After being beaten and bruised by the guards—their fists professional, their kicks measured just enough to hurt without leaving permanent damage—Lucas Reed was thrown out of The Velvet Rose like a bag of garbage tossed to the curb.
He hit the pavement hard. The impact drove the air from his lungs and sent fresh waves of pain radiating through his ribs. For a moment, he just lay there, tasting copper and asphalt, listening to the muffled bass from inside the bar and the sound of his own ragged breathing.
No one stopped to help. People walked past—some glanced down with mild curiosity, others carefully avoided looking at all. This was the city. Broken things were everywhere. You learned not to see them.
Slowly, painfully, Lucas pushed himself up. His lip was split. His left eye was already swelling. There would be bruises tomorrow—dark purple blooms across his ribs, his back, his arms. Evidence of his humiliation written on his skin.
He stumbled away from the bar, one hand pressed against his side, each breath shallow and careful.
The evening air met him like a cold slap.
It was bitter and sharp, cutting through his thin shirt—the same shirt he'd worn with pride just hours ago, now torn at the shoulder and spotted with his own blood. The cold seeped into his bones, settling there like it belonged. Like it had always been there, waiting.
Just like the way his body felt. Empty. Hollow. Frozen from the inside out.
Why him?
The question echoed in his mind, relentless and unanswerable.
Why was life so unfair?
He had worked harder than anyone he knew. Studied longer. Sacrificed more. He'd swallowed his pride a thousand times, endured the condescending looks, the casual cruelty, the constant reminder that he didn't belong. He'd done everything right—everything his mother had told him to do, everything society promised would lead to success.
And for what?
He'd lost his girlfriend and his job in the span of ten minutes. Anna's disgusted expression was burned into his memory. Marcus's cruel smile. The security guards' indifferent efficiency.
After everything, life was just so unfair.
Thunder cracked across the sky—sudden, violent, like the city itself was angry. The sound rolled through the streets, echoing off buildings. Wind began to rise, cold and sharp, carrying the promise of rain.
Lucas walked without direction, his feet carrying him forward on instinct alone. His mind was a white noise of pain and humiliation. He didn't notice where he was going. Didn't care.
And then, movement in his peripheral vision.
A beggar, huddled against a storefront wall, was watching him.
The man was old—or at least, he looked old. It was hard to tell beneath the layers of tattered clothing and grime. His face was weathered and creased, his hair a tangled mess of gray. He sat with a metal cup in front of him, a few coins scattered at the bottom.
As Lucas walked past, the beggar suddenly stood up. The movement was surprisingly smooth, almost graceful, at odds with his appearance.
"Spare a change, young man?"
Lucas stopped, looking around in confusion before realizing the beggar was talking to him. Him. The guy who'd just been beaten and thrown into the street. The guy who probably looked worse than half the homeless in the city right now.
He turned to face the beggar properly, and something twisted inside his chest.
Because looking at this man—this broken, forgotten person that society had discarded—Lucas realized just how pitiable and pathetic he was. Here he stood, young and healthy despite the bruises, with opportunities the beggar would never have, and yet drowning in self-pity. Complaining about unfairness while this man lived on the streets.
The realization didn't make him feel better. It made him feel worse. Smaller. More ashamed.
Lucas reached into his pocket with trembling fingers. His wallet was mostly empty—Marcus hadn't even paid him for tonight's shift before having him beaten. But there, crumpled at the bottom, was a single pound note. The last of his money. The fare he'd been planning to use to get back to his dorm.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Then he sighed—a sound that came from somewhere deep and tired—and handed it to the beggar.
The old man took it with gnarled fingers, looked at it, and then did something unexpected.
He laughed.
Not a cruel laugh. Not mocking. Just… amused. As if Lucas had told him a joke only he understood.
"Wow, boy," the beggar said, his eyes glinting with something that might have been humor or might have been madness. "You are really lucky."
With that cryptic statement, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows between buildings with surprising speed.
Lucas stood there, confused, watching the empty space where the beggar had been. Lucky? He'd just given away his last pound. He'd been beaten, betrayed, and humiliated. He'd lost everything that mattered in a single night.
What part of that was lucky?
But there was no answer. Just the rising wind and the distant rumble of thunder.
Lucas looked around, getting his bearings. He was farther from campus than he'd thought, and it was getting late. By the time he could walk back to Ivy League, the gates would be locked.
He checked his phone. 7:43 PM.
Curfew was at 8:00 PM sharp. The school was incredibly strict about it, especially now with winter exams approaching. They wanted students rested, focused, not wandering the city at night. For scholarship students like Lucas, breaking curfew could mean disciplinary action—another black mark he couldn't afford.
He wouldn't make it.
Which left only one option: the apartment.
Lucas had rented a small place about six months into his first year at Ivy League. It had happened after a particularly bad night when he'd missed curfew and been forced to sleep on a bench in a park, shivering through the darkness, jumping at every sound. The next morning, he'd been exhausted and humiliated, and he'd sworn never again.
The apartment wasn't much. A single room with a narrow bed, a hot plate, a bathroom barely big enough to turn around in. But it was shelter. It was private. It was his.
Or rather, it belonged to his mother's parents.
His maternal grandparents owned several properties in this part of the city—not wealthy, not poor, somewhere in that uncomfortable middle. They could have helped his mother more over the years. Could have made her life easier. Could have been the family she needed.
But they were stingy. Bitter about their daughter's choices, about the man she'd married, about the life she'd built. They saw Lucas as a reminder of their disappointment.
So even though they owned the building, even though the apartment sat empty most of the time, they still charged his mother rent. Not market rate—they weren't quite that cruel—but enough that it hurt. Enough to make their resentment clear.
His mother paid it anyway, working extra shifts, sacrificing even more, just so her son would have a safe place to sleep when he needed it.
The thought made Lucas's chest tighten with a familiar mixture of love and guilt.
It was nearly 8:30 PM by the time he reached the apartment building. His body ached with every step, the adrenaline from the beating long since faded, leaving only pain and exhaustion.
He climbed the stairs to the third floor—the elevator had been broken for months—and unlocked his door with shaking hands.
The apartment was cold and dark. He hadn't been here in almost two weeks. There was a musty smell in the air, a staleness that came from a space left unlived in.
Lucas didn't bother turning on the main light. He just moved through the familiar darkness to the bed and sat down heavily, his body sagging with relief at finally being off his feet.
For a long moment, he just sat there, breathing.
Then, mechanically, he began to undress. The black suit jacket—borrowed from the bar's uniform closet—was crumpled and stained. He shrugged it off, letting it fall to the floor.
As he started unbuttoning his shirt, something fell from the inside pocket.
A small sound. A light thud against the floor.
Lucas looked down. In the dim light filtering through the window, he could just make out a shape. A box. Small and rectangular.
He bent down, wincing as his ribs protested, and picked it up.
It was a card box. The kind that held a deck of playing cards. But the design on the back was unusual—intricate patterns in black and silver, swirling and geometric, almost hypnotic in their complexity. Beautiful, in a strange way.
Lucas didn't remember having this. Didn't remember anyone giving it to him.
Curious despite everything, he opened the box.
Inside, there was only a single card.
That was odd. A deck should have fifty-two cards, plus jokers. But this box contained just one.
He pulled it out carefully.
The card was completely black. Not the back—the face. Where there should have been a suit and number, or a picture, there was just… nothing. Smooth black surface, like a void. Like someone had cut a card-shaped hole in reality itself.
Weird.
Lucas turned it over, examining both sides. The back had those beautiful patterns. The front was absolute darkness.
He started to put it down, to toss it aside and forget about it, but something made him hesitate. Some instinct he couldn't name.
And that hesitation cost him.
The card's edge—thin and sharp as a razor—caught his finger as he adjusted his grip. It was barely a cut, just a small nick, but blood welled up immediately. A single drop, dark and red.
"Ah—" Lucas jerked his hand back reflexively.
The card fell.
His blood fell with it.
And when that drop of blood touched the black surface of the card, everything changed.
DING.
The sound rang in his head like a bell, clear and sharp and impossible. Not from his ears. From inside his skull.
DING.
[RECALIBRATING WITH NEW HOST]
The words appeared in his vision, hovering in front of his eyes like text on a screen. White letters against the darkness of his apartment. Solid. Real. Undeniable.
"What—"
Lucas didn't finish the sentence.
His vision went black.
Not the natural darkness of closing your eyes. Not the gradual fade of passing out. Just instant, complete blackness, as if someone had flipped a switch and turned off the world.
He was aware of falling, of his body tipping sideways, of the floor rushing up to meet him. But he couldn't see. Couldn't move. Couldn't scream.
And then there was nothing.
Down on the floor of the dark apartment, the black card began to glow.
It pulsed once, twice, with an inner light that was somehow darker than the shadows around it. The patterns on its back writhed and shifted like living things.
And then, as if drawn by invisible strings, it rose into the air.
It hovered above Lucas's unconscious body for a heartbeat. Then it descended, pressing against his chest, and began to sink into his flesh.
No blood. No wound. Just absorption, as if his body were liquid and the card was dissolving into it, becoming part of him at some fundamental level.
The glow intensified for a moment, illuminating the room in shades of black and silver.
Then it faded.
The card was gone.
Lucas lay still, his breathing shallow, his face pale, completely unaware of what had just entered him.
Meanwhile, across the city in a back alley near the shopping district, the same beggar from earlier stood under a streetlight.
He wasn't huddled anymore. Wasn't bent or broken-looking. He stood straight, his weathered face calm, almost satisfied.
As he waited, he began removing his tattered outer layers. Beneath the filthy coat and torn shirt, he wore designer clothes. Expensive fabric. Tailored fit.
Two luxurious cars pulled up smoothly, their engines purring like content cats. Mercedes. Top of the line. The kind of vehicles that cost more than most people made in a year.
Men in dark suits stepped out immediately, moving with practiced efficiency. They opened doors, offered hands, treated the "beggar" with the deference reserved for someone important.
The old man—because he was old, that much was real—slid into the back seat of the first car with a soft grunt.
Already seated inside was another man, younger, perhaps in his fifties, with silver at his temples and the soft look of someone who'd never missed a meal in his life.
"So," the younger man said as the car pulled away from the curb, smooth and silent. "How was it?"
The old man adjusted his clothes, brushing away imaginary dust. "It was fine. Nothing really happened."
"Are you sure?" There was anxiety in the question. Uncertainty.
The old man smiled—a thin, knowing expression. "Yeah. It doesn't really matter."
"But—"
"Listen." The old man cut him off, his tone patient but firm. "Even if that man had helped us retrieve it, we can't fulfill his wishes. My daughter marrying his son?" He shook his head. "Impossible. Did you see him? He has no class. No presence. No future. He's a scholarship student barely keeping his head above water."
The younger man nodded, emboldened. "Exactly! And that card—I really thought it was some god-sent treasure when we found it. Some powerful artifact. But even after everything, even after we tried every method, it was completely useless. Wouldn't activate. Wouldn't do anything. Just a blank card."
He laughed, bitter and relieved at once. "So why not give it to his useless son? Let him have the worthless thing. We're done with it. Done with that whole family."
He continued rambling, justifying the decision, working himself into righteous indignation about time wasted and resources spent on something that turned out to be nothing.
The older man's expression didn't change throughout the monologue. He simply stared out the window, watching the city lights blur past, his face unreadable in the darkness.
Finally, when the younger man paused for breath, the old man spoke quietly.
"Did you really just leave a blank card with your only son?"
The question hung in the air.
The younger man frowned. "What do you mean? It is blank. We tested it a hundred times. Nothing worked."
"Mm." The old man made a noncommittal sound.
But he didn't say anything else.
He just watched the city pass by, and in his ancient eyes, something that might have been amusement flickered and died.
The car drove on into the night, carrying its passengers away from the shabby apartment where Lucas Reed lay unconscious on the floor, a card that was no longer separate from him burning its way into his very being.
And somewhere in the space between consciousness and oblivion, something new was beginning.
Something that would change everything.