Life’s a deck, shuffled by unseen hands. Fate deals the cards, Death, the final adversary, and Time—our precious minutes—are the chips sliding across the felt.


    Some days, you’re dealt aces; other days, it’s a seven-deuce unsuited, tightening like a noose around your neck. You bluff, you bet, and you pray no one calls. But Fate’s a patient dealer, and the House always wins. She watches with a cold, knowing smile as your chips slip away.


    When Death makes his move, you’d better have more than a joker up your sleeves. It’s never been about the cards—it’s about having the guts to call his bluff before he calls yours.


    But even then, the game’s rigged, and no one leaves the table with chips in hand.


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    The world was dark, save for the faint glow of my cigarette. A breeze moved through me, playing waves on my shirt as I surveyed the scene. It was one of those old city winds that moved unashamed through the nooks and crannies of the streets, carrying mischief in its wake. It was the type of night that made my hair stand on end and my bones ache in anticipation, where no one needed to say it, because everyone felt it. The air swelled and seemed to hold its breath while the boundaries of normal and rational thought gave way, leaving one word to stand in their wake. A word more dangerous and profound than all the others combined. It sat at the tip of my tongue, unspoken but felt. I sensed it clawing for escape, begging me to give in to its desires. The wind, the strangers’ footsteps in the distance, and the bustling of city sounds all entangled to spell this one word... “Magic.”


    The world exhaled in a torrent of rain. Horrible night for a hunt. But I was paid not to mind. I leaned down to focus on the creature’s tracks before they were washed away. Rift-soot and gravel clung between my fingers. I usually welcomed the rain. It washed the filth off things. Only problem—it also washed away rift-soot, the monochromatic warning sign to get the hell out of there. Unless, of course, a door to Hell was what I was looking for.


    “This way. Stay close and be quiet. Do not engage it. And if it gets out of my control, run. Got it?” The two men exchanged a look and a smile that only wealth and pampering could buy.


    “Got it.” They grinned.


    Jac and Jean were twin brothers and identical one-hundred percent Grade-A prats. The kind of man-children who had never seen a day’s work in their combined lives. I wondered if they wiped their own asses or if the maid did it for them. I also wondered what it would be like not to worry about money or where my next meal was coming from. I didn’t care what the college kids said—ramen and beer didn’t make a diet. My stomach growled indignantly, protesting the ramen and beer within.


    “Focus,” I told myself. I needed to concentrate if I was going to find the creature we were after and give these guys a good show. Business had been slow, after all. I wasn’t sure if my head was hurting from dealing with the twins or the lack of coffee.


    We were tracking what looked like a lower demon—barely more dangerous than a stray cat. It was small, maybe one or two feet tall, with claw marks scarring the cement as evidence of its presence. This little terror had been raiding warehouses downtown, snatching up leftovers and unguarded lunch boxes. The plan was simple: catch and release, sending it back to the Otherworld where it belonged.


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    I didn’t usually take an audience with me on my hunts. It was dirty work. But these two were… financially persuasive. Ever since “Grayson Shade: Demon Hunter” hit the small screen, rich kids were pouring out of their mansions, trying to buy a guided tour. TV wasn’t enough. They wanted to see the real thing.


    Sadly, the real thing was almost never as exciting as the shows. There were no explosions. No scantily clad girls brandishing longing looks and torn dresses. And the hunters weren’t rippling-muscled heroes. At least, I wasn’t. “Paunchy” was what they called it. No, hunting wasn’t all that exciting. Not that it didn’t have its benefits. My own hours. No boss to micromanage me. Freedom.


    Oh, who was I kidding? It was pest control for the underworld at best. Garbage disposal at worst. But it had to be done. And these kids wanted “the real thing.” They wanted danger and darkness wrapped up in a fedora hat.


    And who was I to say no to rich stupidity? Worst case: the world would be short two mouths to feed. Best case: I’d make a hefty chunk of change and could pay my plumbing for the next month. How the hell did I get here? I used to be somebody. I think.


    “It’s going to be a tough one. Dangerous,” I said.


    I paused dramatically and sniffed the air. I thought I’d seen them do that on the show once.


    Its tracks wound around Skid Row, back to the docks, and through the old warehouses. Its scent twisted across the city like the twine in grandma’s knitted socks.


    “You smell that?” I asked.


    I took a deep breath, holding it for a moment, and this time, I actually smelled something. “Sulfur. We’re close.”


    “I hope so,” Jac said.


    “We’ve been walking around this shithole for hours,” Jean added.


    “I told you, we can’t risk using the car. Demons hate the smell of Nightstone. Spooks ’em.” That, of course, was a complete lie. Demons actually loved lurking around gas stations and refineries, the stink of their realm blending perfectly with the acrid tang of rift fumes. But the wonder boys didn’t need to know that. They also didn’t need to know that my car was stuck in the shop, held hostage by an unpaid bill. Or that even if I had it back, I couldn’t afford an ounce of the stuff with the prices these days. No, there was plenty Jac and Jean didn’t need to know.


    The scent led us toward an abandoned street hidden away near the dock. Tall brick buildings loomed on either side, their jagged edges reaching for the sky like dying giants. If you squinted, you could almost see the grandeur of their past, now long forgotten.


    Once-grand buildings stood tall, their ornate architecture now covered in a thick layer of grime and graffiti. The sound of our footsteps echoed off the decaying walls as we walked. The only source of light came from a flickering streetlamp ahead, casting eerie shadows and revealing shards of broken glass scattered along the pavement like sharp jewels. A chill wind blew through the empty streets, carrying with it a sense of unease. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching us from the shadows, lurking just out of sight.


    The light flickered, sputtered, then faded out for a few heartbeats before grudgingly flaring back to life. Damned Infernum fluctuations. Could mean a rift was tearing open nearby, or maybe this side of the city just forgot to pay its dues. Either way, it was a bad omen.


    Infernum hummed through the bones of the city, a low, unyielding thrum that kept the lights flickering and the machines grinding. It was the pulse of this place, flowing through blackstone veins buried deep beneath the streets, connecting everything in a web of dark energy. Most didn’t think about it—until it stuttered, that steady heartbeat faltering. That’s when you realized just how fragile it all was, how much of this world leaned on a force that didn’t give a damn if we lived or died.


    “Hear that?” Jac asked nervously.