The ambush came clean.
No warning calls.No bad wind.No second chance.
Cole felt it a half-step before it happened—then felt the gap where Focus should've been. That missing sliver mattered. It always did.
The road cut between two shelves of red stone, narrow enough to keep sound close. Dusty was three paces ahead when the air snapped sideways and the first shot took a bite out of rock where Cole's head had been.
Stone burst. Heat followed.
Cole was already moving.
Not fast. Fast was sloppy. He dropped off the mule's left side and rolled, came up with the revolver clearing leather as the second shot cracked overhead.
Dusty snarled—full, furious now—and charged the sound.
"Back," Cole barked.
The dog skidded, confused, then obeyed. Barely.
Four figures stepped out from the shelves.
Not raiders.
Too coordinated. Too calm.
They wore black dustcoats stitched with pale thread—spades worked into the seams like signatures. Each one moved a fraction out of time with the others, like a bad echo that never quite lined up.
Cole knew what that meant.
Lieutenants.
Not the King.Not even the Queen.
But close enough to bleed you dry.
One of them smiled.
"You're late," he said.
Cole didn't answer.
Talking was for men who still thought outcomes could be negotiated.
The pressure hit then—harder than before. Not just behind the eyes. All through him. Like the land itself had leaned in to watch.
Text flickered into place, sharp and immediate.
HOUSE OF RECKONING // MULTI-HAND ENGAGEMENTOPPONENTS: REGISTERED (4)VARIANT: STACKED DRAWANTE: GRIT (MINOR) + ENDURANCE (MINOR)REWARD: UNKNOWNWARNING: OVERLAP ACTIVE
Overlap.
Cole's jaw tightened.
That meant four wagers running at once. Four outcomes braided together. One mistake carried across all of them.
The men spread.
Too smooth. Too practiced.
One moved high. One low. Two straight in, guns loose, eyes steady. The kind of men who'd survived long enough to stop believing in luck.
Cole fired first.
The shot took the low man in the shoulder and spun him hard. Not down. Never down easy with these types. The others didn't flinch.
Dusty darted sideways, snapping at a boot, buying Cole half a second he didn't have.
Cole took it anyway.
He rolled behind a boulder as rounds chewed into stone. Chips of red rock stung his cheek. His ribs screamed where the old injury lived, the endurance drain making it sharp and bright.
The House pressed closer.
Another block of text overlaid the world, cold and fast.
HAND ONE: ACTIVEHAND TWO: ACTIVEHAND THREE: ACTIVEHAND FOUR: ACTIVE
Four tables.
One body.
Cole breathed through his nose and reached inside his coat.
Ace of Spades.Ten of Clubs.Three of Diamonds.
Cold. Cold. Cold.
He didn't pull them yet.
You didn't show your hand before the table demanded it.
One of the lieutenants vaulted the rock shelf, landing wrong on purpose to bait a shot.
Cole didn't take it.
The man laughed and fired point-blank.
The round grazed Cole's side. Heat. Wet. Not deep. Enough.
Cole came up under the man's guard and drove the revolver into his gut, fired twice. The body folded, hit the ground wrong, and didn't get back up.
One down.
The pressure shifted.
HAND ONE: RESOLVEDRESULT: WINADJUSTMENT PENDING
No time to feel it.
The second man rushed, moving too fast, edges blurring like reality couldn't quite decide where to put him. Probability distortion—Royal-tier trick.
Cole felt his footing slide, the ground misjudging him by inches. Focus loss bit hard here. He overcorrected.
Too slow.
The man's blade caught Cole across the forearm, shallow but burning.
Cole headbutted him and fired from the hip.
The shot punched through ribs. The man staggered, eyes wide—not in fear, but surprise.
He hadn't expected resistance to still matter.
He fell.
Two down.
The House pulsed again, harsher now.
HAND TWO: RESOLVEDRESULT: WINCOST ACCRUING
Cole's breath came shallow. The ache under his ribs flared hot. Endurance draining like water through cracked hands.
The last two didn't rush.
They circled.
Mirrored.
Each step matched the other, perfect symmetry, like they were two halves of the same bad thought.
One spoke.
"You're already overdrawn," he said. "You just don't feel it yet."
Cole spat blood.
"Deal," he said, and meant it as an insult.
The men moved together.
Cole backed toward the boulder, forcing angle, forcing constraint. Dusty darted in and out, snapping, distracting, keeping them from syncing clean.
The House shoved another overlay into place.
FINAL HANDS: CONVERGINGOPTION: FORCE MERGEANTE: MEMORY (MAJOR)REWARD: MULTI-RESOLUTION
Cole froze.
Memory.
Not minor.
Not a sliver.
Something big.
He felt the shape of it immediately—something warm, something human, something he still carried intact because he'd been careful.
Careful hadn't saved anyone yet.
The men closed.
Cole didn't look at the text again.
He made his choice with his body.
He slammed the Ten of Clubs down onto the rock.
The air stuttered.
Then he followed it with the Ace of Spades.
Not a move.
A declaration.
Reality bent.
Not dramatic.Not flashy.
Just enough.
The circling men hesitated—half a beat too late.
Cole lunged.
He put three shots into the nearer one's chest before the distortion caught up. The man fell backward, expression blank, like he'd been unplugged.
The last lieutenant screamed—not in pain, in fury—and charged.
Cole met him head-on.
They collided hard. The man's weight was wrong, heavier than he should've been, like the House was leaning on him too.
Cole drove them both to the ground and fired once, twice, three times.
The body went still.
Silence crashed in.
Not relief.
Accounting.
Text flooded his vision.
HAND THREE: RESOLVED — WINHAND FOUR: RESOLVED — WINFOUR OF A KIND — CONFIRMEDADJUSTMENT APPLIED
Power surged through him—brief, brutal clarity. Strength. Reflex. Grit spiking like a fever.
Then the cost hit.
Not like pain.
Like erasure.
A warmth lifted out of him, clean and merciless.
Cole blinked.
The world sharpened—then hollowed.
He knew something was missing before he knew what.
He tried to summon her face.
Just to check.
Nothing came.
He knew she existed.Knew her name.Knew the sound of her voice in shape, not tone.
But her face—
Gone.
Not blurred.
Removed.
Cole sat there in the dust with four dead men cooling around him and felt the absence settle into place like a stone dropped into water that never splashed.
Text, final and indifferent:
COST PAIDMEMORY: PERMANENTLY FORFEITED
Cole didn't scream.
He didn't cry.
He pressed his palm to the dirt and breathed until the shaking stopped.
Dusty came to him, whining low, licking blood from Cole's hand like he could put something back.
Cole rested his forehead against the dog's neck.
Warm. Real.
Still here.
The road lay open beyond the bodies, indifferent as ever.
Cole stood.
His arm bled. His ribs burned. His head felt… cleaner. Emptier.
One of the dead men had managed a smile before the end.
Cole remembered that.
Unfortunately.
He didn't look back as he left the bodies for the sun.
The House stayed silent.
Which meant it was satisfied.
For now.