The Time Gambler's Curse

Chapter 9: Echoes of the Past

The world snapped into place, but Damian stumbled, his balance shattered by the force of the jump. His vision blurred, and for a moment, the world around him was nothing but a swirl of shadows and faint orange light. Then the haze cleared, and he found himself standing on a dimly lit street. Gas lamps flickered weakly in the distance, casting long, twisted shadows across the slick, rain-soaked cobblestones.

But something about the air—it was thick, oppressive—hauntingly familiar.

Damian's pulse quickened as his eyes scanned his surroundings. The jump had worked, but this wasn't a random place. No, he knew these streets. The buildings, the eerie silence, the way the shadows seemed to reach out from the corners—it was all too familiar. He was back in 1929, the day his reckless stock trade had set everything in motion, the day the fracture in time began.

His hands moved instinctively to the time device strapped to his wrist. The dials were scorched, the gears ground down from overuse. It was barely functioning, but it had brought him here. This has to be it, he thought. My last chance.

The fractured world he had just escaped from clung to him, pressing in on his mind. The air around him was denser, and he could feel it—like time itself was weighing down on him, tightening its grip. He inhaled deeply, the cold air cutting through his lungs, trying to steady himself. He was in the right place, but the fracture hadn't healed. His mistakes were still tearing time apart, and now, this could be his final opportunity to fix it all.

Damian took a step forward, his boots splashing softly against the wet pavement, each step echoing like a warning through the narrow streets. His mind was a storm of thoughts, memories crashing into one another. He had been so confident that day—so sure of himself. The stock market trade, the rush of adrenaline, the belief that he could beat the system, that he could control time. And now, all of those decisions had led him to this moment, standing in the shadow of his past.

The faint hum followed him, growing louder with each step, a reminder that the Eraser was still hunting him. Damian glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see those hollow eyes watching from the darkness. The flickering distortions had worsened—shadows stretched impossibly long, people and objects flickering in and out of existence. Time was collapsing, and he was running out of it.

He turned a corner, and there it was: the speakeasy.

Damian froze, his stomach twisting. The wooden door, slightly ajar, beckoned him inside. Memories rushed over him in a wave—this was where it all began. The thrill of the bet, the smug arrogance that had fueled his decision, the belief that he could manipulate time for his own gain. He had walked through that door with a grin on his face, unaware of the chaos he would unleash.

The door creaked as he pushed it open, and Damian stepped inside.

The low hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the thick cloud of smoke—it all felt like stepping back into a nightmare. But as he moved deeper into the room, everything slowed. The bartender polishing glasses, the patrons laughing in hushed tones, even the man at the piano—all of them seemed slightly out of sync, like the world was caught between moments. Time itself was stuttering.

Damian's breath caught in his throat as his eyes locked onto the far end of the bar. Sitting there, with the same smug grin on his face, was his younger self. 1929 Damian. He was completely oblivious to the storm he was about to unleash on the world, sipping a drink as though the world was his to control.

Damian's hands clenched into fists at his sides. The last time he had tried to confront his past self, it had ended in disaster. He had failed. But now, the stakes were higher. He didn't have the luxury of doubt. He had to stop this—no matter the cost.

His past self raised his glass to the bartender. "Another round," he called, his voice full of confidence.

Damian forced himself forward, sliding into the seat next to his younger self, his heart pounding in his chest. His voice was low, but urgent. "You're making a mistake."

The younger Damian glanced at him, an eyebrow raised. "Do I know you?"

Damian swallowed, his pulse quickening. "No. But I know you. And I know what you're about to do."

The younger Damian chuckled, shaking his head. "I've got this handled. Best trade of my life. By tomorrow, I'll be richer than I ever dreamed."

The words sent a surge of anger through Damian. How blind was I? He leaned in, his voice hard. "It's not about money. You don't understand what you're playing with. This trade—it's going to break everything. You'll tear time apart."

His younger self blinked, a flicker of confusion crossing his face before it twisted into amusement. "You're crazy. I'm making this trade, and tomorrow, I'll be living the high life. And you..." He paused, sizing Damian up. "You'll still be sitting here, rambling to strangers."

Damian gritted his teeth. He could feel the fracture growing. The edges of the room were starting to distort, flickering between reality and something darker, something broken. He had to stop this. He couldn't let history repeat itself.

Without thinking, Damian grabbed his younger self's arm, his grip iron-tight. "You don't get it. This isn't just about the trade. You'll destroy everything. You'll destroy yourself."

For a moment, the younger Damian's eyes widened. Damian thought he had finally broken through. But then his past self wrenched his arm free, standing with a sneer. "You've lost your mind, old man."

He turned and began walking toward the back room—the place where the trade would be made, the place where everything would fall apart.

"No!" Damian's voice cracked, panic flooding his veins. His past self wasn't listening, just like before. He had failed again. History was repeating itself, and this time, there was no escape.

The air grew colder, and Damian's heart sank as the familiar hum intensified. He turned, and there it was—the Eraser.

It stood in the corner of the room, its hollow eyes fixed on Damian, the shadows around it twisting and warping like the tendrils of a nightmare. Time rippled and bent in its presence, and Damian could feel the weight of it pressing down on him. The Eraser was no longer just a passive observer. It had come for him.

Damian's blood turned to ice. He had failed. His past self was walking toward disaster, and the Eraser had come to erase the final traces of his existence. The fracture was too deep. Time had already begun to unravel, and now, he was out of options.

The shadows stretched, darkening the room as the Eraser stepped forward, its skeletal form gliding closer. Damian's heart raced, his mind screaming for a way out. He had one last chance—one final move.

With a shaking hand, Damian reached for the time device, knowing this could be his last jump. The world around him began to blur, the echoes of his past growing louder, the Eraser drawing nearer.

The device buzzed weakly, the dials barely responding as Damian twisted them to a random point. He didn't know where it would take him. He just needed to get away.

The world flickered once more, the shadows closing in, and then—

Damian was gone.