Wildcard wiped his mouth, tasting blood and exhaustion. His ribs ached, his knuckles throbbed, and the distant hum of adrenaline still burned through his system. The fight was over.
Scar-Nose was groaning somewhere behind him. His knife-wielding friend wasn’t getting up anytime soon.
Wildcard turned his gaze to the bald man. The one who hadn’t moved the entire time.
Don Cortez.
"You’ve made your point," Cortez said, his voice measured, calm. "Now let’s talk about what happens next."
Wildcard exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the emptiness in his chest. His power had fizzled out completely.
No new shift. No tingling sensation. Nothing.
Cortez studied him with patient calculation. "You’re new here, but not stupid. You know what happens to people who wander in alone, thinking they can survive on their own."
Wildcard rolled his aching shoulders. "I dunno. Looked like I was doing fine."
Cortez smirked. "For now."
The unspoken meaning was clear. One fight wasn’t survival. One win didn’t mean a thing in the long run.
Wildcard already knew that.
Cortez glanced toward Isla. "Take him with you. Let’s see if he’s worth keeping."
Isla sighed loudly, rubbing the back of her neck. "Of course. Babysitting duty."
Wildcard grinned. "I feel real welcome."
"Don’t," Isla said.
The shantytown streets reeked of rust, sweat, and stale oil. Dim neon lights flickered above makeshift stalls, and the few people still lingering outside kept their heads down.
Wildcard followed Isla, feeling every sore muscle with each step.
"You gonna tell me what we’re actually doing?" he asked.
"Collections," Isla muttered. "A guy named Rigo owes Cortez five hundred. We’re making sure he pays."
Wildcard smirked. "What, the great Don Cortez can’t cover a few bucks?"
Isla shot him a glare. "It’s not about the money."
No, it wouldn’t be. It was about control. Power. Making sure people knew their place.
Wildcard had done jobs like this before. He just wasn’t used to being on the other end of the stick.
They reached a rusted metal shack wedged between two crumbling buildings. A single, flickering light buzzed above the doorway.
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Isla didn’t knock. She kicked the door open.
Wildcard followed her inside.
The repair shop was a mess. Workbenches covered in half-dismantled tech, tangled wires, and discarded scraps. The air was thick with the smell of grease and burnt circuits.
Rigo, a thin, wiry man with hollow eyes and jittery hands, stumbled back as they entered. His gaze darted between them, breathing ragged.
"I—I don’t have it yet!" he stammered, stepping toward the counter.
Wildcard spotted the gun behind him at the same time Isla did.
She moved first.
A blur of motion—she grabbed his wrist, slammed it against the counter. The rusted pistol clattered to the floor.
"Bad idea, Rigo," Isla muttered.
Rigo winced, eyes darting around the room.
Wildcard watched carefully. He’d seen this look before—a guy trying to think his way out of a hole he couldn’t climb.
"You know how this works," Isla said, bored. "Pay up, or things get messy."
Rigo licked his lips. "I just need more time!"
"Not my problem."
Wildcard sighed, stepping forward.
"Look, Rigo," he said. "You owe Cortez. We both know he’s not the patient type."
"I—I can’t pay!" Rigo gasped.
Wildcard rubbed his temple. Still no power. No advantage. Just his own instincts.
He crouched down, picking up Rigo’s gun. The thing was falling apart. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it.
"You were gonna use this on us?" Wildcard asked. "Really?"
Rigo didn’t answer.
Wildcard set the gun down on the counter, just out of reach. Then he leaned in slightly.
"Here’s the deal," he said. "You’re gonna give us something. Maybe it’s not cash. Maybe it’s parts. Supplies. Whatever Cortez can use. But you’re not walking away from this empty-handed."
Rigo hesitated, glancing at Isla.
She just shrugged. "He’s not wrong."
His hands trembled as he turned, fumbling with a rusted cabinet.
Wildcard watched him carefully, a nagging unease settling in his gut. Not because of Rigo—because of himself.
That emptiness where his power should’ve been still gnawed at him.
Rigo shoved a bag of supplies toward them. "T-This is everything I’ve got," he stammered. "Just—please, don’t tell Cortez I pulled a gun."
Wildcard smirked. "Oh, I’m definitely telling him."
Rigo’s face drained of color.
Isla chuckled, slinging the bag over her shoulder. "Relax, Rigo. You’re still breathing. That’s more than most get."
They walked out.
Wildcard didn’t look back.
Back at the Dominos’ compound, the air buzzed with activity—runners moving in and out, weapons being cleaned, conversations overlapping.
Isla led the way to Cortez’s office.
Inside, the man himself sat behind a metal desk, ledger open. He barely looked up as Isla tossed the bag onto the table.
"Rigo didn’t have the cash," she said. "We took value instead."
Cortez flipped through the bag, nodding slightly.
"Acceptable."
His gaze drifted to Wildcard.
"How’d he do?"
Isla smirked. "Didn’t screw it up."
Wildcard raised an eyebrow. "That’s high praise from you."
Cortez’s fingers drummed against the desk. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Go get some rest," he said. "You’ll be working again soon."
Wildcard didn’t argue.
But as he walked out, he still felt nothing. No shift. No power returning.
Just a dull, gnawing absence.
Grunt was waiting outside.
Wildcard barely had time to react before Grunt shoved him against a crate.
"Listen up, new guy," Grunt muttered. His breath reeked of blood and cheap liquor.
Wildcard didn’t flinch. "We having a moment here?"
"You think you’re climbing the ranks?" Grunt sneered. "Think you’re special?" His grip tightened. "You’re just another tool. Don’t forget that."
Wildcard felt the itch again. That desperate, instinctive need for a power to trigger.
But there was nothing.
Grunt saw it. Smirked.
"Yeah," Grunt muttered. "That’s what I thought."
He stepped back, shoving Wildcard slightly as he walked off.
Wildcard exhaled slowly.
Something was wrong.
And he had no idea if it was temporary—or permanent.
