Dirga jolted awake. The shrill buzz of his phone yanked him from a shallow sleep.
08:00 AM.
His eyes burned, body sore from crashing on the couch. He rubbed his face and checked his messages.
Jane:"Take care. Be careful. Remember Naya."
The words hit harder than they should have. Jane—loud, vulgar, razor-tongued—wasn't one for sentiment. But beneath her harshness was loyalty, unwavering and absolute. And right now, that loyalty was one of the few things keeping Dirga tethered to reality.
Another message arrived. No words. Just a location pin.
Domiscus Vantasio.
Dirga sighed. The weight of the day already pressed on his shoulders. Today wasn't about truth or strength.
Today was about theater.
He couldn't afford a misstep. Not when the stakes weren't just his life, but something far more permanent.
He suited up. A sleek black tuxedo, freshly pressed. The address Vantasio sent led to a five-star hotel—one of those glass-and-steel empires where people dined with senators and buried secrets beneath designer rugs.
Dirga needed to blend in. No flash, no edge—just the illusion of control.
He added a touch of cologne behind his ears and wrists. Clean. Sharp. Precise. In the mirror, he met his own reflection with a calculated glare.
"Time to dance with the devil."
His phone buzzed again.
A photo.
Jane, standing beside Naya's hospital bed. Naya looked frail under the sterile white lights—her skin pale, her body thin as paper. Jane had scrawled a caption across the image in thick black marker:
"Don't you dare die, you fucker."
Dirga let out a laugh. It barely made it to his chest. His stomach was tight. Fear, anger, guilt—it all churned beneath the surface.
He needed to feel in control.
So he rented a car. An AE86 Trueno—old, boxy, the kind of anime-inspired relic he grew up idolizing. Its systems were modernized, but its soul? Pure nostalgia. He needed that grounding.
After a short drive, the luxury hotel rose before him—an obsidian tower piercing the clouds. Dirga tossed the keys to the valet with a flick of the wrist.
"Thank you, sir," the valet murmured, bowing politely.
Dirga nodded and stepped inside.
The opulence nearly suffocated him. Marble floors that gleamed like oil. Crystal chandeliers that could fund a civil war. Staff who moved with robotic grace, dressed like they served kings.
And there she was.
The woman in the wolf mask.
Only now, the mask was gone.
She stood at the lobby's edge like a boss in some high-stakes RPG. Her fitted slate-gray business suit whispered danger. Every seam was precision. Her expression: calm, unreadable.
Lilith Moreau.
"Good morning, Mr. Dirgantara," she said—voice soft, but sharp enough to cut glass.
Dirga smirked. "Ah, Wolfie. Good to see your real face."
"Please," she replied, unamused. "Call me Lilith."
"Lilith, then." He offered a mock bow. "A pleasure."
"You're quite the interesting man, Mr. Dirgantara. It's rare to see Mr. Vantasio this… intrigued. Tempted, even."
Dirga narrowed his gaze, voice smooth. "What can I say? I'm full of surprises."
She didn't smile, but something flickered behind her eyes. Amusement, maybe. Respect, more likely.
"Follow me. Mr. Vantasio is expecting you."
He trailed behind her, noting how she moved—controlled, elegant, predatory. Not flirtatious. Not inviting. But dangerous in a way that needed no explanation.
Instead of the regular elevators, Lilith led him to a private lift tucked behind velvet ropes.
"This is reserved for Mr. Vantasio. Even most guests never see it."
"Money really does open doors," Dirga muttered.
"Not wasted," she replied. "Just… redirected."
The elevator rose in silence, cutting through layers of steel, glass, and cloud.
When the doors opened, Dirga stepped into another world.
A glass bridge stretched before him, suspended in the sky. Below, the city of Vantier Hollow sprawled endlessly—gleaming, restless, alive.
At the bridge's end stood the penthouse.
Or maybe… the lair.
It was a contradiction of time. Futuristic tech merged with ancient artifacts. Sculptures, paintings, relics, and digital displays—all arranged like a shrine to power and excess.
The doors swung open.
And there he was.
Domiscus Vantasio.
"Ahhh, my devil himself—Dirga!" he greeted with open arms, clad in nothing but a silk bathrobe.
The man looked young. Too young. Eyes sharp, skin glowing, posture straight.
The vitality Dirga had given him was working.
"Mr. Vantasio," Dirga replied smoothly. "What can I do for the man who already has everything?"
"I want more," Vantasio said, without preamble. "Stronger. Faster. You said it was possible. Name your price."
Dirga took his time. He wandered the room, examining the grotesque opulence, the hunger carved into every surface.
Then he turned.
"A percentage of your company."
Silence.
Then, a dry laugh.
"Heh. You've got guts," Vantasio muttered. "Fine. But I want ten times the vitality from yesterday."
Perfect.
"You'll get it," Dirga said. "But there's a catch."
Vantasio raised an eyebrow.
"To unlock that much power, we need to perform a ritual. The card I gave you? That was just the spark. A preview. The real magic requires stages. Layers. Preparation."
"Why not give it all at once?"
Dirga stepped closer, voice low.
"Because your body would reject it. Think of this as… spiritual chemotherapy. We escalate slowly. Let your spirit adapt."
Vantasio's eyes glimmered. "And at the end of this path?"
Dirga smiled.
"Immortality."
The word sliced through the air. Heavy. Provocative.
Vantasio stared at him, eyes wild. "You're serious?"
"I am."
The tycoon licked his lips. "Then here's my offer. I'll give you 30% of my company, gradually. First ritual, 1%. Then 5%. Then 10%. Final ritual—14%. No more."
Dirga nodded. "Deal."
He pulled a folded note from his jacket and handed it over.
"This is what you'll need to prepare for tonight."
Vantasio glanced at the list—candles, sigils, incense—and scoffed. "Candles? Symbols? Really?"
"Don't underestimate what you don't understand," Dirga warned. "10:00 PM. Tonight. Here."
Vantasio's smile turned devilish. "Why not stay?"
Dirga shook his head. "I have preparations of my own. This ritual isn't yours alone."
As he turned to leave, Lilith waited by the elevator. Wordless. Still. She slipped a business card into his jacket with a slow, deliberate motion.
"Call me," she whispered.
"I'll try not to," Dirga replied, not meeting her gaze.
The elevator doors closed.
As it descended, Dirga exhaled and leaned against the mirrored wall. His pulse raced.
He had just sold the devil a lie wrapped in ritual.
Now, all he had to do… was make it real.
Because in this game?
If you bluff with death at the table, you better have a winning hand.