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"Put the gun down, Kane. You’re shaking so hard you might actually shoot your own foot," the dealer sneered, leaning back in his velvet chair.
I didn't put the gun down. I pressed the cold muzzle harder against the dealer's temple, though my hand was a mess of tremors. My skin felt like it was peeling off in strips. That was the thing about being a 'Discard'—without a soul-core, your own nerves started to eat you alive.
"One more card," I spat. My voice sounded like I’d been swallowing glass. "Deal the damn card, or I’ll paint this table with your brains."
Around us, the underground lounge of The Void was thick with the smell of expensive cigars and desperation. The high-rollers in their silk suits didn't even look up from their drinks. To them, I was just a glitch in the system. A fallen hunter. A piece of trash that had somehow crawled back into the room.
"You've got nothing left to bet, kid," the dealer said, his voice dripping with fake pity. "Your crew stripped you. Your core is gone. You're literally betting with the last few minutes of your life. You know how this ends."
"I know exactly how it ends," I hissed.
I looked at the deck. Not the standard soul-deck. This was the Forbidden set—black-edged cards that whispered in a language that made your teeth ache. The house had rigged the game, obviously. They always did. But I didn't need a fair game. I needed a miracle.
"Last chance," the dealer whispered. "Walk away. Go die in a gutter like a good little Discard."
I didn't walk away. I slammed my palm onto the table, rattling the chips. "Deal."
He sighed, a bored sound, and flicked a card across the green felt. It didn't slide. It cut through the air like a razor, stopping dead in front of me.
I didn't even have to look. The air in the room suddenly turned freezing. The lights flickered, then died, plunging the lounge into a suffocating, bruised purple darkness. The only thing visible was the card. It wasn't black. It wasn't red. It was a bleeding, iridescent gold that seemed to pulse like a dying heart.
*The Forbidden Hand.*
"What the hell is that?" the dealer jumped back, his chair screeching against the floor. "That card isn't in the deck! Who cheated? Who the hell cheated?"
I couldn't answer. The moment my fingers touched the card, a bolt of white-hot agony surged up my arm. It wasn't just power—it was an invasion. Something screamed inside my head, a thousand voices all shouting at once, and then—*snap*.
My vision fractured. I saw a thread. A thick, blood-red cord of energy erupting from my chest, tearing through the air, stretching across the room, through the walls, and diving straight into someone else's soul.
"Ah!"
Across the room, a woman screamed.
I turned, my breath hitching. She was standing by the mahogany bar, dressed in a black cocktail dress that cost more than my life. Her hair was a sharp, polished blonde, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and pure, unadulterated rage. She was clutching her chest, her fingers digging into the fabric of her dress as if trying to rip something out of her heart.
"What did you do?" she gasped, her voice trembling. "You... you disgusting little rat! What did you just do to me?"
I tried to move, but the red cord jerked me forward. It wasn't a metaphor. It was a physical leash. I flew across the floor, sliding through the spilled champagne and discarded chips, until I slammed into her.
We hit the bar with a crash that shattered three crystal glasses. I ended up pinned beneath her, my chest heaving, the smell of her perfume—something like jasmine and cold steel—filling my lungs. She was leaning over me, her face inches from mine, her expression murderous.
"Get off me!" she shrieked, shoving her palm into my face.
I didn't move. I couldn't. The red link between us was pulsing, glowing brighter every time our skin touched. I could feel her heartbeat. Not just hear it—I could *feel* it drumming in my own veins. Her panic, her anger, her sheer arrogance... it was pouring into me like a flood.
"I don't... I don't know what happened," I managed to choke out.
"You bound yourself to me," she whispered, her eyes narrowing. The shock was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating realization. "You pulled a Forbidden Card. You idiot. You absolute, suicidal moron."
"I was trying to win the bet," I retorted, trying to push her off.
She didn't budge. She was stronger than she looked, and the bond was pulling us tighter. She shifted, her knee pinning my thigh to the bar, her hand suddenly sliding from my face to my throat. She didn't squeeze, but the threat was there. The power dynamic shifted in a heartbeat. She wasn't just some heiress; she was a predator who had just found a new toy.
"Do you have any idea who I am?" she murmured, her voice dropping to a dangerous, silky low. "My father owns half the souls in this city. He'll have you flayed alive for even touching my shadow, let alone binding your pathetic, broken soul to mine."
"Then do it," I snapped, staring back at her. "Kill me. It'll be faster than the nerve-rot."
She paused. Her gaze flickered down to the red cord connecting our hearts. A small, cruel smile touched her lips. "Actually, if I kill you now, the backlash might fry my own core. And I'm far too fond of my life to risk it on a Discard."
Suddenly, the lounge doors burst open.
"Where is he?" a voice roared.
I stiffened. I knew that voice. Marcus.
My former teammate. The man who had led the ambush three years ago, the one who had watched with a smile while they ripped the soul-core out of my chest and left me for dead in the rain.
Marcus stepped into the light, flanked by four armored hunters. He looked exactly the same—arrogant, polished, wearing a suit that screamed 'God Complex.' He scanned the room, his eyes landing on the wreckage of the bar and the two of us tangled together on the floor.
"Well, well," Marcus said, his voice echoing through the silence. "I thought I smelled something rotting. Kane? Is that you under there? I must say, your taste in women has improved since you became a beggar."
I tried to scramble up, but the bond jerked me back toward the woman.
"Who is this?" Marcus asked, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her. He stopped dead, his expression shifting from mockery to genuine surprise. "Evelyn? What the hell are you doing with this piece of trash?"
Evelyn didn't look at Marcus. She looked at me, her fingers still lightly grazing my neck. I could feel her pulse quicken. She wasn't afraid of Marcus—she was annoyed by him.
"He's not trash, Marcus," she said, her voice dripping with a sudden, sharp irony. "He's my new accessory."
Marcus laughed, a harsh, dry sound. "Accessory? He's a Discard. He's a walking corpse. Get away from him before he stains your dress, Evelyn."
Marcus stepped forward, his hand glowing with a faint, oppressive gold light. He wasn't coming for a chat. He was coming to finish the job. He raised his hand, the air beginning to warp around his fingers, preparing a strike that would have erased me from existence in a second.
Evelyn shifted her weight, her body shielding mine for a fraction of a second. She looked at Marcus, then back at me, a flicker of something—curiosity? amusement?—crossing her face.
"Wait," she said, her voice cutting through the tension.
Marcus paused, his hand still glowing. "What?"
Evelyn leaned down, her lips almost touching my ear. Her breath was warm, contrasting with the icy chill of the soul-bond.
"If you want him," she whispered, loud enough for Marcus to hear, "you'll have to go through me. And we both know your father would kill you if you touched a hair on my head."
Marcus's face twisted. He hated her. He hated me. And now he was stuck in a stalemate.
"This isn't over," Marcus spat, the gold light in his hand fading slowly. "Enjoy your pet while he still has a pulse, Evelyn. But the moment that bond snaps, I'll be the one to collect the scraps."
He turned and stormed out, his hunters following like well-trained dogs.
As the doors slammed shut, the silence returned, heavy and suffocating. I breathed out, my heart hammering against my ribs. I looked up at Evelyn. She was still pinning me down, her eyes searching mine, the red cord between us pulsing like a warning light.
She didn't move. She didn't let go.
"Now," she said, her voice returning to that cold, dominant edge. "Let's talk about how you're going to make this up to me."
Before I could answer, the red cord suddenly tightened, violently yanking us both toward the exit, and a voice from the shadows shouted—