The box of red-patterned playing cards lay quietly on the scratched workbench, like a cake waiting to be cut.
Old Ghost didn't answer immediately. His cloudy eyes darted between Vance and Cerberus. The hydraulic shear in his hand opened and closed, making a tooth-aching metal grinding sound. The air was thick with the smell of dry machine oil and tense killing intent.
Finally, Old Ghost laughed. It sounded like a rusty saw cutting through rotten wood—dry, piercing, and laced with creepy excitement.
"Interesting." Old Ghost threw the shear onto the table with a bang. "In forty years here, you're the first kid to make such a demand. You want to bet my life? Fine. But my life is expensive. Your newly acquired Arena might not be enough."
Vance didn't retreat. He maintained his elegant yet dangerous posture, tapping the table.
"If you think the chips are light, I'll add this." Vance pointed at Cerberus behind him. "The most perfect biological weapon in District 9. If I lose, sell him, scrap him, your choice. You know his value better than I do."
Old Ghost's greedy gaze lingered on Cerberus. As an info broker, he knew exactly what Cerberus represented.
"Deal." Old Ghost's voice turned cold and sharp.
He turned to the wall, where a dusty circuit breaker box hung.
"Since we are playing on my turf, we play by my rules." Old Ghost's hand rested on the lever, staring at Vance with sinister eyes. "Blind Poker. A game in the dark. But the darkness in here... is different from the outside."
"What's the difference?" Vance raised an eyebrow.
"You'll see."
Old Ghost yanked the lever down.
Snap. The last dim lamp died. The heavy iron door had already blocked out the neon streetlights. The clock shop plunged into absolute, viscous darkness.
It wasn't just the loss of light.
The moment the lights died, thousands of clocks on the walls, which had been ticking softly, seemed to receive a command. Their sounds synchronized.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
The sound of countless gears meshing converged into a massive sonic wave, rushing from all directions like a tide, instantly filling Vance's eardrums. This rhythmic noise didn't just mask footsteps; it interfered with heart rate frequencies, inducing severe vertigo and spatial disorientation.
This was Old Ghost's home field advantage: Sonic Jamming. In this environment, a normal person's hearing would be useless. They would be deaf and blind sheep waiting for the slaughter.
"Welcome to my world." Old Ghost's voice drifted in the dark, blending into the mechanical roar. "The rules are simple. One deck, fifty-four cards. I will scatter them in this room. We are looking for the only Joker."
"Whoever finds the Joker first wins. Any means are allowed, including attacking the opponent. But before the card is found, no lights, no luminescent devices. Violators die."
Vance stood still and closed his eyes.
Visuals stripped. Hearing jammed.
But in his sensory world, another door opened. The World of Scent. In this enclosed space, every smell was amplified, turning into visible trails. Three meters to the front-left, the smell of old brass. Two meters back-right, pungent acidic cleaner.
And the smell of Old Ghost—a mix of dry ink, the decay of old age, and the sharp scent of adrenaline—was moving fast in the dark.
"Ready?" Old Ghost's voice echoed again, seemingly from the ceiling.
Vance didn't speak. He just nodded slightly.
Fwip—!
The crisp sound of tearing paper cut through the clock noise. The cards were thrown into the air. Fifty-four cards danced and glided in the dark like a swarm of startled white bats, scattering into every corner of the room.
Some landed on the workbench, some slid into floor cracks, some hung on high clock hands.
Game start.
Vance didn't move. He waited for the cards to settle, for the airflow to calm.
"Cerberus." Vance whispered in the dark.
"Here." The boy's voice came from behind, emotionless, steady as a rock.
"Stand still," Vance commanded. "If anything tries to get within half a meter of me—man or knife—block it. That is the highest directive."
"Yes."
With defense set, Vance smiled in the dark. He knew that trying to find a piece of paper by sound in this noise was finding a needle in a haystack.
So, he didn't plan to look for it.
"Old Ghost," Vance raised his voice, piercing the mechanical din. "Do you really think I did nothing when I shuffled the deck?"
In the dark, the faint scuffling of footsteps paused.
"I folded a crease on the Joker." Vance's voice was terrifyingly certain. "A microscopic crease, but enough to change its air resistance."
"Cerberus has military-grade auditory enhancements. He can hear a heartbeat from a hundred meters. Do you think he missed the distinct sound of that specific card landing?"
The air solidified for a second.
Old Ghost didn't speak. But in Vance's nose, a scent of Sour Anxiety began to diffuse.
Suspicion breeds ghosts. For a paranoid broker like Old Ghost, any variable was fatal.
"It's on the left!" Vance suddenly shouted, pointing into the darkness. "Cerberus, three o'clock, go!"
It was a bluff full of holes. Cerberus didn't move. His core logic prioritized "Defend" over "Attack."
But Old Ghost didn't know that. In that split second, the sour anxiety exploded into panic.
Old Ghost moved.
He instinctively believed Vance. He feared the monster named Cerberus would grab the card first. Human instinct: before someone steals the treasure, hide it or destroy it.
Old Ghost abandoned his stealthy route and lunged toward the other side of the shelves.
Vance smelled it.
The trail of scent left by Old Ghost's rapid movement was like a fluorescent road sign in the night.
"So it's over there." Vance chuckled internally. He didn't need to find the card. He just needed to find Old Ghost.
Vance followed the scent, striding forward. He didn't need to be careful; Old Ghost's attention was entirely on that damn Joker.
Whoosh!
Just as Vance neared the target area, a projectile whistled through the air. A trap left by Old Ghost—a throwing knife meant to slow him down.
But before the blade could touch Vance—
Clang!
A crisp metal impact.
Cerberus, guarding Vance's back, moved. He parried the knife perfectly with his tactical dagger in the dark. Directive "Block" executed.
"Focus on finding your card, Ghost." Vance didn't even break stride. "I have people for the rough work."
Three meters ahead. The scent was strongest.
Vance smelled the dry ink odor of Old Ghost stop. Then, the sound of frantic rummaging. Old Ghost was digging through the junk, trying to find the Joker to verify the crease.
Now.
Vance reached out. Not for the card, but for the trembling source of the scent.
"Gotcha."
Vance's hand locked onto Old Ghost's wrist in the dark.
"Seems you couldn't find the card either, Master." Vance's mocking voice rang in Old Ghost's ear. "Otherwise, why rush over to check?"
Old Ghost froze.
In his hand, he was pinching the poker card he had just found. It was smooth. No crease.
He had been played.
"You bluffed me?!" Old Ghost's voice was filled with humiliated rage.
"All is fair in war."
Vance released his grip, snatching the card from Old Ghost's stiff fingers.
"Game over." Vance snapped his fingers.
In the dark, only Old Ghost's ragged breathing remained.
This gamble had ended the moment Vance told his first lie.