It happened quietly.
That was how Cole knew it mattered.
No announcement. No table rising out of the dirt. No cards snapping into place like a threat that wanted credit for itself.
Just a pause.
A hesitation in the air that didn't belong to weather or nerves.
Cole felt it first in Dusty.
The dog slowed mid-step, head angling just slightly, like he'd heard a sound that wasn't meant for ears. His tail didn't drop. His hackles didn't rise.
He just… recalculated.
Cole stopped with him.
They were in a narrow stretch between two leaning storefronts where Rustline pinched itself thin. Shade pooled there, stale and unmoving. A place people passed through without lingering.
Except someone was lingering.
A man leaned against the brick, arms folded, posture loose in the way men practiced when they wanted to look harmless. He wore no coat markings. No red stitching. No cards on display.
Local.
Dealer-adjacent, maybe.
The kind the House used when it didn't want to look involved.
Cole didn't move.
Neither did the man.
"Afternoon," the man said.
Cole nodded once.
Dusty stared at him.
The man's eyes flicked down.
Then lingered.
That was the mistake.
"You traveling together?" the man asked.
Cole's hand drifted near the revolver. Not touching.
"Yeah," he said.
The man smiled thinly. "He registered?"
Cole's jaw tightened.
"No."
The man hummed softly, like that was interesting instead of alarming.
"Might want to," he said. "Town like this, the House prefers clean books."
Dusty took one step forward.
Not aggressive.
Protective.
The man didn't flinch.
That bothered Cole more than if he had.
"I don't register companions," Cole said.
The man shrugged. "Most don't. At first."
He pushed off the wall and reached into his coat.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Cole's hand tightened.
The man didn't pull a weapon.
He pulled a thin metal plate, dull gray, etched with faint grid lines that didn't want to stay still when you looked at them.
A registrar token.
House issue.
He held it out—not to Cole.
Toward Dusty.
The air… stalled.
Not froze.
Stalled.
Like a breath caught halfway in.
Dusty sneezed.
Sharp. Violent.
Then growled.
The sound echoed wrong in the narrow space, bending like it had hit something invisible and come back thinner.
The metal plate vibrated.
Just a little.
The man frowned.
"That's odd," he murmured.
Cole felt the pressure hit then.
Not the House leaning close.
The House… hesitating.
Text flickered at the edge of his vision.
HOUSE OF RECKONING // REGISTRATION ATTEMPTTARGET: UNRESOLVEDSTATUS: PENDING…
The ellipsis stayed.
That had never happened before.
The man glanced at Cole now. Really looked at him.
"What is he," the man asked.
Cole's voice was flat.
"Mine."
The plate in the man's hand grew warm. He shifted it, surprised.
Dusty stepped closer to Cole's leg, body tight, eyes locked on the metal.
The text stuttered.
STATUS:——ERROR: VARIABLE CONFLICT
The man's confidence cracked.
Just a hair.
"That's… not normal," he said.
Cole didn't answer.
The House didn't either.
The plate went cold suddenly. Dead weight.
The man pulled it back like it had burned him.
"Well," he said, forcing a smile that didn't land. "That's above my pay."
He slid the plate back into his coat.
Backed away one step.
Then another.
"Keep him close," the man added, quieter now. "Things that don't register clean tend to accrue interest."
Cole felt that settle behind his ribs.
Interest.
Debt without consent.
"What happens if I don't," Cole asked.
The man hesitated.
"That's when the House gets… creative."
He turned and walked away without looking back.
Cole waited until he disappeared into the flow of Rustline before he moved.
Dusty's growl faded into a low rumble, then stopped.
The dog looked up at Cole, ears flicking, confused more than afraid.
Cole knelt and rested a hand on Dusty's chest.
Warm.
Solid.
Alive.
The House spoke then.
Quiet.
Almost careful.
HOUSE OF RECKONING // VARIABLE OBSERVEDCLASSIFICATION: ANOMALOUSACCOUNT: SEPARATE TRACKING INITIATED
Cole swallowed.
Separate.
He didn't like that word.
"Yeah," he said softly. "Me neither."
Dusty licked his wrist once, then leaned into him like gravity worked different for dogs.
Cole stood.
The narrow street felt tighter now.
Like it knew something he didn't.
As they walked back toward the heart of Rustline, Cole felt eyes on them again—not from people.
From systems.
From ledgers adjusting.
The Ace of Spades pressed colder against his ribs, like it approved of nothing and remembered everything.
Behind them, somewhere deep and unseen, a new column had been added to a book that never closed.
And Dusty's name—whatever the House decided to call it—had been written in pencil.