You Already Won

Three figures leaned over a bone-laced table in a smoky, humming chamber tucked deep within the side of a hill. No sunlight. Just bioluminescent moss in soft yellows and greens glowing above them like lazy stars.

The game? Something ancient. Nothing close to blackjack or spades. The cards bent light and shifted rules mid-shuffle. And yet—he played.

The young outlander sat slouched in his chair, a black hood draped low over his locked hair, red beads at the tips clinking softly when he tilted his head. His cloak had seen better days, but the fire in his eyes said he hadn't.

Across from him, the two wore the same outfit: dark suits woven with thread that shimmered in patterns no human tailor could mimic. A sigil burned faintly on their shoulders—a cube made from four bones, etched like a family crest forged in threat.

One of them—the elf-cat hybrid—licked his sharp teeth, his long ears flicking in amusement. "Last hand, Outlander," he purred, the accent choppy but smug. "You ready to go back to—how you say—loserville?"

The other—massive, blue-skinned, with glossy black eyes and tuskless grins—grunted in laughter. "He been losing since first hand. Let him pick his funeral card."

The outlander didn't flinch. Just popped his neck and leaned in, flashing a cocky half-smile. "Man, y'all talk more than opps in a group chat. Keep dealin'. I ain't foldin' for no glittery Teletubbies in tuxes."

The cat hybrid raised a brow. "Tele…what?"

"Don't worry 'bout it. Just know y'all outfits say funeral and birthday party at the same time." He cracked his knuckles. "But this my last hand, huh? Y'all that confident?"

The blue brute grinned, sharp and wet. "It over, Outlander. You talk good, but tongue don't beat table."

Cards hit the table. They whispered. They shimmered. The rules bent like gravity in Requiem always did.

And behind the banter, everyone in the room knew the truth.

This was it.

The last hand.

Jamal knew he was about to lose.

These fools thought they had him.

Pulled up all loud with their weird suits and smug-ass grins, flexing like they were in control. They thought just 'cause the rules weren't made for him, he couldn't play. That just made it more fun.

They wanted his gem—the one his grandma gave him before everything went sideways. He didn't even know what the thing did yet, only that it pulsed with heat whenever danger got close and had kept him breathing longer than luck should've allowed.

He remembered that voice in his head. Some cosmic dude, sounding like he swallowed a dictionary, talking crazy and smug. Whatever. Jamal wasn't listening. Not really. He just caught the part where it said, "You will be erased."

That was a death threat.

And Jamal knew death threats.

Right now, though, it wasn't gods or gold in the sky. It was these two clowns sitting across from him at a table made of ribs and etched glass, smiling like they already won. An elf-cat hybrid with glowing pupils and a smug tail flicking with every card dealt. And a broad-shouldered blue dude who looked like he punched meteors for fun.

They thought they had him boxed in.

But Jamal? He'd been backdooring opps since middle school. He just needed the right moment.

The elf-cat purred something in his slurred mix of Common and whatever Requiem back-alley dialect he spoke. "After this hand… we take your stone, your cloak… maybe your teeth."

The blue one laughed. "Outlander talks big. Never win. Always bluff."

Jamal chuckled, leaning back in his seat with a confidence that didn't match the cards in his hand.

"Man, y'all sound like Google Translate and anime had a baby," he said, tossing a card with flair. "And I'm s'posed to be scared of a dollar-store panther and Papa Smurf's ugly cousin?"

They blinked.

The elf-cat's ears twitched. "What… store?"

Jamal smirked wider. "Exactly. Keep up."

The two of them started arguing with each other—half in Requiem slang, half in frustration. The cat started hissing. The blue one slammed a hand on the table. They weren't used to being disrespected.

Weren't used to banter.

And Jamal? He was built for banter.

"Damn, y'all ever shut up?" he said. "You tryna take my gem, and you still sound like you reading off a prompter. My grandma got more drip in her urn than y'all got in that whole outfit."

The elf-cat stood up, fur bristling.

Jamal didn't flinch.

He grinned like a man who knew something they didn't.

Just a little longer, he thought. Let 'em keep talking. I only need one second.

Then he'd flip the board on them. Just like always.

Jamal leaned forward with a sly grin, tapping the table like he was keeping a beat no one else could hear. The cards in his hand were trash, but he didn't care. He was cooking now.

"Oh, we goin' again? Bet." He snorted, tossing a look between his opponents. "Y'all got the nerve to threaten me with them Payless-ass dress shoes and dollar-store tuxedos? What y'all tryna be—men in black?"

The elf-cat twitched, not understanding, but knowing it was disrespect.

"And don't get me started on y'all mamas," Jamal added, grin widening. "One of 'em definitely raised you in a cave, and the other whore raised herself. That's why y'all act like NPCs who got skipped in the character creation screen."

The blue man tilted his head. "What… is 'NPC'?"

Jamal clapped once, amused. "See! Y'all don't even know when you get dissed. That's crazy."

Then he turned and pointed dramatically at the bone cube on their collars—their weird sigil, four ancient femurs floating in a perfect square.

"And that ugly little Ikea relic y'all call a cube? Bro, it look like y'all playing Yahtzee with femur dust. Looks like the inside of a wishbone had a stroke."

That, apparently, they understood.

Both their heads snapped toward him, eyes flaring.

The blue one roared. "You insult Vexietc?!"

"Ohhh," Jamal said, standing with a lazy stretch. "So y'all understand that. Good. Bitchass boy!"

The blue man surged forward, fist cocked back, aura flaring like a snapped battery.

Jamal didn't flinch. In fact, he smiled.

The moment the punch came, Jamal spun on his heel like he was about to hit a dance battle in a school gym. His body blurred—no, split—across three positions in an instant. The punch flew through one afterimage, and then another, each version of him vanishing just as it was struck.

He ghosted behind them, still moving, like every step was slipping him between slightly different universes.

"Y'all thought I was sweet," Jamal muttered, twisting midair.

He snapped his fingers and caught the Soulball—his conjured, Ryun-infused basketball—out of nothingness.

"Nah," he said. "Y'all caught me at tipoff. Let me show you fourth quarter me."

He slammed the ball into the ground like it owed him money.

A concussive vortex exploded outward. Gravity bent inward, warping space and yanking both opponents into the epicenter like ragdolls, slamming them together, spinning them like they were clothes in a busted washing machine—until, boom, they were launched in opposite directions, screaming as they carved through ruined earth and collapsed pillars.

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Dust billowed. Cracks spiderwebbed through the clearing. Even nearby stones were hovering a few inches off the ground, confused by what physics was doing.

Jamal stood in the middle of it all, one foot planted like a legend on blacktop, Soulball spinning on a finger.

He laughed.

"Dumbasses. Stop playin' with me."

He tucked the ball away with a flick and started walking.

"Talkin' crazy but couldn't back it up. Fuck outta my face bro."

Jamal sighed, running a hand over his locks.

He hadn't planned on all this. The goal was to lay low, stack what he could, and maybe find a way back home—or at least someplace that made sense. He'd only been in this weird-ass world for a few months. Probably. Time didn't work right here, and neither did logic.

So, he'd just been doing what he knew—hitting licks, chilling with the underground, staying out of the spotlight.

Then the Fortune Holder event started.

That name? That name was definitely in English. Like they wanted him to know just how bad it was about to get.

Now people were popping up all over, acting out like it was Black Friday at an apocalypse store. Then the sky cracked open, and giant snake-looking things started gliding through the clouds like the world was on sale.

Too much. Way too much.

So Jamal decided to keep it simple.

He glanced across the skyline. The towers—those weird alien-looking ones that fell from the sky—were still pulsing faintly. The closest one was south. He remembered hearing something: those in the event could enter the towers. He wasn't officially part of the event, but the necklace his grandma gave him had reacted. Flashed. Glowed. Did something.

He figured that meant something.

Maybe he was in this stupid event after all.

Shrugging, he cracked his neck. "Whatever, I'll roll with it."

He didn't know what that golden dust cloud in the far distance was, but every part of him screamed not to let it catch him. His instincts went full horror-movie-walk-away-from-the-house mode. Whatever that golden shimmer crawling over the water was, it meant death.

Time to bounce.

Jamal took two steps forward, then jumped.

He soared.

Jumping was easier than running for him. Always had been since he got here. Why was his power tied to basketball? No clue.

But it worked.

So he didn't ask questions.

As he soared through the sky, wind trailing behind him, Jamal caught something in the corner of his eye.

A flash. And his gem glowed with warning.

He tilted his head instinctively—crack! The air hissed beside his ear as a bullet screamed past, close enough to clip a loc if he wasn't careful.

He smiled. "Oh, word?"

Jamal didn't flinch.

His legs tucked. Arms flexed. Eyes narrowed. Ryun surged through him like crowd noise at tipoff.

The world slowed just enough for him to feel the moment split three ways—pass, shoot, drive. His body hovered between options, balanced on instinct and prediction, then twisted midair in a clean pivot. He rocketed toward the sniper's perch like a fast break down a narrow court of chaos.

Stone blurred beneath him. Wind curled around his cloak. His dreads whipped past his cheeks as he adjusted trajectory—an organic missile with momentum and motive.

Crisper exhaled, watching through her scope. "Tch. That was supposed to be a clean headshot." She adjusted her lens—and paused. "Wait… wait is he—? Oh hell no."

She barely rolled aside as the ledge she was prone on exploded behind her, shattered by a Ryun-charged slam. Bits of rock rained down around her.

"Geez, man! What the hell?!"

Jamal landed lightly a few meters away, hoodie flaring, eyes locked on her.

She stood, brushing off debris with one arm while reaching for her UI with the other.

"I mean, we could talk about this—"

"You tried to catch me slippin'," he said, casually brushing dust from his shoulder, "but could not. So now—you gotta get got."

Crisper backed up, half-laughing, half-scanning for a new angle. "You can just give me the gem, you know. I won't shoot again. Let's be friends."

He raised an eyebrow. "Blood, stop yappin' crazy. You want my jewelry?" He tapped the gem hanging from his neck. "You gotta make six carry me."

"Six?" she blinked.

"As in six feet deep. C'mon now. Keep up."

She sighed. "Ugh. Why do I keep running into the insane ones?"

He smirked, Ryun already crackling across his shoulders. "'Cause sane ones don't live long out here."

Crisper's UI flickered into view—floating screens with neon-tinted glyphs spinning like a roulette wheel of death.

[Arsenal Wheel Active]

Weapons Selected: Arc-Switch | Neon Hounds | Anti-Pulse Rifle

"You're not the only one with drip, bro," she muttered, eyes narrowing.

She slid back on one knee, spinning her rifle like a baton before firing off a barrage of radiant bullets. Jamal ducked low, aura already swirling into motion.

He inhaled slow, shoulders rolling back as he dropped into stance. Ryun coiled through his limbs, sparking against his bones like streetlight static. A glowing ball of pure motion—his Soulball—formed in his palm, humming like it remembered every game he'd ever played.

He dribbled once.

And the court unfolded.

Not a real court, but a phantom one—etched into the dust and ruin around him, invisible to anyone who didn't know the rhythm. The ground pulsed underfoot, matching his movements. Each bounce of the ball sang with intent. The space around him warped ever so slightly, like the universe was leaning in to watch.

His steps turned liquid. Crossovers blurred into pirouettes, his body ducking and weaving through bullet-lines and blast trails with the fluid grace of a ballerina raised on highlight reels and warzones. Every pass of the Soulball left a trailing shimmer, a hypnotic echo that confused the eye and forced his enemies to guess instead of react.

Jamal caught the glowing orb mid-stride, aura trailing like fire off his soles. He pivoted once, twice, then launched it underhand—BOOM!—the Ryun-infused Soulball ricocheted off a rock wall and back toward Crisper. She rolled aside, cursing.

He chased it down with a spin move, leapt off the rebound, and slammed it into the earth—Gravity Pulse. A wave of compressed Ryun flared out, disrupting her next shot just enough to clip wide.

"I see you!" Crisper shouted, backpedaling. "But I play dirty!"

She snapped her fingers.

[Neon Hounds Deployed]

Two beasts of light and static, howling like broken subwoofers, erupted beside her. They lunged with gnashing pixelated teeth. Jamal didn't stop moving—he weaved, ducked, and spun.

The Soulball snapped from one hand to the other, sweeping out in a broad arc—SMASH! One hound exploded into sparks. He spun again—NO-LOOK FADEAWAY—the second burst mid-pounce, dissolving in a cascade of neon.

That's when he saw it.

Click.

She had a damn Switch.

Not a game console—a compact Ryun-enhanced SMG, all chrome and glowing edges. She grinned like a streamer about to ruin chat's favorite character.

Jamal's eyes widened.

"Is that a—is that a fuckin' switch?!" he shouted, leaping behind a busted rock wall as neon slugs shredded the air behind him. Sparks and shattered stone rained down.

"Where you even get that from, girl?!" he barked between dodges.

Crisper laughed, toggling her UI again as glowing runes charged around the barrel. "Subscribers. They love a good unboxing."

The ground trembled from the speed of their clash, bullets dancing with aura, and somewhere inside it all—Jamal grinned.

This was fun.

"Chat, I got him on the ropes," Crisper whispered, side-eyeing her glowing UI. "He's slippery AF though!"

"You see that last dodge? Mid-air spin? Girl, I could do this in my sleep." Jamal muttered from cover, peeking around the edge of a broken archway. "This chick out here narrating her own fight like she on Twitch." He wiped a bead of sweat, bouncing his phantom Soulball between his hands. "Alright. Lemme tighten up."

Crisper's voice echoed faintly through her open comm. "Anyway, Chat—get your clips ready, he's about to fold like a lawn chair."

She reloaded with a flick, neon shells sliding into place. But Jamal wasn't listening anymore.

He was moving.

Dribble.

Step.

Dribble.

Pivot.

He surged forward like a point guard on the final play. The world narrowed. His body slipped between bullets, cutting across narrow gaps like he was parting air itself. Instinct, not thought, moved him now.

He dropped low, spun high, ducked past a tall debris as neon shots traced the space behind his skull.

Crisper jumped back, still firing. "Okay, baller got rhythm—"

He pulled the ball to his chest.

Aura surged.

Stepback Universe

Time stuttered.

The ground, air, and even light itself froze as he pulled back—the moment thick and golden like syrup. Crisper blinked. Her muscles wouldn't respond. She was frozen mid-jump, mid-fire.

In that breathless pause, Jamal aligned with something greater—like all his plays had led here.

He hurled the Soulball.

The Ryun-infused arc cut the air with blazing velocity. Just as time snapped forward—

BOOM!

Crisper cursed, eyes wide.

But—

FWWOOM!

A flora-gold barrier shimmered into existence around her. It bloomed like petals in fast-forward, encasing her body just in time. The Soulball struck it with a thunderous impact—exploding in a ripple of lightning, smoke, and shattered earth.

Her rainbow hair fluttered from the shockwave. The barrier cracked. She stumbled back, bleeding from the shoulder.

"Well damn!" Crisper spat, panting. "You really trying to kill a girl on camera?!"

Jamal emerged from the smoke, pointing at her.

"I ain't even warmed up yet," he said, grinning. "Plus wouldn't be the first time I put a opp on tv."

Crisper blinked.

Then laughed.

"Oh, you're that type of dumb."

Jamal smirked as the gem on his neck pulsed with warning. He dodged quickly and a streak of light carved the air beside him, sizzling through his robe and leaving the scent of burnt cloth in its wake. He side-eyed the burn, then glared up at the source.

A girl stood maybe ten yards off—about his age, maybe a bit older. Blonde hair that shimmered silver in the light, a sleek black-and-gold robe clinging to her frame, hood down like she had nothing to hide. She was smiling. Calm. Confident. That was already strike one.

"Well?" she said casually. "Who are you?"

He folded his arms. "You first."

Her smile widened. "I asked first."

He raised a brow. "Nah, shawty—you pulled up on me. If I had the strap, I'da blown ya head back for free."

She laughed. "No gun. Use Ryun."

That made him grin. "So it's like that?"

She nodded, stepping forward slightly. "I'm guessing it's only attached to basketball? You from 2K?"

That pulled a laugh out of him. "Hell no. I ain't no damn loading screen."

Off to the side, Crisper was catching her breath, slumped against a tree. "He's got skills, Destiny," she said, eyeing him through bruised pride and a half-charged UI.

Jamal's smile thinned. "So ya name Destiny, huh?"

"Welp," Destiny said, glancing sideways. "Thanks for that, Crisper."

Crisper shrugged, brushing dust off her black jacket. "Oops."

Destiny stepped forward, tapping her finger to the golden snake symbol coiled under a broken crown on the back of her robe. "Yeah. I'm Destiny Vari."

Jamal nodded slowly. "Name's Jamal Wright."

His mind ticked over the puzzle pieces—golden death across the sea, the sky-snakes, the towers, that voice that cracked through his skull like divine static.

"Wait…" He tilted his head. "That was y'all talkin' earlier? That whisper-in-your-brain type voice? That's your peoples?"

Destiny gave a tight sigh. "I don't agree with the method," she said. "But it's above me. All I can do now is win."

Jamal raised an eyebrow. "Win what? Ain't no prize if everybody dead."

"Exactly," she said, calm but firm.

He tilted his head. "They wildin'. Whole region got that gold dust and 'n whatnot."

Destiny gave a slight shrug. "You're not wrong."

Jamal clicked his tongue. "Damn. And I thought my peoples was messy."

Crisper stepped in. "You want to join us? We won't take your gem, swear. We could use someone like you. Besides you don't wanna turn into gold right?"

Destiny gave him a once-over. "I don't have a problem with it."

Jamal looked between them. The golden fog hadn't hit yet, but it would. And he didn't feel like getting turned into a statue. He weighed his odds—then smirked.

"Aight. But…" He leaned forward slightly. "But can I get a switch tho?"

Destiny blinked. Crisper blinked.

Jamal kept smiling. "I'm tryna blow shit back with style."