. His gloved fingers flexed idly, always near the hilt of his blade, as though his body knew something would go wrong long before his mind let it admit.
He was doing routine work—collections, assessments, damage reports.
Because that was all he was.
A debt collector. A blade. A shadow with a ledger in one hand and a knife in the other.
So what right did he have?
What right did he have to think of him?
That radiant little sunbeam in a gambler’s suit. That walking contradiction. Loud. Grinning. Reckless. Kind. The kind of man who gave everything like it meant nothing—like he didn’t know it was already killing him. That idiot had seeped into his life like sunlight through bullet holes.
And when he left, he took the warmth with him.
Now, the void burned.
“Boss,” one of the mafialings murmured behind him, hesitant. “That gambler… what about them?”
Mafioso didn’t stop. Didn’t turn. His voice sliced through the cold like steel.
“Leave it.”
Silence fell like snow.
They exchanged glances—muted, nervous. No one dared say his name. Not after last time. Not after a simple fedora left behind on a bench had stopped their boss cold in his tracks.
Ahead, a flicker of movement.
A figure leaned against a half-buried wooden post, coat thin, dress thinner—far too little for the weather. Her arms crossed, her expression carved in boredom. As Mafioso approached, she pushed off the post with a graceful shift.
Nashatra.
She blinked, clearly not expecting him of all people. Then huffed and rolled her eyes, brushing snow from her shoulder with exaggerated disdain.
“Seriously?” she drawled, plucking snowflakes from her shoulder. “Still assigning dogs to track me? Getting predictable.”
“You’re overdue,” Mafioso said, flat.
“You say that like I’m ever not indebted.” She arched an eyebrow. “Eunoia doesn’t make a fuss.”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“But you do. Noted.”
“Oh. So it’s that kind of day.” Nashatra tilted her head, evaluating him like one might a malfunctioning machine—curious, detached. “You’re not here about credits. You’re brooding.”
They always fought like this.
Nashatra owed enough debt to buy her own crater. And yet, Eunoia—fickle, brilliant, ever-curious Eunoia—was fond of her. That made Nashatra untouchable. A permanent thorn in Mafioso’s side, flickering just out of reach and laughing when she did.
But today wasn’t like the others.
Mafioso’s grip on his sword hilt was white-knuckled. His eyes didn’t gleam with the usual sharp annoyance—no calculated disdain, no amused menace. Just something darker.
Heavy. Festering.
He wanted her gone.
Nashatra’s smirk faltered. Her gaze sharpened.
“…Oh.”
She tapped her chin with one gloved finger, considering him.
“Let me guess. Still losing sleep over your solar flare in a suit?”
Mafioso’s silence was a snarl without sound. His expression remained still, but something behind it shifted—dangerously.
Nashatra’s grin sharpened.
“Word travels, you know. You look like you’ve been haunting yourself lately. Not a good shade on you.”
That did it.
His blade unsheathed in a blink—steel flashing in the pale light. The mafialings flinched and scrambled back, boots crunching across ice. Nashatra laughed, already drawing her weapon: a rapier, a barely legal contraption she called a fitness weapon, mostly because it annoyed him.
“Relax. You came for a fight,” she said, teeth flashing. Her usually closed eyes opening. “Let’s make it worth the trouble.”
Steel met steel.
The snow exploded under their feet as they moved—fluid, brutal, relentless. Mafioso struck with the elegance of a dancer trained on bloodshed, but his precision was laced with fury, every swing heavier than the last.
Nashatra parried with flourish, steam hissing from her blade, eyes alight.
She could tell.
He wasn’t here for her.
He was here for what she represented.
“All this because I said his name?” she called over the clash of metal. “That’s fragile—even for you.”
“Enough.”
“Touched a nerve?” She taunted, parrying with a hiss. “Don’t tell me you actually left him. Bleeding, no less? Textbook self-sabotage.”
She caught the shift in his eyes, the flicker of guilt he hadn’t buried fast enough.
And then it clicked.
“Wait. You did, didn’t you?”
That was all.
His blade surged forward with a burst of violence—striking hers with such force it ripped the weapon from her grasp. It clattered uselessly into the snow.
He stepped forward.
The tip of his sword pressed to her throat.
Silence.
Only the snow moved, falling gentle as ever—untouched by rage, unstained by the violence it blanketed.
Nashatra’s breath curled in soft puffs of white. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t back down.
She just watched him—like he was a problem to be solved.
“Go on,” she murmured. “Prove it matters. Prove I said something untrue.”
Mafioso’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding behind a mask of silence.
“You’re not angry at me,” she said softly. “You’re angry that you broke the only thing that didn’t fear you.”
Still, he said nothing.
But his blade pressed in—just enough to draw breath from her throat.
“You don’t know anything,” he growled.
The sword shook.
“You never learned how to hold something soft,” she went on. “So you destroyed it first.”
A low, inhuman noise rumbled from his chest.
“Because if you kill it first,” she whispered, “it can’t leave.”
The tremble in the blade worsened. His hand lowered—just slightly.
“That wasn’t love,” Nashatra said. “That was fear. Fear wearing a nicer coat.”
She leaned in, her voice a velvet dagger.
“Poor little dog. All bite. No heart.”
The sword snapped back. In one swift, practiced motion, Mafioso sheathed it.
He turned, cloak sweeping snow behind him, the weight of silence heavier than steel.
Nashatra exhaled slowly, brushing snow from her sleeves like it was just another chore.
“You’ll crawl back eventually,” she called. “The question is if there’ll still be anyone waiting.”
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t look back.
But where he’d stood, the snow was streaked red—not with blood, but crushed petals.
And he hated how much she was right.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
The snowfall never stopped at Eunoia’s castle.
It drifted silently beyond the tall arched windows—soft and weightless, as if time itself had surrendered. The sky outside was an endless canvas of pale infinity, the horizon lost in frost and fog. No beginning. No end.
Inside, however, the air was warm.
Golden light bathed the sitting room, casting soft reflections on polished porcelain. Sugared pastries rested neatly on a three-tiered tray—delicate, untouched. A gentle clock ticked in the background, more ceremonial than functional.
Eunoia sat by the window, tea cup in hand, her posture poised and effortless. One hand cradled the porcelain handle; the other rested near a half-eaten slice of cake—its whipped cream beginning to melt. Steam rose in slow spirals from her cup, and her expression was serene. Unbothered. As though the crumbling world outside was merely a curious case study she had yet to complete.
The great doors groaned open.
A gust of snow followed the figure that entered, trailing flakes across the marble floor. Mafioso stepped inside without a word. Snow clung to his coat, beading at the seams before vanishing into the warmth. His boots clicked sharply with each step, reverberating through the hush like a metronome in mourning.
He stopped before her.
And dropped to one knee, head bowed low.
"My lady," he said, voice low, hoarse around the edges.
Eunoia set her cup down with the quiet grace of someone who’d been expecting him.
“Mafioso,” she greeted, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “You’re late. The apple tart is cold.”
He said nothing. Remained still, kneeling before her like a knight offering silence in place of penance.
“I assume the debts are neutralized?” she asked mildly, eyes drifting back toward the snowfall. “Or is Nashatra still attempting to weaponize her delays?”
He rose slowly. Precise. Composed.
“Yes,” he replied. “She stalled. As expected. We’re ahead of schedule. The reports will arrive by morning.”
His tone was clipped. Efficient. But beneath the control, something trembled. His voice—normally a blade—lacked its usual edge. It sounded dulled. Worn thin.
Eunoia stirred her tea, porcelain clinking delicately.
Then, quietly—
“Mafioso,” she said, setting the spoon down, “tell me—do you wish to leave this assignment? This version of yourself?”
He stiffened.
“…What?”
“You don’t have to answer now,” she continued, voice as light as the snow outside. “But if you could… would you go?”
He straightened fully, as if standing taller might shield him from the weight of the question.
“My loyalty has not changed,” he said. “I follow orders.”
Eunoia tilted her head, studying him—not with judgment, but with quiet understanding.
“But your eyes,” she murmured, finally meeting his gaze, “they’re already somewhere else.”
Her tone wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t even sad. It was clinical, almost—like observing the inevitable outcome of a failing formula.
Mafioso’s hands curled into fists. Still, he said nothing.
“You’ve done everything you could,” she said gently. “But maybe it’s time to rest.”
He didn’t move.
His breath hitched.
Eunoia sipped her tea once more.
“You told me once you weren’t made for love,” she said, almost wistfully. “And yet… look at you now.”
The words struck with quiet precision.
No accusation. No pity. Just truth.
And something inside him cracked.
His body trembled—only slightly. But it was enough.
She saw it.
He turned away.
“This changes nothing,” he rasped.
“On the contrary,” Eunoia replied calmly, “it changes you.”
His gloved hands reached out—hesitated—then gently took hers.
He knelt again, but not as a soldier this time.
Not as a collector of debts.
He knelt like a man crumbling beneath years of silence and guilt, head bowed low, shoulders shaking as he clutched her hands like they might anchor him to something that hadn’t yet shattered.
His voice was barely audible.
“I hurt him,” he said.
“Told him I was the reason he was dying.”
“Said I regretted... loving him.”
His throat tightened.
“I didn’t mean it.”
“I didn’t want to.”
The words fractured, brittle as glass. His whole body seemed to fold inward.
“I thought keeping him away would keep him safe.”
“He trusted me. And I made him bleed for it.”
For a moment, Eunoia said nothing. She only looked at him—truly looked, with a gaze not cold, but clear.
Then she spoke, voice soft as starlight on water.
“You’ve always been quietly selfless,” she said. “You wear coldness like armor because warmth, for you, has always meant risk.”
Her fingers closed gently around his.
“But those you care for… you protect them, even when it costs you everything.”
Her touch was steady. Grounding.
Then, in the same voice she used to describe dying stars or decaying timelines—serene, certain—she offered:
“You’re always welcome.”
She tilted her head toward the drifting snow outside.
“In dream logic, proximity is an act of will. All you have to do is want it.”
His breath caught in his throat.
“It wouldn’t be the same,” he whispered.
“No,” she agreed. “It won’t be the same.”
She squeezed his hands once more.
“But that doesn’t make it less real. And maybe… it’s time you saw what the world feels like without fear.”
He looked up at her then.
And in his eyes—anguish. The kind of sorrow that doesn’t beg for forgiveness, only understanding.
Eunoia smiled.
And gently stroked the back of his hand.
“What you felt—that belonged to you. And nothing—not time, not waking, not regret—can ever take that away.”
Outside, the snow continued to fall.
Soft.
Endless.
Untouched.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
The lobby was hollow with stillness, like even the walls were holding their breath.
Outside, the storm raged.
Rain lashed the tall glass like it was trying to peel the building apart. Thunder cracked low and distant—long, slow, like a warning meant only for those still foolish enough to be listening. Builderman had sealed the exits hours ago. No rounds. No lights. No voices.
Just Chance.
Curled near the far wall like something forgotten. Their coat was soaked at the hem, fedora slouched low over their face. The flickering lights from the storm made them look like a statue left to rot—crumbling slowly under the weight of time and memory.
His thumb rolled a coin across his palm. Over. And over.
The motion wasn’t conscious. It was muscle memory. Habit. Hollow.
Then—just slightly—they tilted their head back. Their voice cut through the silence like a match struck in a blackout.
“Didn’t even leave a damn goodbye.”
It wasn’t aimed at anyone.
Not the door.
Not the shadows.
Just… the air.
The coin trembled in his hand.
He stared at it like it might speak on behalf of the man who didn’t.
“You said you cared,” they whispered. “What, was that just a nice lie to tuck me in?”
Silence answered.
Only thunder replied—rolling deep, patient, merciless.
“I gave it all, y’know,” he said louder now, voice raw. “Just for a glimpse of you.”
He laughed.
A dry, pitiful sound.
“And all I got in return?” His jaw clenched. “A crater where my heart used to be.”
Their fingers rose, pressed against their temples—desperate, as if they could dig the thoughts out with enough pressure.
“Can’t even dream no more,” he muttered, a broken grin curling up. “You took that too.”
But the grin didn’t hold.
It twisted.
Collapsed.
He folded in on himself. Arms wrapped tight around his knees, body hunched like he was trying to disappear inside himself. His hands shook. Trembled. Breaths came ragged—each one a fight to hold back the sound of breaking.
And just down the hall—unseen—someone leaned against the wall.
They hadn’t meant to listen.
Not at first.
But they had.
They heard every word.
Watched how the gambler collapsed like origami under grief. Watched how a man like Chance—loud, sharp, impossible—quietly came undone on the cold tile floor, like the world had ended and only he noticed.
Their hand hovered near the wall’s edge. Caught between decision and doubt.
They looked at the door.
Then back at him.
The hallway felt impossibly long.
And then—
They turned.
And walked away.
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
They sat alone in the corner of the safe room.
The others had long since gone to sleep.
The only light came from a flickering lamp in the corner, casting long shadows across the metal walls. The air was quiet—too quiet. Like the room itself was holding its breath.
Elliot held a small pill between his thumb and forefinger, his mouth drawn tight with guilt.
“I-I probably shouldn’t be doing this,” he muttered. “But... I know you. You’re not gonna move on until you say goodbye.”
Chance stared at it, hands trembling faintly.
“You sure ‘bout this?” he asked softly, eyes fixed on the capsule. “You were right. ‘Bout all of it.”
Elliot’s gaze dropped.
“Yeah, and you still hate me for it,” he murmured. “I wanted to say sorry. I really did. But if it happened again… I think I’d still make the same call.”
Chance gave a breath of laughter—barely that. Just a release of air, heavy and bitter.
“I don’t hate you. Just… miss what it felt like. Bein’ okay. I was happy. Then I wasn’t. Simple as that.”
And then they took the pill.
Not with desperation this time—but with reverence. With finality.
A soft exhale left them as the weight settled in. A choice made. A line crossed.
Elliot looked away, voice barely above a whisper now.
“Make it count. Three hours. That’s all I can give you.”
Chance gave him the smallest smile—tired, grateful, already somewhere else.
“Don’t worry, partner,” they said. “I’m good at games with a timer.”
⋆༺𓆩⚔𓆪༻⋆
The world had bloomed like watercolor—soft at the edges, colors bleeding into each other with the dreamlike unreality of a memory not entirely yours.
The cliff stretched endlessly beneath Chance’s feet. One wrong shift forward and he could’ve disappeared into the sky, swallowed by horizonless light.
Behind him, wind combed through a sea of flowers—tiger lilies, marigolds, wild poppies—painted in impossible reds, oranges, and bruised purples. Rabbits darted between them like flickers of thought, too quick to catch, too delicate to last. The dream itself seemed unsteady, like it was remembering how to breathe.
Chance sat at the very edge.
Legs dangling.
Boots kicking lazily above the abyss.
The air here was thinner. Sweeter. It smelled like memories they didn’t want and never asked for. They hated flowers—always had. They reminded them of endings. Of funerals.
But now…
They suited this.
So he sat.
And waited.
Far off, the breeze carried faint music—not a piano this time, just the soft rustle of grass, the hush of petals moving like breath, and the distant rhythm of his own heart slowing down.
Then—
Footsteps.
They didn’t turn.
They didn’t need to.
“Mafioso,” he breathed, lips trembling.
“You’re a fool,” came the low, familiar voice behind him. “You came back.”
Chance let out a crooked laugh—half-broken, half-joyful.
“What’d you expect? I always double down.”
They looked over their shoulder.
And there he was.
Mafioso, standing stiff and still, coat dark against the flowers, gaze unreadable but burning. His brow was furrowed—like this was a mistake, like he’d already mourned this moment and resented seeing it again.
Chance’s voice cracked.
“I just… wanted to see you. One more time.”
His hands clenched in his lap.
“I get it now, okay? I’ll stop. I’ll get better. I’ll disappear if that’s what you want. Just—”
He looked up, eyes glassy but not crying—not yet.
“Let me have this.”
And then—before Mafioso could answer, before logic could wake him—
Chance surged forward.
They kissed him.
It wasn’t perfect.
It was desperate.
Messy. Trembling.
A hundred cracked apologies spilled into the space between them. A hundred confessions pressed into Mafioso’s mouth. Chance’s hands fisted into the fabric of Mafioso’s coat like he was terrified the dream might end in the middle of a heartbeat.
But Mafioso didn’t move.
Didn’t kiss back.
Didn’t lean in.
Didn’t pull away.
And that…
That hurt worse than any sharp rejection ever could.
Chance faltered.
Pulled back half a breath.
His words stuttered out, fractured and wet and raw.
“I—I’m sorry. I thought if I just—if you saw—”
They couldn’t finish. The words broke in their mouth. Their fingers trembled, still clinging to Mafioso’s coat.
“Please,” he whispered. “Just… let me pretend. Just for a second.”
Then—
A sigh.
Low. Heavy. Tired in a way only the damned get.
And two gloved, clawed hands reached out—
Cradled his face.
Firm.
Unshaking.
Chance blinked up, lashes wet and clumped from unshed tears, caught off guard by the sudden, quiet tenderness in the gesture. Mafioso’s hands—those brutal, cold instruments of retribution—were now holding his face with something terrifyingly close to reverence.
The rough pads of his thumbs brushed beneath Chance’s eyes, wiping away the dampness with a stroke so gentle it hurt worse than any slap. Then, slowly, his grip slid down—fingers pressing against Chance’s jaw, not to force, but to hold. Steady. Grounded. Like he was something breakable.
“This,” Mafioso growled, voice low and rough as gravel dragged across silk, “is how you kiss.”
And then he leaned in.
His mouth crashed into Chance’s—not wild, not frantic, but with purpose.
It was filthy from the first second.
Mafioso’s lips were hot, demanding, sealing over Chance’s with a dominance that left no room for hesitation. His tongue parted their mouth with no warning—hot, slow, and unbearably thorough. He kissed like he wanted to memorize the shape of them, taste every unsaid word, burn them into his mouth until they bled.
Chance whimpered. His body melted into it, pliant, helpless. He didn’t resist—he couldn’t—not with Mafioso sucking his tongue, the wet, obscene sound of it echoing between them, saliva slicking their chins.
Mafioso devoured him.
Every slide of his tongue was a promise, every nip of his teeth a threat. He kissed Chance like he was branding him, like no one else would dare touch him after this.
And god, it was working.
Chance’s knees went weak, a heat coiling deep and low in their stomach. Their cock stirred, hardening thick against the inside of their thigh, shame and need mixing in their veins like poison.
His breath came in ragged, desperate gasps, but Mafioso didn’t let up, his grip tightening, his tongue fucking into Chance’s mouth with a rhythm that had him seeing stars.
When Mafioso finally pulled away, it was only by a fraction—just enough to let Chance drag in a shuddering breath. A thick strand of spit connected their lips, glistening before snapping. Chance was a mess—cheeks flushed crimson, lips swollen and wet, his chest heaving as he stared up at the man in dazed confusion.
Mafioso loomed over them, his gaze black with hunger under the shadow of his fedora. The way he looked at Chance—possessive, dark, downright predatory—sent another jolt of heat straight to their groin.
The air between their lips still burned faintly with heat, but the world around them had stilled. Flowers swayed lazily in the breeze, the sky untouched, but something between them shifted—something more fragile than any dream.
Chance blinked, dazed. His hands hovered near Mafioso’s chest like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to keep touching him.
“Wait…” he breathed, voice caught somewhere between a question and a sob. “Didn’t you say you… didn’t want this?”
They trailed off, but the weight of it hung there.
Didn’t you say you regretted it?
Didn’t you say you didn’t love me?
Mafioso didn’t answer right away.
His eyes—still dark and molten from the kiss—lowered slightly.
Not in shame.
But in restraint.
Like he was holding back a storm now that the door had cracked open, and part of him feared what might come flooding through.
“I was afraid,” he admitted. Barely more than a breath.
Chance’s chest rose sharply, like hope was dangerous. Like breathing too deeply might scare it off.
Mafioso didn’t look away.
He stood tall, composed as always, but his eyes—those carefully guarded eyes—were raw now. Exposed.
“I blamed you,” he said. “Not because it was true. Because it was easy.”
“Everything I touch breaks.”
His voice was steady. Quiet. Like a confession scrawled in the margins of a death sentence.
“Pain. That’s all I’ve known. Giving it. Taking it.”
“And then you—”
His gaze flickered over Chance’s face.
“You were soft. Bright. Stupid.”
“And I didn’t know how to touch you without bleeding.”
He clenched a fist. Unclenched it.
“I told myself I didn’t want you.”
“Better than breaking you.”
Chance just looked at him.
Eyes wide. Lips parted. Like he was afraid to blink and lose the moment to waking.
Then—
He grinned.
Not the cocky, mask-wearing grin.
This one was smaller. Gentler. Honest.
He stepped forward, brushing close, tiptoeing slightly to press a soft kiss to the corner of Mafioso’s mouth.
“You’re a damn mess,” they murmured, voice warm, almost teasing. “But hey—’spose I’m feelin’ generous.”
Mafioso blinked.
“…You’re letting it go?”
Chance shrugged, stepping back with a lopsided smile.
“You said it first—bein’ scared. I just... followed your lead.”
“And hey—you kiss like you meant it. I get attached to dumb things like that.”
Mafioso didn’t smile.
But the tension in his shoulders eased. Slightly.
He gave Chance a long look—part incredulous, part almost amused.
“…You never stop, do you?”
“And you should’ve figured that out two breakdowns ago,” Chance shot back with a smirk.
But then the smile faded. Mellowed. Softened into something quieter.
His gaze dropped to the side. He shifted, arms folding loosely across his chest.
“Had a buddy once,” they said, voice dipping. “Real close—thought we were tight.”
Mafioso didn’t interrupt. He watched, listening.
“We were in this game. Russian roulette. Six chambers, one bullet. Just me and him.” Chance looked at the flowers, watching them sway. “He set it up. Said it’d be funny. Said I’d be fine.”
Chance laughed. A hollow thing. Dry and sharp.
“I lived—‘course I did. Luck’s all I got.” He tapped his temple. “But turns out he rigged it. Wanted to win. Bullet wasn’t a blank.”
Mafioso didn’t move. The breeze rustled through the flowers, carrying the faint scent of something sweet and distant, but the air between them went still. Tight. Unspoken.
Chance’s eyes were far away now—caught in that old memory. He didn’t notice the shift in Mafioso’s face.
Didn’t see the way his jaw tensed.
Didn’t catch the unreadable look that flickered through those dark eyes like a shadow passing over glass. Something restrained. Heavy.
A hint of guilt. And something far worse.
Foreshadowing.
Because Mafioso already knew what he’d have to do. Not now. Not here. But soon. For Chance’s sake. That was the worst part of it. That it would hurt him—but save him, too. That was the curse of loving something too soft. Eventually, you had to crush it to keep it alive.
Chance, blissfully unaware, exhaled slowly and looked down at his own hands. They were trembling slightly. He forced them still.
“I killed him,” he murmured. “Didn’t mean to. Didn’t even know. And every time I close my eyes, it’s there. The table. The gun. His smile right before he realized I was luckier than him.”
He swallowed hard, then looked up.
“But hey,” he said with a half-grin, shaky at the edges, “past is past. Ain’t much sense dwellin’ when you’re runnin’ on borrowed luck.”
Then, before Mafioso could speak, Chance moved.
In one sudden push, they toppled the other man backward, the flowers bending beneath them with a gentle rustle. Mafioso hit the grass with a dull thud, but didn’t resist. He blinked once, calm and unreadable.
Chance straddled him, thighs squeezing tight around Mafioso’s hips, the rough fabric of his pants grinding down against the hard, undeniable bulge beneath him. Their hands planted on either side of Mafioso’s chest, fingers splayed possessively over the expensive silk of his shirt, wrinkling it with the force of his grip. The fedora tipped back slightly.
His grin was crooked, all teeth and reckless hunger, the kind of smile that promised sin. Wild, maybe. Sad, definitely. But right now? It was pure fucking filth.
“Don’t look so surprised,” Chance purred, voice rough, breathless—not just from movement, but from the way Mafioso’s body burned beneath him, from the memory of every near-miss between them, from the sheer need coiled in his gut. His hips rolled slow, deliberate, the firm curve of his ass dragging against Mafioso’s cock, teasing through layers of fabric. “Clock’s tickin’, baby. Might as well spend what’s left on somethin’ sweet.”
Mafioso lay there, still as the grave, but his body betrayed him—muscles taut, jaw clenched, the sharp inhale through his nose the only sign of the storm brewing beneath that icy exterior. His expression was unreadable, but his arousal? Rock-fucking-hard, straining against his slacks, and Chance could feel it.
With deliberate slowness, Chance reached up, fingers hooking around the arm of their sunglasses. He dragged them off, revealing those hypnotic, glowing golden eyes in full—bright enough to sear, deep enough to drown in. Mafioso’s breath hitched, rough and audible, his big, clawed hands snapping up to grip Chance’s thighs, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
Chance chuckled, low and wicked. “Damn, sweetheart. Didn’t know just takin’ off my shades would short-circuit ya.” He shifted again, grinding down harder, relishing the way Mafioso’s grip tightened, the way his dick twitched beneath him. “Guess that’s on me.”
He didn’t break eye contact as he shrugged off his jacket, letting it slide to the ground with a whisper of fabric. Next came the necktie, loosened with a single, sharp tug before joining the jacket. Then his white shirt—buttons undone one by one, each flick of his fingers agonizingly slow, revealing inch after inch of sculpted muscle, skin marred by scars, old and new, a roadmap of violence and survival.
Mafioso’s gaze burned over him, hungry, ravenous, his claws pricking through the fabric of Chance’s pants. He wanted to devour him—wanted to surge up, claim that mouth, drag his tongue over every scar, every ridge of muscle—but Chance pressed a firm hand to his chest, pushing him back down with a smirk.
“Easy there, big guy. Tonight’s my show,” he murmured, leaning down just enough for his breath to ghost over Mafioso’s lips. “You just lay back and enjoy the fireworks.”
Mafioso exhaled sharply through his nose, a growl rumbling in his chest, but he obeyed—because fuck if he didn’t love this side of Chance, all dominance and dirty promises.
The dim ray of the sunset carved shadows into the Mafioso’s hardened frame as Chance worked him open like a man unwrapping a forbidden gift. His fingers, usually so deft and controlled, trembled just slightly as they loosened the silk tie around the Mafioso’s throat, dragging the fabric slow enough to make the older man’s breath hitch. The tie slithered free, and Chance didn’t waste it—he looped it once around his own wrist, a silent claim, before tossing it aside.
The suit jacket came next, broad shoulders flexing as Chance peeled it back, letting it slide down the Mafioso’s arms but not bothering to remove it completely. No, he left it hanging there, framing the man’s body like a king’s robe, half-dignified and half-debauched. The shirt beneath was still on, but Chance made sure it was open, buttons undone just enough to reveal the sculpted plane of the Mafioso’s chest—a battlefield of muscle, scars, and the dark, coarse hair that trailed down his stomach.
Chance’s mouth watered.
They leaned in, sealing their lips together in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, biting just hard enough to make the Mafioso groan into his mouth. He could taste the remnants of whiskey, the faintest hint of cigar smoke, the salt of sweat already beading at the man’s temples. Chance didn’t pull away—instead, he let his lips trail down, scraping over the rough stubble of the Mafioso’s jaw, down the thick column of his throat, pausing to suck a bruise right over his pulse.
Then lower.
His tongue swiped over a raised scar, one of many—bullet wounds, knife slashes, the story of a life lived violently. But one in particular caught Chance’s attention: the puckered, jagged mark just above the Mafioso’s left pec. They traced it with their fingertip first, feeling the way the man’s breath stuttered, before leaning down and pressing his lips to it.
The Mafioso’s hands flexed at his sides, fingers twitching like he wanted to grab, to crush, to claim—but he held back. For now.
Chance smirked and kept moving.
His hands made quick work of the Mafioso’s belt, the buckle clinking as it came undone, the zipper hissing as he dragged it down. The man’s cock strained against his boxers, thick and heavy, the fabric damp at the tip already. Chance didn’t tease—he hooked his fingers into the waistband and yanked them down, letting the Mafioso’s dick spring free, fully erect, veins standing in stark relief against flushed skin.
“Holy hell...” Chance hissed, their throat bobbing as he swallowed.
It was obscene. A fucking weapon. Thick enough to stretch his fingers just wrapping around it, the head already glistening. He gave an experimental stroke, thumb swiping over the slit, smearing precum as the Mafioso growled above him, hips jerking forward.
Chance didn’t make him wait.
They licked a hot stripe from base to tip before swallowing them down, taking as much as they could in one go. His lips stretched tight, spit already slicking the shaft as he bobbed, hollowing his cheeks. The Mafioso’s hand flew to the back of his head instantly, fingers tangling in his hair—but he didn’t push. Not yet.
Chance glanced up through wet lashes, meeting the Mafioso’s darkened gaze.
And then he dared him.
With a filthy, wet pop, he pulled off just enough to pant, “Don’t hold back. Fuck my throat.”
Mafioso snapped.
His grip turned vicious, yanking Chance down as his hips pistoned up, shoving his cock deep into Chance’s throat without mercy. They gagged, tears springing to his eyes instantly, spit dripping down his chin as the Mafioso used him, fucking into his mouth with brutal, animalistic thrusts. Every time Chance thought he could catch his breath, Mafioso dragged him back down, the thick head of his dick hitting the back of his throat, making him choke, making his nose run, making his vision blur.
The sounds were filthy—wet, sloppy gulps. Filled with Mafioso’s ragged growls, the sound of the wind as he rutted up into Chance’s mouth like a man possessed.
“Take it,” Mafioso snarled, voice rough as gravel. “All of it.”
The gambler could feel the moment he lost control. Mafioso’s thighs trembled, his grip tightening impossibly as he shoved Chance down to the hilt, his cock pulsing as he came in thick, hot spurts straight down their throat.
He had no choice but to swallow, gulping desperately as Mafioso fucked his release deeper into him, milking every last drop.
When he finally let go, Chance collapsed back, gasping, his lips swollen, his face a mess of spit and tears. Mafioso just stared down at him, chest heaving, his expression caught between ravenous hunger and dawning horror.
“I—fuck—” he started, voice wrecked.
The wind whispered through the field, rustling the tall grass around them like a thousand hushed voyeurs. The air was swarmed with the scent of sweat and arousal, the golden light of the dreamscape painting their bodies in a sinful glow. Chance’s breath came in ragged bursts as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, their lips still glistening with spit and the bitter salt of Mafioso’s release. His grin was wicked, all teeth and hunger, as he swung a leg over the larger man’s hips once more.
Bare now, his pants and boxers discarded somewhere in the grass, Chance loomed over Mafioso with a predator’s confidence. His cock stood hard and flushed against his stomach, twitching as the breeze ghosted over it. With deliberate slowness, he dragged his fingers through the mess of cum that managed to streak across his face—thick, pearly strands clinging to his skin—before bringing them down between his own thighs.
"Gonna need this," they murmured, more to himself, smearing the slick over his tight hole. The first press of his finger made him hiss, his body clenching instinctively. Too dry, too tight. He frowned, jaw locking as he forced himself to push past the resistance, knuckle-deep now, his rim fluttering around the intrusion.
Mafioso watched, dark eyes burning, his cock throbbing against his stomach, a fat bead of precome welling at the tip. He didn’t miss the way Chance’s breath hitched, the way his thighs trembled—untouched, untested. A beast with the patience of a saint, he reached up, wrapping a calloused hand around Chance’s cock, thumb swiping over the leaking slit.
"Fuck—!" Chance’s head snapped back, a ragged groan tearing from his throat as pleasure sparked up his spine. His hips jerked into the touch, desperate, greedy, even as he worked himself open with rough, unskilled fingers. One became two, scissoring clumsily, his body resisting even as sweat slicked his skin.
"That’s it," Mafioso rumbled, voice like gravel, thumb circling the frenulum in slow, torturous strokes. “You want this. So good for me.”
Chance panted, chest heaving, his fingers now three-deep, fucking in and out of himself with shallow, frantic thrusts. His hole was reddened, stretched, pulsing around nothing, and the sight of it—his own fingers disappearing inside himself—made Mafioso’s dick drip.
“Y-Yeah...” he gasped, pulling his fingers free with a filthy, wet sound. “Been wantin’ this. Real bad.”
He shifted, his sweat-slicked thighs trembling as he lifted himself up, the thick, veined crown of Mafioso’s cock glistening with pre-cum as it pressed against his tight, fluttering hole. The stretch was already brutal—just the head alone threatened to split him open, his rim straining obscenely around the girth. A smirk curled Chance’s lips, his eyes dark with reckless mischief as he stared down at the man beneath him, his own cock twitching, already leaking against his stomach.
“Heads up,” he drawled, voice thick with faux nonchalance, though his breath hitched as the tip breached him, just barely. “first time doin’ this kinda rodeo. So, uh... try not to break me right out the gate.”
Mafioso’s eyes widened, realization flashing too late—just as Chance, without another second of hesitation, dropped himself down in one brutal, unrelenting thrust.
“Chance—don’t—”
“F-Fuckin’ hell—!”
The scream tore from Chance’s throat, raw and shattered, as Mafioso’s monstrous cock speared him open in a single, searing plunge. His body locked up, every muscle seizing—his back arched violently, his thighs quaking, his hole clenching like a vice around the brutal intrusion. It was too much—the stretch burned, his rim stretched taut, the thick shaft bottoming out inside him, pressing against places that had never been touched, never been violated like this.
"Shit—shit—damn it—!" Chance babbled, their nails raking bloody crescents into Mafioso’s chest, his cock jerking wildly as his body betrayed him instantly. The overwhelming pressure, the unbearable fullness, the way Mafioso’s cock pulsed hot and thick inside him—it was all too much.
They came untouched.
His orgasm ripped through them like a lightning strike—his cock spurting thick, pearly ropes between their sweat-slicked stomachs, his hole convulsing around Mafioso’s shaft in desperate, rhythmic clenches. Tears streaked down his flushed cheeks, his breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps as overstimulation wracked him.
“Oh hell—y-you’re really in—fuckin’ hell—!"
Mafioso snarled, his head thrown back, veins bulging in his neck as his hips jerked up instinctively, driving even deeper. "You—idiot—" he growled, his own cock twitching inside Chance’s scorching heat. “This position—You’ll tear—”
Chance whimpered, a high, broken sound, his body trembling on the knife’s edge of pleasure-pain. His hands flew to Mafioso’s wrists, stopping him from moving, his oversensitive hole fluttering violently around the intrusion. But then—his fingers drifted to his own stomach.
There.
A slight bulge.
Mafioso’s cock stretched them obscenely, a throbbing, veined intrusion buried to the root, so deep it visibly distorted Chance’s abdomen, the outline of it pressing up beneath his skin like a lewd claim. His stomach fluttered with each pulse of the man’s heartbeat, the sheer girth of him reshaping Chance’s insides, forcing his body to accommodate every brutal inch.
"Holy—shit..." Chance gasped, voice shredded, their fingers trembling as they prodded at the faint bulge beneath his navel. "You’re—fuck—you’re really that deep. I can feel you in my damn guts." The words spilled out between panting breaths, his cock twitching helplessly, dripping precome onto Mafioso’s stomach.
And just like that—Mafioso’s restraint shattered.
With a guttural roar, he slammed his hips up, driving himself even deeper, the force of it punching a ragged scream from Chance’s throat. His spine arched, his hole clenching around the invasion, the stretch burning in the sweetest, most torturous way. "I’m going to ruin you," Mafioso snarled, voice dripping with dark promise.
Then he fucked him like it.
No mercy. No reprieve. Just the brutal, piston-like snap of his hips, each thrust spearing Chance down onto his cock with enough force to bruise even when the gambler begged to slow down. The slap of skin was filthy, echoing in the charged air between them, the scent of sweat and sex thick enough to choke on. Mafioso’s grip on Chance’s hips was vise-like, fingers digging in hard enough to leave darkening bruises, his blunt nails carving half-moons into flesh.
Chance’s body jolted with every punishing drive, their rim stretched taut, fluttering around the thick intrusion splitting them open. His cock leaked, untouched and desperate, his thighs trembling as Mafioso angled up—just right—and—
"FUCK!"
The head of Mafioso’s cock rammed straight into his prostate, a lightning bolt of pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain. Chance’s entire body convulsed, his back bowing violently, muscles locking as stars exploded behind his eyelids. Tears streaked down his flushed cheeks, his mouth falling open in a broken scream, fingers clawing at the grass beneath them, ripping it from the roots.
“W-What—fuck—what the hell was that?!” They babbled, voice wrecked, his hole clenching in helpless, greedy pulses around Mafioso’s cock.
Mafioso’s answering grin was pure sin, teeth flashing as he leaned up to sink them into the tender juncture of Chance’s shoulder. The bite was savage, claiming, and Chance mewled, high and desperate, as Mafioso growled against their skin, “That was only the start. I’ll fuck you unconscious.”
And then—he moved.
His thrusts turned punishing, each one driving deeper, harder, until Chance’s entire world narrowed to the brutal stretch of Mafioso’s cock carving him open. The man’s breath was hot against his ear, his voice a rough, filthy whisper. “You’ll forget your name.”
Then—oh God—Mafioso’s cockhead pressed against something tighter, a resistance that made Chance’s breath hitch in panic—
Before Mafioso shoved forward, breaching him there, and—
Chance sobbed.
Pleasure detonated through him like a live wire, white-hot and all-consuming, his vision fracturing into bursts of color behind his tear-blurred eyes. His body clamped down, spasming around Mafioso’s cock as if trying to pull him even deeper, and Mafioso groaned, low and guttural, before wrapping a calloused hand around Chance’s leaking dick.
One stroke. Two.
That was all it took.
Chance came with a shattered cry, their release splattering hot across Mafioso’s chest in thick, sticky ropes. The clench of his orgasm dragged Mafioso over the edge with him, and Chance felt it—the pulsing, the flood of wet heat deep inside him as Mafioso buried himself to the hilt and emptied into him with a rough, satisfied growl.
For a long moment, they stayed like that—Chance boneless beneath him, trembling in the aftermath, their body still twitching with aftershocks as Mafioso’s cock still twitched inside him, spilling the last of his release. The grass whispered beneath them, stirred by a breeze that cooled sweat-slicked skin, rustling wildflowers as the only witness to their shared breath.
Chance’s eyelids fluttered, lashes damp with exhaustion. Mafioso shifted at last, slow and deliberate, pulling away as his coat slipped over broad shoulders. The heavy fabric brushed against Chance’s oversensitive skin, and he let out a soft, dazed noise—too wrecked to flinch, too warm to care.
Then the world fractured.
A sudden coldness cleaved through Chance’s chest—steel, merciless and deep. Their breath hitched as blood bloomed between them, bright as spilled poppies, soaking into both their clothes.
The warmth of Mafioso’s body became a mockery, clinging to him even as life ebbed away.
His fingers curled weakly into Mafioso’s coat. His lips parted, sticky with blood, trembling with disbelief.
“W-why’d you...?” they rasped, voice thin and cracking like dried leaves.
Mafioso didn’t move. His hands tightened around Chance, head bowed, face hidden in the curve of his shoulder. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse—ripped raw from the inside.
He couldn’t look at him—couldn’t bear to see the betrayal in those eyes, the shattered trust, the love that still lingered despite the pain.
“You need to wake up,” he said. "This place—it’s killing you. Live. Out there. Not here.”
Chance’s breath came wet, a shallow sob catching in their throat. He blinked past the blur of blood and tears—watching as, from the pooling crimson between them, a spider lily bloomed. Red as regret. Its petals curled like parting fingers.
He laughed, bitter and broken. “Always thought you'd stab me in the back. Never figured you’d hold me while you did it.”
And then, still shaking, still bleeding, Chance surged forward. His kiss was unforgiving—a final act of defiance, of love twisted by betrayal. Mafioso didn’t pull away. He froze, eyes wide, lips trembling as Chance kissed him through the taste of iron.
Then the pain bloomed in their gut.
Chance had turned the blade.
Slowly. Deeply.
Mafioso choked, breath catching as the steel slid further in. His hands flew to Chance’s wrists—but not to stop him.
He wanted to.
But can’t.
Chance’s voice was soft now. Barely audible.
“I... I love you, y’know?”
Their smile was stained and sorrowful. “Don’t mean nothin’, I guess. Still wanted to say it.”
They waited.
Waited for Mafioso to answer.
But he never did.
Mafioso looked away, jaw clenched, the storm in his eyes unshed and locked behind a mask that wouldn’t crack—couldn’t.
Chance's heart faltered. Their hand slipped from the hilt. With the last of his strength, he reached for the coin in their coat, fingers fumbling. He flipped it once—light catching on the spinning brass—before it clattered to the ground beside them.
He never saw how it landed.
His body grew heavy. The final shudder of breath left them, and the stillness after was deafening.
Mafioso held him until the warmth bled out completely.
Only then did he pull the sword free, the sound of it slick and final. His gloves were soaked in red. His breath trembled as he lifted Chance’s face, thumb brushing blood from his cheek. His own tears fell silently.
He looked at the coin.
Tails.
A love unreturned.
But Mafioso reached down with shaking fingers and turned it.
Heads.
“…I love you,” he whispered.
The words fell into a silence too deep to carry them. The only answer was the soft rustle of spider lilies blooming—hundreds of them now—crimson against the green. Symbols of parting, of death, of the ache of something beautiful gone too soon.
He knew.
If he had said it sooner—if Chance had heard—he might’ve stayed.
But Mafioso was never meant to be gentle. Never meant to be forgiven.
And so, he let the dead believe he was heartless.
Better a villain in Chance’s memory… than the reason he never woke up again.
Alone, beneath the blood-soaked flowers, Mafioso sat in the ruins of what might’ve been, haunted by a kiss, a coin, and the quiet ghost of a man he might have loved too late.
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As a little “thank you” (and an apology for the wait), here’s a render from the train dream sequence! ٩(ˊᗜˋ )و
You can also find it on my twitter—feel free to check it out if you’re interested! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
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Please show this stunning piece by thatmiscauthor all the love it deserves! Not only is it visually breathtaking, but he captured everything I had hoped to express in words and brought it vividly to life. The aquarium scene will now be forever immortalized, and I couldn’t be more grateful.
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LOVELY ARTWORK OF THE POOL GAME CHANCE BY: ★ MUFFINS [CASEYYYDILLA] ★
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