The Plot Calls #26 : "The Winning Hand"

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and/or Ai-assisted-content-generation. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Harper Silas wasn’t greedy for riches. She was greedy for victory. Not the noble kind. Not the victorious struggle after hardship kind. No. Harper lusted for cheap, petty, pointless wins.

Poker nights. Office raffles. Arcade games. Coin flips. Raffle baskets. Scratcher tickets. She had to win. Didn’t matter what. Didn’t matter how. She needed to beat someone. Anyone. She needed to feel that snap—the hard crack of superiority. The smirk. The flinch. The silence that followed defeat.

It wasn’t about the prize. It was about the power.

She wasn’t a bully. Not out loud. But every victory made her shoulders sit higher. Every opponent? Just a witness to her need. And when she didn’t win? It wasn’t irritation. It was suffocation. Tightness in her chest. Static in her brain. The gnawing itch of not being affirmed.

Loss felt like a tiny death. The kind only ego mourns.

Most people didn’t notice. They saw Harper as “fun.” “Competitive.” “Always game.” They didn’t see the spiral when she lost. The obsessive analysis. The restless pacing. The hours spent replaying every mistake.

She didn’t want more money. More love. More beauty. She wanted more edge. To be above. To stand taller. To leave others beneath.

And then came the night behind the casino.

It was late. She had just lost a charity blackjack game to a retiree who barely understood the rules. The laughter cut deeper than the loss.

She stormed into the alleyway, gripping her lucky deck—bent, worn, soft from years of sweat and luck. That’s when she saw it.

Not a voice. Not a vision. Just a knowing.

A faint glow curled from the cracked pavement beside the dumpsters. A subtle pulse from below. The shimmer of black-violet soil, exposed like a secret.

No porcelain hand. No grand call. Just dirt—glimmering. Waiting. Alive.

Harper didn’t hesitate. She knelt. Placed her deck—the same cards she’d won dozens of games with—into the soil.

The cards vanished. No sound. No thanks.

But Harper felt it.

The pact was set.

The next day, she won. Every pull. Every scratch. Every roll.

At first, it felt earned. Like the universe correcting itself. Then, it felt automatic. Then unfair. Then meaningless.

But she still chased it. Every bar trivia night? Victory. Every lotto ticket? Winner. Every claw machine? Jackpot.

She couldn’t stop. The game wasn’t the point anymore. The win was.

But something in her eyes started to change. A hollowness. A distance. Friends noticed. Then stopped inviting her. Office rivals withdrew. Even strangers seemed to recoil.

They said it felt like she always knew the outcome. Like the game was already rigged in her favor. It wasn’t fun anymore.

And they were right.

Harper’s wins piled up, but the satisfaction didn’t. No celebration felt earned. No smile reached her eyes. Each victory was just… less. And worse, there was no one left to beat.

The joy didn’t sour. It vanished.

And yet—beneath the silence—the hunger stayed.

One night, Harper stood at the plot again. Same spot behind the casino. Same shimmer. Same pull.

There was no porcelain hand, still. But the soil waited. The way an open mouth waits.

She had nothing else to offer. She’d already given the cards. Her rituals. Her pride. Even her rivals.

Harper realized the truth. She never craved victory. She craved more than others. To feel taller by making others smaller.

And now? There were no others. Just the dirt.

She dropped to her knees. The lights of the casino flickering behind her like a dying star. The soil pulsed once. Then stilled.

Beside her stood a figure.

Tall. Pale. Hollow. Wrapped in black robes. Neither waiting nor expecting. Just there. Just Idle.

The Idle Man.

Its presence wasn’t ominous. It was inevitable.

Harper didn’t cry. She didn’t run. She didn’t ask for another chance.

She simply stared at the soil. Then at the figure. Then back again.

She heard it, dry and low, from nowhere in particular. A breath of ash. It whispered:

“The Plot Thickens.”

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