The Time Gambler's Curse

Chapter 2: The Wrong Side of Luck

The smell of stale cigars hit Damian like a wave as he emerged into the dimly lit speakeasy. It was October 28, 1929—the eve of Black Tuesday, the infamous stock market crash. If his calculations were correct, he could buy short positions on key stocks and return to the present with unimaginable wealth. His ticket to freedom from ever worrying about money again lay just a few well-placed bets away.

Damian adjusted the old tweed suit he'd bought from a pawn shop earlier. It itched horribly, but he had to blend in. The flickering lamps hanging from the ceiling gave the place an otherworldly feel, casting dancing shadows across the faces of men and women drinking away their worries.

He made his way to the backroom, where the real action was happening. Smoke drifted through the air as men huddled around tables, shouting, trading bets, and clutching at crisp dollar bills like lifelines. Damian's heart pounded in his chest. This was it—ground zero for the biggest financial disaster in history. And he was here to profit from it.

The dealer behind the table, an oily man with a gold tooth, eyed Damian suspiciously as he approached. "You lost, buddy? You don't look like you belong here."

Damian forced a grin and placed a few bills on the table, acting more confident than he felt. "Looking to make a small investment, my friend. Short positions, if you catch my drift. Heard the winds are changing."

The dealer's gaze lingered on Damian for a moment too long. He gave a sly grin. "You got balls, I'll give you that." He shuffled some papers. "You're either gonna be the luckiest man in the world tomorrow—or the biggest fool in New York."

Luck. The word made Damian's gut twist, but he shrugged it off. He had more than luck—he had knowledge. He filled out the paperwork and signed under a false name, careful not to arouse suspicion. When the dealer handed him the slip confirming his trades, Damian couldn't help but smirk. The crash would hit in less than twenty-four hours. All he had to do now was wait.

He stepped back into the street, breathing in the cool autumn air. For the first time since he started this whole scheme, Damian felt invincible. The weight of debt and uncertainty that had followed him all his life seemed to vanish. All he had to do was return to the present and collect his winnings.

But then the unease hit him—subtle at first, like the ticking of a clock just out of sync. Something felt... off. The city felt too quiet, like the moment before a storm. He glanced around, expecting to see the familiar landmarks of 1929 New York, but instead, small details stood out—things that shouldn't have been there.

A theater marquee advertised a film he didn't recognize: The Dreamer's Duel. Strange. Damian prided himself on his memory, and he'd studied the pop culture of the 1920s meticulously. This film didn't exist.

He kept walking, shaking off the nagging feeling. He just needed to make it through the night. But the closer he got to his hotel, the more things seemed... wrong. Street signs were in slightly different places than they should have been. Newspapers displayed headlines he didn't remember reading in any history books: "Actress Disappears Under Mysterious Circumstances," one read. "Congress Debates Time Travel Ban," said another.

His hands grew clammy. His heart began to race. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Damian broke into a run, weaving through the narrow streets, desperate to get back to the room where he'd stashed the time device. His breaths came in ragged gasps as he threw open the hotel door and slammed it shut behind him. The tiny device sat on the bed where he had left it, its copper wires gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

He strapped it on, his fingers trembling, and twisted the dial back to the present. Just before pressing the button, he allowed himself a smile. Whatever was happening out there didn't matter. He was about to return to a future filled with riches. He hit the button.

Nothing happened.

Damian stared at the device, panic rising in his chest. He twisted the dial again, harder this time, and slammed his finger down on the button. Still, nothing. The machine remained dead, a useless jumble of copper and wires strapped to his wrist.

"No, no, no," Damian whispered, his voice cracking. This wasn't possible. It had worked every time before. Why now? Why here? He yanked at the straps, pulling the device free, and shook it desperately, as if sheer force would bring it back to life. But the machine gave no response.

He was trapped.

The door behind him creaked open, and Damian spun around. A tall man in a dark coat stood in the doorway, his face obscured by shadows.

"Trouble with your machine, traveler?" the man asked in a low, mocking voice.

Damian's blood ran cold. He backed away, gripping the broken device like a lifeline. "Who the hell are you?"

The stranger stepped into the light, revealing a weathered face and eyes that gleamed with a strange, knowing glint. "Someone who's seen too many fools try what you just did."

Damian's heart pounded in his chest. "You... You know about this?"

The man smiled, but it was a joyless thing. "Of course. You think you're the first? Weaver wasn't the only one playing with time. But none of them ever figured out the rules."

"The rules?" Damian whispered, his throat dry.

The man took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. "Time doesn't like being cheated. You've taken too much, changed too much. It fights back. And when it catches you..." He let the sentence hang in the air like a noose.

Damian shook his head in disbelief. "No. This—this can't be happening."

"Oh, it's happening, all right," the man said, his voice cold. "You've meddled one time too many. And now time is correcting itself."

A wave of nausea washed over Damian. The room felt like it was spinning. He staggered backward, clutching at the wall for support.

"How do I fix it?" he asked desperately. "How do I get back?"

The stranger's smile widened, but there was no kindness in it. "You don't," he said simply. "Time doesn't offer refunds."

Before Damian could respond, the stranger turned and walked out of the room, leaving the door ajar. Damian stood frozen, his mind racing. He was trapped, cut off from the future, stranded in a world slowly unraveling at the seams.

And as he stood there, the full weight of the curse Weaver had warned about came crashing down on him. Too many jumps. Too many bets.

Damian had won the game, but now the game was playing him.

And this time, there were no do-overs.