After everything they had heard, even the slowest viewers in the Marvel Universe were beginning to understand the horrifying truth.
The "three brothers" SCP-1440 kept mentioning?
They weren't metaphors.
They were real.
They were the shadowy, divine entities responsible for the waves of death, destruction, and despair that followed this old man wherever he went.
And yet, one question still haunted everyone watching:
What was this mysterious "card game"?
What kind of insane gamble had SCP-1440 entered into?
And what had he done to attract beings so powerful they could be mistaken for death itself?
SCP-1440 took another deep sip of the whiskey in front of him. His eyes were glassy now—fogged with memory, pain, and the weight of countless lifetimes.
"Now… where were we?" he asked quietly, almost to himself.
"The card game," James said gently.
"Ah. Yes."
The old man paused. Then he began again.
"First… it was the gamble."
His voice trembled.
"I was young. I thought I had control. I thought I was smart. Brave. Defiant. But really, I was just scared…"
His eyes glazed over, as if seeing a scene far away in time.
"I had died in a war. I remember the battlefield—mud, blood, smoke. Then I awoke in a great, shadowy hall. There were three of them. Three skeletal men in dark robes."
"They didn't say anything. Just watched as everyone else—my comrades, soldiers, friends—walked silently into the light beyond."
"But I…"
He stared directly at James.
"I refused."
The audience gasped.
"I had a wife. A beautiful young wife. A peaceful farm. I wanted to go home. I needed to go home. So I challenged them. I demanded a chance to win my life back."
The old man closed his eyes, his voice laced with bitterness.
"They agreed. I won. And that was the first mistake."
The chat feed of the Marvel Universe exploded.
"WAIT, HE DIED?!"
"He challenged DEATH ITSELF?!"
"No, no, no—he won against the gods???"
James remained calm, nodding slowly. "And they let you return."
"Yes…" the old man said. "But that wasn't enough."
He raised a second finger.
"Second, I was too greedy."
A cold chill spread through the room.
"I could've walked away. But no… I was arrogant. I said, 'Why stop now? I beat death once—I can do it again.'"
His eyes darkened.
"I stayed. I bet again. And again. And again."
"And I won each time."
Silence. Absolute, stunned silence.
He had beaten three divine beings, not once, but three times in a row.
"The Death Gods—those three brothers—were furious. But they honored the rules. And for my victories… they gave me three treasures."
He motioned toward the three items before him on the bar.
A cup. A deck of cards. And a small cloth bag.
S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.
Natasha Romanoff leaned forward, wide-eyed.
"He… really beat the gods."
Nick Fury's face, however, remained serious. His fingers tapped the arm of his chair.
"No," he muttered. "He didn't win. Not really."
"He might have gambled, but the house always wins. Especially when the house is a Supreme God."
SCP-1440 continued:
"They offered me wealth. Fame. Immortality. Glory. All to get their treasures back."
"But I refused."
"I wanted to see them humiliated. I wanted them to kneel."
His eyes dropped to the bar, full of regret.
"That was the third mistake."
"Third… I wasted their treasures."
He picked up the first object—the Cup.
"This belonged to the first brother… Fate."
"It held the Water of Life. One drop could push death away. One drop could restore someone from the edge of the grave."
A collective gasp erupted across every screen.
"ONE DROP?!"
"That's stronger than SCP-500!"
"Bro… this old man had an antideath chalice just lying around?!"
Nick Fury leaned forward, ignoring the hype.
He'd caught something more important.
"Restrains… the Death God," he whispered. "So these artifacts... they weren't just powerful. They were weapons."
On the screen, SCP-1440 went on.
"Whenever I saw the first brother—Fate—lurking over someone's shoulder, I poured a drop."
"And he ran."
"He hated it. Spat and cursed. But he left."
"I used it on the old, the weak, the sick… until it ran dry."
He paused. His hands trembled slightly.
"When my wife fell ill… the cup was empty."
"The first brother came for her."
"And I had nothing left to stop him."
The chat went still.
Those who had mocked the old man's pride now sat in silence.
His mistake wasn't selfishness.
It was generosity.
He had used the most powerful water in the world on strangers—on people he didn't even know.
And when he needed it most…
It was gone.
James didn't speak. He let the moment pass.
Finally, SCP-1440 picked up the deck of cards.
"The second brother—Violent Death—gave me this."
"With these cards, I could stop him. I could call him. Command him."
"When war was brewing, I played. When conflict stirred, I played. When rebellion sparked, I played."
"And the cards obeyed."
Kamar-Taj.
The Ancient One stood in shock.
"Stop war itself?" she murmured.
To reverse death was incredible.
But to halt human war—something driven by greed, belief, ego—that was truly divine.
She'd seen wars across galaxies.
But this man had held the power to silence them.
Back on the screen, SCP-1440 nodded slowly.
"Civil wars. Border disputes. Rebellions. I played again. And again."
"The deck frayed. The edges bent. The faces cracked."
"And one day, they stopped working."
"I watched war erupt again. I watched cities burn. I watched the second brother take millions."
"And I could do nothing."
The live chat was frozen.
So much death. So much sacrifice.
And all of it… for nothing.
James asked nothing. He just waited.
Finally, the old man looked at the last object.
The cloth bag.
"This," he whispered, "is the treasure of the third brother... the most powerful of them all."
"Extinction."
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