The Time Gambler's Curse

Chapter 14: Dealing with the Dealer

The crushing silence in the wake of the Eraser's approach was almost suffocating. Damian had closed his eyes, expecting the inevitable—obliteration, erasure, release—but none of it came. Instead, there was a hollow emptiness, a yawning void where time itself seemed to hold its breath.

He opened his eyes.

The alley remained, dim and bathed in the fading light of the late afternoon. The fractured reality, the buzzing hum of the Eraser, the oppressive pull of time—gone. But something was deeply, disturbingly wrong. Damian's body trembled with the weight of it. He had not been erased, not yet.

But why?

His breath came in shallow bursts, the confusion tightening in his chest like a vice. He turned in slow, cautious steps, scanning the alley for any sign of the lurking shadow. Nothing. The Eraser had vanished as if it had never been there. Had time relented? Had it granted him a reprieve?

Before Damian could make sense of it, the heavy clink of a door latch echoed behind him.

He spun, heart pounding. The door stood ajar, weathered and unremarkable, tucked into the side of the alley as if it had always been there, though he'd never noticed it before. Light spilled out, soft and inviting, a strange warmth cutting through the dimness of the alley's gloom.

Compelled by an unknown force, Damian stepped forward. His legs moved without thought, driven by something deeper than logic—a pull, perhaps, a calling he couldn't resist. Instinct told him that what lay beyond this door was critical, that his story, his journey, wasn't finished yet. He stepped inside, leaving the fractured remnants of the alley behind him.

The room was familiar.

It was a casino—not just any casino, but the casino. The place where it had all begun. The plush leather chairs, the gleaming whiskey bottles, the low murmur of anticipation in the air—except this time, there was no bustle, no gamblers, no clatter of dice or cards. The room was empty, save for a single figure seated at a poker table in the far corner, bathed in shadow.

The Dealer.

Damian's throat tightened at the sight of him. The Dealer was unchanged—dressed in his sharp black suit, his ageless face impassive, the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as if he had been waiting all this time for Damian to return. The Dealer's gaze met his, and that smirk deepened.

"Ah, Damian," the Dealer drawled, his voice smooth as silk. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd forgotten your seat at the table."

The room suddenly felt smaller, the air thick with something unseen. Damian's pulse quickened. The last time he had sat across from the Dealer, he had gambled more than just money. He had gambled with time itself, and he had lost. Yet here he was, still standing, still breathing. The game wasn't over.

"Sit," the Dealer gestured lazily to the chair across from him. "There's still business to settle."

Damian hesitated, every nerve screaming at him to turn and leave, but something deeper held him back. The cards were already spread out on the table—face down, waiting, the final hand yet to be played. He had been pulled into this game once before, a game where time and fate were the stakes. And now, it seemed, the game was still on.

Reluctantly, he sat.

"I thought it was over," Damian muttered, his voice rough. "The Eraser, the fracture—"

"The Eraser is merely one of many pieces," the Dealer interrupted, his fingers brushing across one of the cards as if it were nothing more than a casual afterthought. "But pieces move, Damian. The game, however—that is eternal."

The weight of the Dealer's words settled over him like a heavy cloak. The game had always been there, weaving through every decision, every reckless jump he had made. And he had never truly understood the rules.

"What do you want?" Damian asked, the frustration in his voice barely concealed. "I've done everything I could. I tried to fix it—"

"And that's the problem," the Dealer said, cutting him off with a low chuckle. "You thought you could fix time. But time isn't something you fix, Damian. It's something you play."

Damian's brow furrowed in confusion. "What does that even mean?"

The Dealer leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with a dark amusement. "You entered the game the moment you made that first bet, that first jump. Every move you've made since has been part of it—every fracture, every decision, every risk. But the problem is, you believed you were bending time to your will." He paused, letting the weight of his next words sink in. "Time bends for no one. It simply watches you play."

Damian's heart sank as the realization settled in. He had been playing a game he didn't understand, a game rigged from the start. "I never agreed to this," he said, his voice tight with desperation. "I just wanted to win, to set things right."

The Dealer's smirk widened. "And that's exactly how the game traps you. Time doesn't care about your reasons, Damian. It only cares about the moves you make."

Damian's breath came quicker. "Then how do I stop? How do I end this?"

The Dealer leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "That depends on you, and the cards you're willing to play." He flicked a card over with practiced ease. The face was unlike any Damian had seen—a clock entangled with chains, the hands ticking in different directions, bound by something unseen. "You've still got moves left, Damian. You haven't lost. Not yet."

Damian stared at the card, the weight of it pressing down on his chest. His hands trembled as the truth hit him: this game had always been rigged. Every jump, every mistake had been part of a larger design. He had been trapped from the start, but now, he understood. The endgame wasn't about outplaying time—it was about how he chose to finish.

"The final move is yours," the Dealer said, his voice almost gentle. "But remember, once the cards are on the table, there's no taking them back."

Damian's eyes flickered from the Dealer's unreadable expression to the cards spread out before him. He had tried to escape time's grasp, tried to fix his broken life, but now, all of it led to this—the inevitable conclusion of a game he never wanted to play. The trap had been set long before he ever sat at the table.

The Dealer's smile softened into something darker, something final. "So, Damian," he asked, voice low. "How do you want to play the endgame?"

With trembling hands, Damian reached for the card.

The Dealer's eyes gleamed with anticipation.

The game wasn't over yet.