Episode 1:

2nd February, the time of night. When the moon hangs, a cruel smile plastered across the sky. Santos was asleep, the daylight side of it. But when the clock hits past ten, the city shifts colours. The streets empty and the lights in the Alley 8, above Gravis' tunnel, dim. 

"Joy's escape"- The one and only. Den of gamblers. Though the "Black cats" had another name for the members. Zombies.  

The room reeked of smoke and sweat, thick with tension as the dim glow from the hanging lamp flickered, casting long shadows that stretched across the scarred wooden table. The five of them sat around it, faces obscured by the hazy darkness. Only their eyes glinted, sharp and calculating, every movement a delicate dance of control and precision. There were no words exchanged beyond the occasional click of chips, no laughter, no camaraderie----just the raw, seething silence of predators eyeing their next victim.

The dealer, a man with a grey beard and a crooked nose, shuffled the deck with an unsettling calmness. He had seen this game before--every bluff, every tell, every subtle sign of weakness. And yet, in this room, every hand was a death sentence.

"Place your bets," the dealer murmured, his voice rasping like the wind through cracked glass.

The first man, a towering figure with ice-blue eyes and a scar running from his brow to his chin, threw down a stack of chips with precision. His hand, calloused and steady, betrayed no hint of emotion. He was the one who had entered the room last, his coat billowing behind him like a shadow that refused to leave.

"Nothing's free in this world," he said softly, staring at the cards dealt to him. His lips barely moved, but the words landed with a weight that lingered in the air.

The second player---a wiry man with a sharp jaw and a smile that never reached his eyes--grinned. He adjusted his gloves, fingers gliding over the textured fabric with practised ease. "A man can dream, can't he?" he muttered, his voice smooth as honey but edged with something darker.

In the corner, a woman with jet-black hair and a long, deep scar on her neck leaned back in her chair. Her gaze never wavered from the table. It was clear she had no interest in the cards--only in the players. Her hand, resting lightly on the rim of her glass, twitched ever so slightly. "If dreams were meant to be real," she said, her voice like silk, "we'd be living in one."

The fourth player, his face partially hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, chuckled softly, a low, guttural sound that barely broke the silence. He didn't speak. Instead, his eyes flicked toward the others, weighing them. He was the silent observer, his every move calculated.

And then there was the fifth. A pale man, dressed in black from head to toe, with eyes so dark they seemed to absorb the room's dim light. His thin lips curled into a faint, unsettling smile as he picked up his cards. "We've all been here before," he said. His voice was barely above a whisper, but the tension in the room seemed to bend around his words, as if the walls themselves were listening.

With a chuckle, the first man shifted forward.

A hand was laid down--a pair of aces. The man to his left chuckled low, his voice a rough rasp, like the scrape of metal against stone. "Not enough," he said, his words thick with the weariness of someone who had seen too many men come and go, too many lives ruined by games of deceit. He sat back, his eyes narrowing as he looked around the table, each sizing up the others in silence and understanding.

The second one had laid his hand. And they were flipped, one at a time.

The dealer's hand hovered for a moment over the deck, then he let it fall, flipping the last card---an ace of spades. A shiver ran through the room, a collective breath held, as if the walls themselves had exhaled. The air was thick, but not from the smoke---it was something else, something darker, a tension that had little to do with the cards on the table and everything to do with the city beyond the walls, the city on the brink of revolution.

"Four of a kind," the man with the aces on the left muttered, leaning forward, his fingers flexing around the cards. There was a certain satisfaction in his voice, but it didn't reach his eyes. His hands were stained, his past written on his skin like a map of violence and regret.

The others didn't move. They watched him, but their expressions were unreadable, their hands steady on the table as though they had all seen this before, as though the outcome had already been decided.

The woman's smile faded, her lips thin as she set her cards down one by one. She had nothing to hide. A full house. Her eyes glinted, sharp, like the edge of a broken glass. She wasn't here for the money. She was here for something else. Something far more dangerous.

Then, at the far end of the table, the fourth man, holding his cane, who had said nothing all night finally spoke, his voice low, but carrying the weight of a thousand unsaid things.

"Let's see if he can land," he murmured, giving a pass on his chance. This was a choice, impossible for anyone else but him to make. It was hard to imagine for the others what he was even thinking.

But just like moving time, the pale man, without any words moved his hands slowly, deliberately, and laid down his cards. The dealer's gaze flickered over them, and even he, the one who had seen it all, hesitated.

The air in the dimly lit room was thick with tension, the kind that sank into the bones and clung to the lungs like smoke. The flickering gaslight above cast long shadows across the cracked walls, tracing the movements of men whose faces had been hardened by years of suffering and rebellion. The floorboards creaked underfoot as the final hands were played, the fate of the night hanging on the next card dealt.

At the centre of it all, the poker table sat like an altar---grimy, worn, but unyielding. The last man shuffled the deck with a deliberate slowness, his fingers shaking ever so slightly. It wasn't from fear, but from the weight of the moment. His eyes, pale and cold, scanned the faces around him. His opponents, felt the crushing weight of the revolution and this defining movement.

The woman to his left--half-smiling-- looked at him. Her full house of queens over tens was good. Really good. But not good enough. Not nearly enough.

And the man across from him, the one with the four aces, was a beast of a man. His hand was all but guaranteed victory--unless… unless something even more dangerous lurked in the shadows.

He--his name was as buried as his past--slid his chips forward. He could feel the room fall into silence, as if time itself held its breath. The cards were laid out: The woman had her full house, the man with the aces, his four of a kind. Nothing could possibly top those hands, surely.

The dealer turned his final card---an unspectacular two of spades.

A low chuckle escaped the man with the four aces, his grip tightening around his glass. "Well, that's that then," he said, the deep rasp of his voice filling the room. "Pay up."

But the last man, the one with the eyes of a ghost, didn't flinch. He reached slowly into his coat, pulled out a single card, and laid it down with the weight of a hundred dying breaths.

10-J-Q-K-A of hearts.

The world went still.

A royal flush.

The woman blinked, her gaze faltering. The man with the aces blinked too, disbelief flashing across his face as if the weight of the game was too much to process. The cards in his hand suddenly felt like a lie.

"Impossible," the woman said, her voice betraying her fear.

The dealer's face was unreadable as he slowly reached for the chips. The last man hadn't just won--he had obliterated them. No, more than that. He had undone the room itself, rewriting the rules of fate with a hand so perfect it belonged to the devil.

He pushed his winnings forward, not even glancing at the pile of chips that now belonged to him. There was no joy in his face, no sense of triumph. Just an unyielding coldness, as if winning was never really the point. For the chips were just formality, to not stand out amidst the dozen other tables with actual gamblers, betting their money in the abyss of loss. But maybe, they were all just the same. 

"Looks like the revolution's mine now," he muttered, his voice low, barely a whisper against the ringing silence.

And then, as if the world had finally decided to exhale, the tension in the room dissolved. But the air still hung heavy with one undeniable truth: In this world, nothing could be trusted. Not even the cards. As..

The cards were laid bare.

A royal flush. The cards had fallen perfectly in place, but as the players exchanged glances, it was clear they weren't just looking at their hands, instead, they were reading each other, studying, dissecting.

Suddenly, the shadows in the room seemed to stretch even longer. The dealer chuckled darkly, placing his hand on the table with a finality that made the room feel even smaller. "You've won," he said, his voice now rich with recognition, the mask slipping ever so slightly.

As the last man who spoke began to stand, he finally looked up, his pale eyes locking with the others. His lips twisted into a knowing smile.

"Hide well, because soon you will be needed,' the man in cape stated, a slight curl on his lips.

"We will be leaving, but you know how to contact us," the woman said, moving away from the table.

They looked at him. 

"I've won," he repeated, "but it's never over."

And in that moment, the air seemed to change, thickening, as though the world had shifted. They weren't just playing a card game--they were laying the foundation for something much larger, darker.

The dealer's voice lowered, his eyes flickering toward the shadows.

"They will know you are coming," he said.

One by one, the five stood, faces now illuminated by the faint, flickering light of the room. Each of them wore a mask--not of cloth or paint—but of something far more dangerous. The man with the ice-blue eyes, the woman with the scar, the one with the wide-brimmed hat, and the quiet, pale man—they weren't mere players.

They were Vermis.

The officers of the HCOS - High council of security, a secretive force whose very existence was known only to a select few. The game had only been a cover. They weren't just betting chips—they were betting on a future that would reshape the world. The revolution was coming, and they were its unseen architects. 

And the winner of this game, was Sacrifice. 

The screams of the lost, the sound of chips moving and falling, and the desperation in this den echoed, but when the pale man walked forward, pushing his hat on his head lightly, towards the door, towards the light beyond it, the screams dimmed in his ears.

There was quiet outside, as chilled wind assaulted his senses. He walked at the end of the thin alley, for beyond it lay the heart of Santos. The bustling city of industrial beginning, burying the sky with its fumes, as factories spread everywhere. 

He stopped a hackney with his cane, the taxi stopped. Opening the door, he sits inside, legs folded. His eyes were elusive, and eyes hidden under the shadow of his hat. The driver puffs the cigarette, his brows knitted," Where to then, miss/mister..?"

There was silence, tightening like a knot in the chest.

The man rolled his eyes, leaning back in the seat, giving the driver an almost bored look as he tapped his fingers against the armrest. His voice- sharp, but with that young edge, "I'm seventeen, mate. Just call me J, alright?" He smirked.

He gave a half-smirk, making sure the driver knew he wasn't in the mood for any formality, "No need for the mister or miss stuff. Get me where I'm goin' and save the polite shit."

"Name's Seamus O'Connor. Been runnin' these streets longer than most care to remember. Not from these parts, are ye?" the driver asked.

"I was born here," J said, his eyes staring outside the window.

Seamus started the car again, his smile widening.

"Got a place in mind, or should I take ye on a bit of a spin?" he asked. The night was chilling, J wondered if he needed an umbrella. But then he smiled, his eyes closed.

"To Hains. Santos Institution Hains,"