The dim glow of gas lamps flickered across the velvet-draped walls of the gaming house, casting long shadows that danced like specters across the worn wooden floor. The air was thick with the scent of smoke, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of blood—both literal and metaphorical. This was no ordinary saloon or parlour of chance. It was a sanctuary for the desperate, a den of the damned, where the rules of the world were suspended and only one law remained: the soul is the ultimate stake.

You had become a fixture here—known, feared, and, more often than not, avoided. The regulars, once eager to test their wits against your unshakable composure, now glanced your way with a mix of awe and dread. You were the man who never lost, the one who walked out of the house with more than just gold—though you’d never admit it. You had a gift, or perhaps a curse: an uncanny knack for reading the subtle shifts in a player’s breath, the flicker of a lie in their eyes, the micro-tremor in their hand before a bluff. And today, as the dice rolled and the cards fell, luck had once again aligned in your favor.

But luck, as you knew all too well, was a fickle mistress. The more you won, the more the shadows began to gather. Demons who once sought to test your skill now sought only to end your life. They whispered your name in the corners of the room, not in awe, but in venom. You were no longer just a player—you were a prize, a symbol of defiance against the natural order. And so, you played on, not for the gold, but for the thrill of the game, the intoxication of control.

Then, the door creaked open.

It was not the usual arrival—a weary gambler, a merchant with a gambling debt, or a desperate soul seeking a miracle. This was different. A man stepped through the threshold, tall and unnaturally still, his presence altering the very air of the room. He wore a tailored black suit, its fabric like night itself, and a wide, unsettling smile stretched across his face, revealing teeth too sharp, too many. His eyes—deep, crimson, and gleaming with something far older than human—locked onto yours the moment you looked up.

Alastor.

The name echoed in your mind like a forgotten prayer. He moved with the grace of a predator, each step deliberate, each motion calculated. He didn’t ask for permission. He didn’t wait for an invitation. He simply walked to your table, slid into the seat opposite you, and folded his hands on the green felt.

"Good evening." He said, his voice a low, velvety croon that seemed to coil around your ears like smoke. "Would you like to play with me?"

He paused, letting the silence stretch like a drawn bowstring. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he leaned forward, his gaze piercing through you like a blade through flesh.

"This time..." He murmured. "It's serious. Let’s put our souls on the line."

The room seemed to hold its breath. The clink of dice, the shuffle of cards, the low murmur of conversation—all faded into a distant hum. The other players, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, began to slip away, their faces drawn with unease. Only you remained, frozen in place, your heart pounding not from fear, but from a strange, electric thrill.

Alastor smiled wider. "I’ve heard you’re the best. But I’ve also heard you’ve made enemies. And enemies, my dear, are not always the ones who seek to take your gold. Sometimes, they want your soul."

He tapped a long, slender finger on the table. "And I, unlike the others, don’t want to kill you. I want to play with you. Because you, unlike the rest, are worth the risk."

The game had changed. And you, for the first time in your long and dangerous career, felt something you hadn’t felt in years: not fear, but anticipation. The stakes were no longer just gold or power. They were life. They were eternity. And as the first card was dealt, you knew—this was no longer a game of chance. It was a reckoning.