Lucius Draganov opened his eyes, his mouth filled with the bitter taste of ashes. His heart pounded as if it wanted to tear through his chest, each beat a brutal reminder that something was deeply wrong. He lay on the cold ground of a deserted street, enveloped by a dense fog that swirled in slow, almost living spirals, brushing his skin like ghostly fingers. The air reeked of rust, decay, and something worse—a stench of death that clung to his throat like an invisible claw.
There was no roar of the Bugatti Chiron, no clink of chips from the Diamond Club, no seductive aroma of Cuban cigars and Macallan whiskey. Only an oppressive silence, pierced by whispers that seemed to come from all directions, like voices from a feverish nightmare in London: muffled wails, sharp laughter, chains dragging in some dark corner. His Tom Ford suit, once a symbol of power, was dirty and torn, hanging from his body like defeated armor. The ruby rings still gleamed on his fingers, but the Patek Philippe on his wrist remained frozen at 2:47, as if time had given a mocking smirk and walked away.
He stood, his muscles protesting with sharp pains, and ran a hand through his white hair with blue streaks, now dusty and matted with sweat. His blue eyes, still sharp despite the gloom, scanned the scene. The street was a nightmare corridor: ruined buildings rose like skeletons, their cracked facades covered in black moss that pulsed as if breathing. Broken windows were empty eyes, reflecting only the fog. Rusty signs swung on twisted hooks, their letters melted into mocking scribbles.
The ground was cracked, with dry, gray weeds sprouting as if life here had given up. Shadows danced in the corners, but when Lucius looked, there was nothing—just the uneasy certainty of being watched. The place was rotten, a distorted echo of a chewed-up and spat-out world, with a weight that made the air feel solid, as if the limbo itself breathed and hated him. Alive? Dead? Lucius didn't know, and it made him want to punch the fog until it bled.
"What is this rotten place?" he muttered, his voice hoarse, laced with anger.
The memory of Elliot, with his gray suit, Royal Straight Flush, and abyssal smile, burned in his mind. "Welcome to the next board," he had said. Lucius spat on the ground, the gesture pure defiance.
"If this is a game, I'll crush you, you son of a bitch."
He began to walk, his Italian leather shoes echoing on the cracked pavement, the sound swallowed by the fog. The whispers grew sharper, crueler, as if the limbo took pleasure in stabbing him with words.
"Weak… you're weak, Lucius…"
"You lost everything, fake king…"
"Failure… where's your throne now?"
"Weren't you the king? Fell right into it, you idiot…"
The voices mocked, cutting, laughing at his downfall, at the brunette screaming in the casino, at the terrified tycoons, at his crushed heart. Lucius spun his head, fists clenched, eyes blazing with rage.
"Who's talking?" he shouted, his voice echoing through the ruins. "What is this crap? Show your face, you cowards!"
Nothing. Just more muffled laughter, more whispers.
"You fell, Draganov… your ruin is our show…"
"Thought you were wise, huh? A fool in an expensive suit…"
He punched the air, his chest heaving.
"What are these voices? What is this infernal place?"
The fog seemed to laugh with the voices, closing in around him. Lucius kept going, each step angrier, his patience unraveling like smoke. The ground beneath his feet trembled faintly, as if the limbo were alive, and the shadows in the ruins moved faster, always out of reach. He saw something glint in the fog—a reflection, perhaps a lure. He ignored it, but the whispers didn't stop.
"Weak… failure… king of nothing…"
Then, a different voice cut through the air, clear and sharp:
"You've finally arrived."
Lucius froze, his heart racing. He spun on his heels, looking back, sideways, his eyes scanning the fog. Nothing. No one. The silence returned, heavier, as if the limbo held its breath. He turned forward again, and there it was.
A figure emerged from the fog, as if born from it. A man—or something resembling a man—cloaked in a long black cape that floated, defying gravity. The cloak was ethereal, its edges dissolving into smoke, giving the figure a ghostly appearance, as if not entirely real. The hood hid the face, revealing only a chin covered in a grizzled beard that suggested age, but there was something inhuman in its posture. It seemed old, but not frail—a presence that chilled the air and made the fog retreat.
Lucius took a step back, his instincts battling his arrogance.
"What the hell are you?" he snapped, his voice firm but tinged with caution. "What is this rotten place? What did that bastard Elliot do to me? And what are these voices mocking me?"
The figure tilted its head, a faint mocking smile curling its lips beneath the hood. Its voice, deep and resonant, echoed with pure sarcasm.
"Me? I'm no one, my dear. Just a humble messenger, delivering notes to spoiled boys like you. But you, Lucius Draganov, are… peculiar, let's say. A luxury penthouse, a glittering casino, and nothing to offer but whims and arrogance. Still…"—it tilted its head, the smile gaining a wicked edge—"you caught the eye of an ancient God. Interesting, don't you think? A failure who thinks he's a king."
Lucius scoffed, his crooked smile returning, his blue eyes flashing with rage.
"Failure? Spoiled boy?"—He gave a bitter, sharp laugh. "I make men like you choke on their teeth for breakfast. Ancient God? What's this nonsense? Speak, you fake ghost, or I'll rip that cape off and make you clean this filthy ground with it!"
The messenger laughed softly, the dry sound making the fog tremble, the mocking smile still on its lips.
"So much bravado for someone who fell right into Elliot's hands. You're in Limbo, Lucius. A place between worlds, where souls are judged… or given a chance. The voices?"—It tilted its head, as if listening to the whispers—"Echoes of those who came before, laughing at your ruin. Elliot was just the collector, a pawn. The God decides what comes next, and he finds you… amusing."
Lucius crossed his arms, his gaze defiant, but the taunts stabbed at his ego like knives.
"Amusing?"—He gave a crooked smile, dripping with contempt. "I don't kneel to anyone, let alone a God who needs lackeys like that son of a bitch. Get me out of here, now, or I'll make your God regret meeting me."
The messenger raised a hand, its skeletal fingers pointing at Lucius, and the fog seemed to close in, as if obeying it. The smile vanished, and its voice took on a heavy tone, laced with calculated suspense.
"You don't make the rules, Draganov. The God offers you two choices."—It paused, the air thickening. "Pay… attention, because I won't repeat myself like you're a whiny child."
It tilted its head, a cruel smile emerging.
"First…"—A pause, its voice dropping to a whisper—"Reborn as a baby… no memories… no knowledge… nothing."—It softened its tone, almost gentle, but the smile betrayed malice—"You could have the right… to a new family… a new journey… it's up to you… Lucius."
Lucius frowned, his anger simmering.
"What the hell is this?" he snapped, his voice cutting. "A baby? Are you messing with me? I'm Lucius Draganov. I don't become some crying nobody!"
The messenger gave a low, malicious laugh, the smile widening beneath the hood.
"Second… option…"—It paused, savoring each word, the smile now openly cruel—"You can keep… your body… your memories… even your knowledge…"—It tilted its head, its tone mocking—"But there's a price to pay for that… spoiled boy. You'll have the right… to just one ability. And it…"—Another pause, the smile wicked—"It's not that simple. It'll depend on how good you are. Make good use of it… or you'll just be another failure… crushed like an insect by the strong."
It raised its hand, the fog swirling around it.
"Because in this place… where the God sends you… you have no choice to return. You'll go where He decides. And there…"—It paused, its voice deep—"The strong prevail. Power is everything. The weak… the weak are just the magnets of the strong… used… and discarded."
It tilted its head, the mocking smile returning.
"And now, Lucius… will you start from zero… or stay as you are? Choose… your choice."
Lucius raised an eyebrow, his crooked smile gaining a spark of excitement.
"Robbery?"—He gave a low, confident laugh that echoed through the fog. "That's my game. I was already robbing the world before you showed up in this Halloween costume. Weak? I don't know what that is. Give me that ability, and I'll show your God who's boss. And those voices? Let them keep laughing. I'll shut them up one by one."
The messenger stood still, but the fog around it seemed to stir, as if laughing. It raised its hand, and Lucius felt a piercing cold slice through his body, as if something were being torn out and replaced. A strange energy pulsed in his veins, a hungry void that felt alive.
"The choice is made," the messenger said, its voice echoing with a final touch of sarcasm. "Use it well, Lucius. Or perish. Power is everything. Remember: the strong survive, the weak are crushed. And you… we'll see if you're more than an insect in an expensive suit."
Suddenly, an excruciating burn erupted in the palm of Lucius's right hand. He roared, a cry of pain that tore through the limbo's silence, falling to his knees as he clutched his hand to his chest. His skin felt like it was on fire, as if a branding iron were searing his flesh. He opened his hand, panting, and saw: a black cross, with jagged lines, pulsed in his palm like a supernatural tattoo burned into his skin. The pain subsided, but the mark remained, throbbing as a reminder.
"What… what the hell is this?" he growled, his voice trembling with rage and confusion.
Before he could stand, an invisible force enveloped him, as if the limbo were sucking out his soul. A visceral despair took hold, a feeling of being ripped from himself. He tried to fight, his fists pounding the air, but the fog closed in, and darkness swallowed him. Everything went black.
When he opened his eyes, the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves hit him. He was lying on a moss-covered ground, surrounded by tall, twisted trees in a dense forest that devoured the light. Branches intertwined like claws, and a deathly silence reigned, except for the distant sound of something moving in the shadows.
Lucius stood, his hand still throbbing, the black cross faintly glowing under the weak light filtering through the canopy. He looked around, his eyes blazing with a mix of rage and determination.
"Alright, God, or whoever you are," he muttered, his crooked smile returning. "Let's play."