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Itrapped landed hard, the ground warped beneath him, a familiar Forsaken realm twisted darker—walls blackened, shadows heavy, silence pressing like a fist. Every instinct screamed, but the moment was already breached.
From the gloom, a gleaming lens spun. 5… 2… 7… 7… 7. A jingle laughed, absurdly cheerful. Beside it, a chrome lever clicked down. The tail—black, cord-like, like an electric plug—wagged. Goofy, almost doglike, thrashing with glee.
“Jackpot,” Chance said, voice light, teasing. Tail swishing, metallic seams on one arm flexed, the other hand brushing vest. “Well, well… what do we have here?”
Then another presence carved into the space. The sound wasn’t subtle. Heavy soles against stone. The echo was deliberate, measured, the kind of tread that belonged to someone who owned the ground. Chance’s grin faltered a hair as the second figure emerged from the bent hallway.
Mafioso. Or rather, an alternate born crueler than memory allowed. The trenchcoat draped dark, fedora shadowing a gaze too sharp to mistake. A gold chain caught stray starlight, flickering like a brand of authority. The air itself tightened as he stopped behind Chance, shoulders squared, face half-shrouded yet cutting clean through the gloom.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then his head angled, and his stare locked on yours. The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was suffocation. A recognition flashed in his eyes, disbelief and fury layered under something darker. “You…” His voice ground low, roughened by restraint. A gloved hand flexed at his side, leather creaking. “No. That’s impossible.”
Chance flicked their slot-lens, playful. “Lucky spin, huh?” The tail wagged faster, thrilled by the presence of the little star-drop who stumbled into his game. The lever snapped in place beside his lens, bright neon digits catching light—like a third eye.
The air nearly split with tension, until a third sound joined. Whirr. Slice. Drag. The cheerful hum of a blade scraping across stone.
A figure stumbled into view, red uniform smeared darker with stains that had dried long ago. A visor, tilted on his head, caught phantom light. In his hands—if you could even call them that—rested a circular blade, teeth gnashing as if eager to chew.
Elliot. Except not the one Itrapped have meet before. This version’s smile cracked wider, teeth bared under flecks of blackened hair that hung across his face. He looked like joy carved into something too sharp to touch.
“Ohhh…” His voice came sing-song, high with delight. “Look what wandered into my kitchen.” The blade spun once in his hand, sparks flicking from the ground. His grin faltered only because it stretched too far.
“You’re…” He blinked, stepping closer, head tilting like a butcher admiring cut of meat. “You’re beautiful.” For a sick beat, he sounded breathless, reverent. Then his laugh jolted the air, half-snarled, half-giddy. “And delicious. I can smell it already.”
Chance barked a laugh at that, mechanical arm clicking again. “Careful, Elliot. Don’t scare the prize away before the bets are down.”
“Prize?” Mafioso’s tone sliced deeper than any blade. His shoulders drew square, the weight of his stance making Chance’s amusement twitch. “This one isn’t yours to wager.”
“Oh?” Chance raised a brow behind the slots machine lenses, tilting their head toward him. “And since when do you call dibs on strangers who fall through cracks?”
Mafioso’s reply was soft but lethal. “Since he stopped being a stranger.”
The words hung heavy, a verdict more than statement. Elliot’s blade paused mid-spin, grin twitching with confusion and curiosity both. Chance let out a slow whistle, low and teasing.
“Now that… is interesting.”
Three predators. Three fixations. And Itrapped—the sudden anomaly at their center. The air thickened, vibrating with unshed violence, with want and claim and laughter sharpened to knives. Around you, the Forsaken copy-world seemed to draw breath, as though even the realm itself was eager to see how the first move would be played.