After Dirga arrived at his apartment, he didn't even bother to take off his shoes. He tossed his keys onto the table and immediately reached for his phone.
Ring... Ring... Ring...
A click. Then a voice came through, rough, gruff, and unmistakably feminine.
"Hello? Who the hell is this?"
The voice on the other end could've passed for a man's if not for the sharp, slightly nasal edge. Dirga let out a soft sigh of relief.
"It's me, Mary Jane. Dirgantara. I need your help."
There was a pause.
"Dirga? You bastard! Where the hell have you been? You win the damn lottery and disappear off the face of the Earth? That how you treat your friends?"
She shouted with such fury that Dirga instinctively pulled the phone away from his ear. If she'd been in the same room, she might've thrown a chair at him—or a beer bottle.
"I know, I know. I deserve that," Dirga said, sitting down on the edge of his couch. His voice lowered into something quiet, almost pleading. "Just... tell me where you are. Please."
Another pause. Then, softer this time, "I'm at Black Gun Café."
"I'm coming over."
He ended the call before she could say anything else. There was no time to waste.
Dirga quickly changed into a black hoodie and jeans, slipped on his jacket, and grabbed his motorcycle keys. The night air hit him like a wave as he sped out into the city—Vantier Hollow, a place that never slept. A jungle of neon, steel, and sin. The city had everything: the glamorous elites in their high-rises and the forgotten wretches scraping by in back alleys. And somewhere in between, people like him—ghosts still pretending to be alive.
The wind howled as he cut through the city. The bike rumbled beneath him like a loyal beast, its engine echoing through the streets. Towering buildings flashed past—karaoke bars, strip clubs, pachinko parlors, convenience stores glowing like lanterns. Music spilled from every corner, from jazz lounges to back-alley hip-hop battles. The city pulsed, alive and hungry.
After ten minutes, he reached Black Gun Café, a hole-in-the-wall establishment nestled between a pawn shop and a defunct arcade. This place wasn't exactly safe—it never had been. But it was familiar. Once, when he was desperate and poor, he worked here as a dishwasher. Back when he was trying to scrape together every last dollar to save Naya from her father's debts.
Dirga parked his motorbike and stepped off. The café's buzzing neon sign flickered overhead like a dying firefly.
As soon as he stepped inside, heads turned. The familiar warmth of smoke, sweat, and cheap alcohol hit him all at once.
"Well, well, look who it is!" one of the waitresses called out. "The lottery boy's finally back!"
A few scattered cheers broke out, and people started raising their drinks in his direction.
"Dirga, you bastard! You owe us a round!"
Dirga gave a tired smile. "One drink on me. For everybody."
A chorus of cheers erupted behind him.
From the back, a tall figure emerged, wiping her hands with a towel. Mary Jane.
She was over six feet tall, with short-cropped black hair and tattoos running down both arms like inked armor. Her voice was as gruff as ever, and her expression was unreadable.
"So, here you are. What do you need, lottery boy?" she said, arms crossed.
Dirga took a deep breath. He always felt smaller around her—not just physically, but emotionally too. Mary Jane was one of the few people in this city who could see through him. A protector, a fighter, and most importantly, Naya's best friend.
"Where's Naya? Did you guys get married already?" she asked, trying to peer past him as if Naya might be hiding behind his shoulder.
"Can we talk in private?" Dirga asked softly.
Mary Jane narrowed her eyes. "Follow me."
She led him through the smoke-filled café, past a hallway lined with old concert posters and bullet holes, to a private office in the back. It was the manager's room, but Jane had inherited it. Her father—the café owner and head of the infamous biker gang Steel Fangs—had all but vanished these days, rumored to be operating black market deals from overseas.
The office door shut behind them with a dull thud.
"What's going on?" she asked, sitting on the desk and lighting a cigarette.
Dirga didn't hold anything back. He told her everything—about marrying Naya, about the debt, the harassment from the loan sharks, her sudden collapse, and of course, the impossible: the dream, the lottery win, and the contract with Domiscus Vantasio. He didn't mention the dice or the supernatural game, but even the half-truth was enough to leave Jane visibly shaken.
Her expression hardened as the story went on. By the time he finished, she looked like she'd bitten into glass.
"So you're telling me you made some shady deal, you're burning karma, and now Naya's in the hospital again? Jesus, Dirga..."
She took a long drag and exhaled a cloud of smoke.
"You want one?" she offered.
Dirga shook his head. "Quit a while ago. Saving money."
"Funny. Now you got all the money in the world."
"Not enough to buy back time," he muttered.
Jane studied him in silence. Then, quietly, "So what do you want from me?"
"I need protection for Naya. A bodyguard. For a few days at least. And someone to check in on her… in case something happens to me."
He reached into his bag and pulled out a bank book. His account information. Passwords. Everything.
Jane stared at it. "You're not kidding, are you?"
"I'm not," Dirga said. "This isn't just paranoia. I've got a feeling... something's coming. I don't know if I'll survive it."
Jane clenched her jaw and looked away. Then, after a long silence, she picked up her phone and started typing.
"I'll call in a favor. One of the Steel Fangs owes me. I'll have someone posted outside the hospital room within the hour."
"Thank you," Dirga said, almost in a whisper.
"Don't thank me. Just don't die, asshole."
"I'll try," Dirga replied with a weak smile.
She walked him back to the door, and just before he left, she grabbed his arm.
"Dirga," she said, voice low. "Come back when this is over. No matter what this 'business' is, I want the full story when it ends."
"You'll get it. I promise."
Outside, the city had grown quieter. It was late. Nearly 1 AM. Dirga got back on his motorbike, started the engine, and let the machine carry him through the sleeping streets.
He felt like a man walking toward his own execution.
When he finally got home, his apartment felt cold. Empty.
He sat down, and not a moment later, his phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He picked up.
"Dirgaaa..." a familiar voice rasped from the other end. Domiscus Vantasio.
Even through the phone, Dirga could hear something obscene in the background—a woman laughing, the sound of silk brushing against flesh, and Domiscus's heavy breathing.
"I want more," Vantasio growled. "That thing you gave me… I've never felt so alive. I'll pay you. Name your price."
Dirga felt his stomach twist. He had only given Domiscus 0.01 of his soul's karma, and already, the man was addicted. Dirga could hear it—this was no longer about money. This was need.
He swallowed hard.
"Of course, Mr. Domiscus," he said, masking his disgust with a thin smile. "How about I give you more? A better dose. Something that'll make tonight feel like a warm-up."
Silence. Then, a low chuckle.
"Ohhhh... you devil," Vantasio said. "Tomorrow, 10 AM. I'll send an address."
The line cut.
Dirga sat there for a long moment, phone still pressed to his ear.
He had crossed the line.
He wasn't just a desperate man anymore.
He was a dealer of souls.
And tomorrow, his game would truly begin.