A walk in the Nightside

Chapter 6: All or Nothing

The poker tournament was held in an unassuming building on the edge of the market district, not a massive casino but still packed with people eager for a shot at life-changing winnings. Michael had managed to scrape together the 2,000-pound entry fee through his silk sales, poker games, and meticulous planning. It wasn't a small sum, and the risk was real, but the potential reward—a prize of over 120,000 pounds after the house's 25% cut—was worth it.

The air inside was thick with tension and cigarette smoke, the low hum of conversation underscored by the clink of glasses and the shuffle of cards. Michael moved through the crowd, his nerves steady despite the stakes. He scanned the room as he approached the registration desk, taking note of the competition. There were seasoned players, their faces carved from stone, and overeager novices who couldn't stop fidgeting. The variety didn't surprise him—this was the Nightside, after all.

The tournament started smoothly enough. Michael played carefully, balancing his skill with the subtle advantage provided by his swarm. Small insects stationed discreetly around the table gave him a view of his opponents' hands, but he used the information sparingly. Winning too fast or too much would draw suspicion, and the Nightside wasn't forgiving to those who cheated too blatantly.

Hand by hand, round by round, players were eliminated, their dreams of riches slipping away. Michael stayed focused, his expression calm even as his stack of chips grew steadily. The tension in the room thickened as the number of players dwindled, and by the time there were only 20 left, Michael felt a surge of confidence. He'd made it this far—he could win this.

But then came the twist.

The dealer stood, raising his hands to get everyone's attention. The murmurs around the room quieted, and Michael felt the unease ripple through the remaining players.

"Congratulations to the 20 of you who've made it this far," the dealer announced, his voice smooth and professional. "But now, we're upping the stakes. For the next round, the buy-in will no longer be money."

Michael's stomach tightened. He already didn't like where this was going.

"The new buy-in," the dealer continued, "is 50 years of your lifespan. There is no backing out. The contract is binding from the moment you sat down."

Gasps and murmurs spread through the crowd. Michael's mind raced. He'd read about situations like this in the Nightside books but hadn't expected to encounter one himself. The tournament hadn't advertised this twist—it was sprung on them at the last possible moment.

"You've got to be kidding me," one player muttered, his face pale.

"Read the fine print, mate," another replied grimly. "It's all there."

Michael kept his face neutral, even as his thoughts spiraled. Fifty years was a lot, but the reward was astronomical. With the new stakes, the pot would hold 1,000 years of life in total. After the house took its 25%, that left 750 years—enough to extend someone's lifespan by centuries or grant near-immortality.

The stakes weren't just high—they were astronomical.

The next round was split into five tables of four players each. The tension was palpable as the players sat down, their expressions grim. Losing now didn't just mean walking away empty-handed—it meant giving up decades of life. For some, that could be the difference between a full life and an early grave.

Michael focused, tightening his control over his swarm. He couldn't afford mistakes. Every move, every bet, every bluff had to be perfect.

The games were grueling, the pressure unlike anything he'd ever faced. Players dropped out one by one, some cursing their luck, others silently accepting their fate. Michael kept his head down, his strategy meticulous. By the end of the round, he was still standing.

Only five players remained.

The final game was announced to begin in one hour, giving the players time to stretch, grab a drink, or use the bathroom. Michael stood from the table, his legs stiff from hours of sitting. The other four players scattered, each retreating to their own corner of the room to prepare.

Michael stepped into the hallway, leaning against the wall as he took a deep breath. His mind was racing, but his resolve was firm. He'd come this far, and the prize—a fortune in years—was within his grasp.

As he stretched his shoulders and prepared for the final game, he couldn't help but wonder about the others. Were they as desperate as he was? Were they fighting for survival, for ambition, or just for the thrill of the gamble?

It didn't matter. When the final round began, there would be no alliances, no mercy. Only one player would walk away with the prize, and Michael intended to make sure it was him.

Michael stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, his face pale and drawn. The pressure was unbearable, the stakes unlike anything he'd ever faced before. He splashed cold water on his face, letting the shock of it snap him out of his spiraling thoughts.

"This is what you signed up for," he muttered to himself, gripping the sides of the sink. "Do or die."

He took a deep breath, willing himself to focus. The prize was too great to walk away from now—750 years of life, enough to make him untouchable in the Nightside's ever-shifting power games. But the cost of failure… that was a void he couldn't afford to stare into for long.

Wiping his face dry, Michael squared his shoulders and stepped out of the bathroom, his resolve hardening with each step. He made his way back to the table, where the dealer was already waiting. The room was quieter now, the crowd that had gathered earlier thinning out to watch from the shadows. The final round was about to begin.

Michael took his seat, nodding briefly to the dealer, who greeted him with a practiced smile. One by one, the other players arrived: one woman and three men, each of them wearing an expression that ranged from stone-faced determination to barely concealed anxiety.

The final round began with the dealer shuffling the cards, his hands moving with practiced precision as he dealt the first hand. The atmosphere at the table was suffocatingly tense, the stakes heavy on everyone's shoulders.

Michael glanced around the table. The woman, poised and sharp in her black suit, sat directly across from him. Her eyes moved like a hawk's, taking in everything. To his left sat the wiry, jittery man who'd been playing aggressively all night, his leg bouncing under the table. On his right was the stone-faced man who rarely spoke, and next to him, the burly player with the scar who seemed too calm for Michael's liking.

The dealer gave his opening spiel. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is it—the final table. Stakes are high, and as you all know, it's not just money you're playing for tonight. Good luck."

The game began.

The first few rounds were tentative, each player testing the waters. Michael played conservatively, folding early hands while keeping his swarm in strategic positions. The flies on the lamps provided him with a perfect view of each player's cards, but he made sure to use the information carefully, throwing away hands that could seem suspiciously perfect if he played too well too fast.

The wiry man was the first to speak. "Y'know," he said, leaning back in his chair with a nervous grin, "50 years is a long time. Wouldn't blame anyone for folding now and walking out with what they've got left."

The woman snorted. "That's rich, coming from the guy who's been bluffing half the tournament. You still here because you've got the years to spare, or are you just bad at math?"

The table chuckled softly, except for the scarred man, who remained stoic. Michael kept his gaze down, watching as the wiry man's grin faltered.

"Maybe I'm just good," the wiry man shot back, his voice slightly defensive. "Not my fault the rest of you don't know when to fold."'

The stone-faced man finally spoke, his voice low and calm. "Bluffs won't save you this time. The stakes are too high for games."

"Everything here's a game," the woman countered smoothly, throwing her chips into the pot. "And some of us are better at playing it than others."

Michael called her bet, his voice steady. "We'll see."

The tension escalated as the game went on. Hands were played and folded, chips pushed forward in calculated bids. Michael won a small pot early, deliberately keeping his profile low while letting the others clash. The woman seemed determined to dominate the table, her aggressive style forcing the others to make tough decisions.

"You're playing like you've already won," the scarred man finally said, raising an eyebrow at her as he called her bet. "Confidence like that can get you killed here."

"Maybe," she said, smiling faintly. "But hesitation will get you killed faster."

The wiry man folded with an exaggerated sigh. "Oh, sure, let's all listen to the ice queen. Like she's got the years to spare."

Michael raised slightly, testing the waters. "You're still here, though. Maybe you're the one who should reconsider."

The wiry man's grin turned brittle. "Don't worry about me, kid. Just worry about how you're going to spend the rest of your years in debt."

As players were eliminated, the game grew sharper, the moves more deliberate. The wiry man's aggressive style backfired spectacularly when he pushed too hard against the scarred man, losing everything in a single, ill-timed bluff.

"Guess that's my time up," the wiry man muttered, standing with a shaky laugh. He gave Michael a pointed look. "Careful, kid. You're running with wolves now."

The final four settled into a brutal rhythm, their moves slow and calculating. The woman and the scarred man clashed repeatedly, trading wins back and forth, while the stone-faced man quietly chipped away at the pot. Michael stayed focused, using his swarm to track their cards while carefully crafting his own strategy.

When the scarred man finally lost a significant hand to the woman, he leaned back in his chair, his expression dark. "You play like someone who's never lost anything," he said, his voice low.

"Maybe I just play like someone who's got more to lose," she replied, not missing a beat. "You should try it sometime."

Michael called her next bet, keeping his tone light. "You two keep this up, and the rest of us might actually stand a chance."

The stone-faced man raised slightly, his calm demeanor never wavering. "You're welcome to try."

By the time it came down to three players, Michael knew it was anyone's game. The woman was sharp, the stone-faced man was unshakable, and Michael himself was playing the best poker of his life. He won a critical hand against the stone-faced man, forcing him to fold after a long, tense exchange. The pot was his, but the woman's eyes narrowed, as though she'd finally realized there was more to him than met the eye.

"I underestimated you," she said, her voice quiet.

Michael smiled faintly. "You're not the first."

The final hand came down to Michael and the scarred man. The pot was enormous, and the tension in the room was suffocating. Michael's swarm showed him the scarred man's cards—a bluff. It was all or nothing.

"I'm all in," Michael said, pushing his chips forward.

The scarred man hesitated, his stoic mask cracking for the first time. After what felt like an eternity, he folded, throwing his cards down in frustration.

The dealer smiled. "Winner: Michael."

Michael exhaled, a huge sigh of relief escaping him. He'd done it. He'd won.

The prize was his—a fortune in years, a shield against the Nightside's dangers. As the other players left, some bitter, others resigned, Michael allowed himself a small moment of triumph.

He wasn't just surviving anymore. He was thriving. And in the Nightside, that was the biggest gamble of all.

Michael was still catching his breath when a suited man tapped his shoulder and gestured for him to follow. He was led through a side door and into a backroom, the air noticeably cooler and quieter than the bustling tournament floor. The room exuded understated luxury, with velvet drapes and a heavy wooden table at its center.

Waiting for him was the owner of the tournament, a tall, impeccably dressed man whose sharp smile felt both welcoming and dangerous. The man stepped forward with open arms, his movements as smooth as his voice.

"Congratulations," the owner said warmly. "You've achieved something extraordinary tonight. Few make it this far, and even fewer win. Not just the money, mind you, but the years. You've taken your first true step into the Nightside's high stakes."

Michael gave a small nod, wary but grateful. His eyes were drawn to the table, where a metal box sat. Its surface was etched with intricate glyphs that glowed faintly, their patterns shifting ever so slightly as if alive. Next to it was a heavy, silver-banded briefcase that practically screamed wealth.

"What's this?" Michael asked, nodding toward the box.

"The transfer," the owner replied smoothly. "Those 750 years you've won? They're contained in here. The glyphs ensure that the process is seamless—and binding. All you need to do is touch the box, and the years will become yours."

Michael hesitated. His instincts told him to be cautious, but he couldn't back out now. He reached out and placed his hand on the box. The moment his skin made contact, a jolt of pure warmth coursed through him, intense but not painful. It spread like liquid sunlight, filling him with a vitality he hadn't felt in years.

"Wow," Michael murmured, pulling his hand back.

The owner gave him an approving nod. "That's how it goes. Congratulations—you've just extended your life by 750 years. You've officially stepped into the big leagues, my friend."

Michael barely had time to process the enormity of it before the owner gestured to the briefcase. "And here's your cash winnings. Everything accounted for, minus the house's cut, of course."

The man unlocked the briefcase and turned it toward Michael, revealing stacks of neatly arranged bills. The sight of it made Michael's chest tighten; it wasn't just money—it was freedom.

Before he could leave, Michael spoke up. "I need an escort to the bank," he said firmly. "Money like this? It's going to attract attention. I'd rather not deal with that tonight."

The owner chuckled, clearly impressed by Michael's pragmatism. "Smart man. The house respects caution as much as it respects winners. Consider it done."

Two large, silent guards materialized from the shadows, their presence as imposing as their hulking forms. They flanked Michael as he carried the briefcase out of the building, their eyes scanning the streets for any signs of trouble.

The trip to the bank was uneventful, though the weight of the briefcase felt heavier with every step. At the bank, Michael opened an account, depositing the cash and receiving a sleek black card that served as both a symbol of his newfound status and a gateway to more opportunities in the Nightside.

When Michael finally returned to his apartment, he locked the door behind him and leaned against it, letting out a long breath. He set the empty briefcase on the floor and ran a hand through his hair, his heart still pounding from the night's events.

Then it hit him.

He'd won. Not just the money or the years, but a foothold in a world that had been trying to crush him since the moment he arrived. A bubbling laugh escaped him, soft at first but growing louder as he sank onto his couch. He'd taken a gamble, and it had paid off—big.

For the first time since entering the Nightside, he felt like he wasn't just surviving. He was making progress, taking control of his life in a city that thrived on chaos. The years and the money gave him options, and options meant power.

Michael let the laughter fade as he leaned back, staring up at the sloped ceiling of his apartment. The unfinished silk coat stood on its mannequin in the corner, a testament to his resourcefulness and determination.

He'd taken a huge step tonight, one that would ensure his survival for years to come. But this was just the beginning. In the Nightside, standing still was the fastest way to fall behind. Tomorrow, the game would begin again, and Michael was ready to play.