Zero Logic: The Hunter Gambits

The smoke from a Cuban cigar, priced at a factory worker’s annual salary, drifted lazily through the air. It created a thin haze that refracted the light from the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling of The Sapphire Dome. This was no ordinary VIP room. It was the heart of Las Vegas greed, a place where money no longer served as currency but merely as a scoreboard in a contest of wills between grown men.

Oliver Warner leaned back in his leather chair, his expression flat. He looked as if he were waiting in line at the post office rather than wagering five million dollars in the center of the table. Across from him sat Mr. Henderson, a Texas oil tycoon with a triple chin, sweating like a pig that realized it was headed for the slaughter.

"Are you going to call or fold, old man?" Oliver tapped his index finger against the mahogany table. "I have dinner plans in half an hour, and honestly, watching you sweat is ruining my appetite."

Henderson growled, his hands trembling as he gripped his cards. He glanced at Oliver’s mountain of chips, then at the two other players who had folded long ago: a Swiss banker and a Middle Eastern prince. Both were now mere spectators, watching Oliver with a mixture of awe and disgust.

"Don’t get cocky, kid," Henderson hissed, his voice thick with phlegm and alcohol. "You’re just a snot-nosed brat on a lucky streak. I’m holding a Full House."

Henderson slammed his cards down. Three Kings and two 4s. A monster hand. The room went silent for a moment. The Swiss banker held his breath. It was a powerful hand, nearly impossible to beat unless...

Oliver let out a long, theatrical sigh that made Henderson’s lips curl into a wide grin.

"Finally." Henderson laughed, his teeth yellowed by nicotine. "Your luck ran out, Warner! Hand over my money!"

Oliver leaned forward slowly. His smile was not one of defeat. It was the smile of a predator watching its prey step into a snare.

"Luck?" Oliver chuckled softly. "Old man, do you really think I’m sitting here because of luck? Gambling is for poor people hoping for a miracle. For me? This is just basic math."

Oliver flipped his cards one by one.

The Ten of Hearts, the Jack of Hearts, the Queen of Hearts, the King of Hearts, and finally, the Ace of Hearts.

A Royal Flush.

Henderson’s eyes bulged as if they might pop from their sockets. His face turned from a deep crimson to purple, then went deathly pale in a matter of seconds.

"You son of a bitch," Henderson whispered. "You cheated. Bastard, you must have a card up your sleeve!"

Henderson stood up, slamming the table so hard his whiskey glass toppled over. "It’s impossible! The probability of hitting a Royal Flush is one in six hundred thousand! What the fuck!"

Oliver stood and straightened his Armani suit, which hadn't a single wrinkle. He leaned in toward Henderson, staring directly into the old man’s eyes.

"Correction. The probability is one in 649,740," Oliver said coldly. "And I knew you had Kings the moment you blinked three times when the River was dealt. Your eyes can’t lie, Henderson. You’re too transparent. You’re boring."

Oliver signaled the dealer to sweep the chips toward him. "Settle the payment with my assistant. I’m out."

Oliver turned, ready to leave the room full of the stench of defeat. He was bored. Deeply bored. There was no challenge. No thrill. His life was nothing but a string of predictable victories. He felt like a god trapped in a toddler's sandbox.

Suddenly, his pace faltered.

The double doors of the VIP room opened silently. They weren't slammed or pushed. They simply parted as if the room itself were stepping aside to grant passage.

A man stood in the threshold.

He wore a pitch-black suit that seemed to absorb the light, contrasting sharply with his marble-pale skin. His black hair was slicked back perfectly, and his eyes... Oliver felt the hair on his neck stand up. The man’s eyes held no emotion. They were as empty as black holes.

In his right hand, the man carried a small black wooden box with intricate, ancient-looking carvings.

"Who the hell are you?" Henderson barked, still fuming from his loss. "This is a private room, idiot! Security! Get this clown out of here!"

The mysterious man didn't look at Henderson. He walked straight toward Oliver. His footsteps made no sound on the thick carpet.

"Oliver Warner," the man’s voice was smooth yet echoed through the room, causing the crystal glasses on the table to vibrate gently. "The God of Gamblers. The man who beats the odds."

Oliver narrowed his eyes. He was the best human lie detector in the world. He could tell if someone was lying by the pulse in their neck, the dilation of their pupils, or the catch in their breath.

But this man.

He isn’t breathing, Oliver thought. His chest isn't moving, and he hasn't blinked once since he walked in.

"I don't take uninvited guests," Oliver said flatly, his hand instinctively reaching for the small pistol hidden beneath his jacket. "If you want an autograph, wait in the lobby."

The man smiled. It was a smile that was far too wide and far too stiff.

"My name is Lucyan," he said. He placed the black wooden box in the center of the poker table, right on top of Oliver’s winnings. "And I am not here for an autograph. I am here to offer a cure for your disease."

"Disease?" Oliver frowned. "I’m perfectly healthy, pal."

"Boredom," Lucyan interrupted. "I see it in your eyes, Mr. Warner. You win, win, and win. There is no risk and no fear. You are like a walking corpse. You miss the moments where your heart pounds because you are afraid of losing everything, don't you?"

Oliver caught his breath. The bastard was right on target.

Lucyan tapped the black box gently. "One hand of poker. Heads up. Just you and me. One round."

"And the stakes?" Oliver asked, curiosity beginning to override his survival instinct.

"If you win," Lucyan pushed the box toward Oliver, "the contents of this box are yours. It is the most valuable object in this world. Something that can change destiny."

"And if I lose?"

Lucyan tilted his head, his pitch-black eyes staring straight into Oliver’s soul. "Your life belongs to me."

The room fell into a deathly silence. Henderson and the other wealthy men backed away slowly, sensing a foul aura radiating from Lucyan. They wanted to run, but their feet were frozen in fear.

Oliver stared at the box, then at Lucyan. His logic screamed at him. This is insane. This guy is a psychopath. Shoot him or call the cops.

But the adrenaline... it was back. A cold sensation crawled up his spine. The sense of danger that had been missing for years had finally returned. Oliver gave a crooked smile. He pulled out a chair and sat back down.

"Fine, you freak," Oliver said defiantly. "You want to play? Let’s play. Dealer, deal the cards!"

The dealer trembled violently, his hands slick with sweat as he shuffled. He dealt two face-down cards to Oliver and two to Lucyan.

Oliver peeked at his hand.

A pair of Aces. Pocket Rockets. The perfect start.

The flop was dealt in the center of the table: Ace of Spades, 8 of Hearts, 2 of Clubs.

Oliver already had Three of a Kind. This was a guaranteed win.

"Your move," Lucyan said calmly. He hadn't even looked at his own cards.

"All in," Oliver said immediately. He pushed all five million dollars in chips into the center. He wanted to see Lucyan’s reaction. He wanted to see fear.

But Lucyan only smiled. "Call."

"You’re not going to look at your cards first?" Oliver asked, feeling insulted.

"I do not need to look to know the outcome," Lucyan replied.

The fourth card, the Turn, was dealt: Ace of Diamonds.

Oliver now held Four of a Kind. Four Aces. This was a god-hand. Nothing could beat this except a Royal Flush, and the probability of that in this situation was nearly zero.

Oliver let out an arrogant laugh. "You picked the wrong opponent, pal. I don’t know what magic tricks you brought, but you can't beat mathematics."

The final card, the River, was dealt: King of Spades.

"Show me," Oliver commanded, slamming his four Aces onto the table. "Four Aces. Beat that!"

Henderson cheered weakly from the corner, relieved that the human was winning.

Lucyan slowly turned his cards over.

The Ten of Spades and the Jack of Spades.

Oliver frowned and looked at the board. On the table were the Ace of Spades and the King of Spades.

Wait.

Ten, Jack, King, Ace. Where was the Queen?

There was no Queen of Spades on the board. Lucyan didn't have a Royal Flush. He only had a common Flush or a Straight.

Oliver had won.

"You lost," Oliver said, feeling a hint of disappointment. He thought Lucyan would pull off something shocking. "You have garbage. My Four of a Kind wins."

Lucyan looked at his cards. His face showed no sign of disappointment. On the contrary, he looked satisfied.

"Ah," Lucyan sighed. "It seems your mathematics are indeed accurate, Mr. Warner. Congratulations."

Oliver snorted, his adrenaline fading into annoyance. "You’re all talk. My life is safe. Now, get out of here before I call real security."

Lucyan stood and straightened his suit. "As per our agreement, the box is yours."

Before Oliver could ask what was inside, Lucyan took a step back. In the blink of an eye, literally a split second like a cut frame in a film, the man was gone.

He didn't run. He didn't walk out. He simply vanished into thin air.

"Holy shit." Henderson fell back into his seat. "Where did he go? You saw that, right? He was like a ghost!"

Oliver’s heart began to race again. Not because of the gambling, but because something impossible had just happened before his eyes. He stared at the black wooden box on the table. It was calling to him.

What was inside? Diamonds? A vault key?

With a slightly trembling hand, Oliver reached for the box. It felt freezing, as if it had just been pulled from a morgue freezer. He looked for a lock but found no keyhole. He felt the side and discovered a sliding mechanism.

"Don't open it, kid!" Henderson shouted. "Just throw it away! It’s cursed!"

"Shut up, fat man," Oliver snapped. His curiosity had reached its breaking point.

Oliver slid the lid of the box open.

Click.

The lid gave way. Oliver craned his neck to see the contents.

Empty.

The inside of the box was lined with blood-red velvet, but there was nothing there. No diamonds, no money.

"Empty?" Oliver laughed dryly. "The bastard just pranked me."

Sssst.

Oliver felt a sharp sting at the tip of his index finger.

He pulled his hand back reflexively. Hidden in the depths of the velvet was a super-thin silver needle that had just pricked him.

A single drop of Oliver’s blood fell into the box. The moment it touched the velvet, the box hissed like meat hitting a hot grill.

"Aw, shit," Oliver cursed, sucking on his finger. "A needle trap? How tacky."

But then, his vision began to blur. Henderson’s shouting sounded like it was coming from underwater.

The marble floor seemed to tilt. Oliver grabbed the poker table, but his arms had no strength. His legs felt like jelly.

Poison? he thought in a panic. It can’t work this fast.

Oliver’s chest felt tight, as if a giant hand were squeezing his lungs. He fell to his knees, then collapsed onto the floor. His face hit the carpet. He tried to scream for help, but his tongue was stiff. His mouth began to foam.

The last thing Oliver saw before the darkness swallowed him was that black box. It was vibrating, and he swore he heard a mechanical voice inside his head. Cold. Flat. Not human.

[Initialization Beginning]

[Detecting Subject: Oliver Warner]

[Status: Dying]

[Starting Installation of Hunter X System]

Dammit, Oliver thought, before his consciousness flickered out completely.