The Dead Man's Bet
The Detective leaned back in his chair, staring at the cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling. His office was a mess—coffee-stained case files, an overflowing ashtray, and a clock that had stopped ticking years ago. Outside, the city pulsed with life, a neon jungle where truth and lies danced in the dark.
He hit play on the recorder. The voice echoed through the room—soft, eerie, almost amused.
"Detective… you're a persistent man. Too persistent. Drop the case. Abandon your search, or you will die in two months."
The Detective chuckled, taking a sip of his now-cold coffee. "Huh. Two months? That's generous."
He'd received death threats before—angry gangsters, corrupt officials, and the occasional lunatic who thought they could scare him off. But this? This was different. No caller ID. No distortion. Just a woman's voice, clear and confident, like she already knew how the story would end.
"Alright, Miss Doom and Gloom," he muttered, lighting another cigarette. "Let's make this fun."
He grabbed a notepad and scribbled:
Bet: Find the truth. Unmask the caller. Stay alive.
Odds? Not great. But then again, gambling with death was his specialty.
Two months later, The Detective was lying in an alley, blood pooling around his head.
His mind raced through the last few minutes. A meeting. His own organization. A simple debriefing that turned into a firing squad. He could still hear the gunshot echoing in his skull, the sharp pain fading into a dull, distant hum.
His vision blurred. Rain poured down, mixing with his blood. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed.
"Guess I lost the bet."
Darkness swallowed him whole.
When his eyes opened again, he wasn't in an alley. He wasn't even himself.
He was sitting in a leather chair, in an opulent, dimly lit room that smelled of cigar smoke and blood. He could hear voices outside—rough, violent, the kind that belonged to people who solved problems with bullets, not words.
His head pounded. His body felt wrong—stronger, heavier, and… scarred? He caught his reflection in the window.
Not his face.
A stranger stared back at him. Sharp jawline. Cold, calculating eyes. A scar running down his cheek.
His heart pounded. What the hell just happened? This… this isn't me. If I'm not me, then who the hell is this?
His hands trembled as he touched his face, his arms, his chest. This is someone else's body. What am I doing here? Wait… I was shot.
His expression darkened. A deep, hollow ache formed in his chest. The people I trusted… betrayed me. Well, what can I say? That's life.
A knock on the brown wooden door snapped him out of his thoughts. A woman's voice called from the other side. "Boss, may I come in?"
The voice was sweet yet carried a dangerous edge, sharp enough to send a chill down Arka's (former Detective's) spine.
"First, a woman warns me of my death. Then, after dying, the first person I meet in this new body… is another woman? And her tone… it's just like that caller's."
His mind clicked into motion. Wait. If I've become someone important… that means I can continue my research.
A slow grin spread across his face. He liked this idea. But another knock came, more insistent this time.
"Boss, you're in there, right?" the woman asked again.
"Damn it, why do women keep messing up my life? But I need to stay cold, act tough. Otherwise, she'll suspect something."
Forcing his voice into a firm, serious tone, he calmly said, "Come in."
The door swung open, and in walked a woman who was both charismatic and deadly. She was dressed in brown leggings and a matching suit, a red-striped pair of glasses resting on her nose. A revolver peeked out from her side pocket, a silent warning that she wasn't just for show.
"Boss," she said, her tone sharp and professional. "Morgan Gang has captured some of our men. With your approval, we can send six warlocks to deal with them."
Arka froze. Morgan Gang? Our men?
His mind raced. Who the hell is the Morgan Gang? And more importantly… WHAT THE HELL IS THE NAME OF MY GANG?!!!