Chapter Text
Chance opens his eyes.
He blinks, momentarily stunned. He's lying in the middle of a vast sea of blue hydrangeas, their blossoms stretching endlessly in every direction. He tried to rise to his feet, his muscles straining, but his body refused to obey. Instead, he collapsed onto the ground, breathless.
"Chance."
A familiar voice calls, beckoning for him. He finally looks up, and sees it.
There, towering above him—is iTrapped. He's bending over, his gaze fixated on Chance, their shadow falling across his face.
“...iTrapped.”
The name slips from Chance’s lips like a prayer and a curse all at once. iTrapped is smiling, that familiar smile carved into his expression. He offers his hand to them, warmth lingering with every action. The sinking weight in his chest fades, replaced by the comfort of their presence. He dares to dream that this time, things might end differently, and he pushes away those haunting memories, gnawing away at him. He takes their hand, desperate for its warmth.
And for a moment, Chance believes.
But when he takes it, he feels nothing but the cold—his skin is icy, just like the hand of a corpse. iTrapped's smile vanishes, and his expression collapses into something hollow, broken beyond repair. His eyes seem lifeless, and the spark in them quickly dissipates.
The field of blue hydrangeas dissolve, their petals scattering around him. The world tilts, shifting into a scene all too familiar—the casino. Chance can recognise it immediately—it's the same table where they had once sat across from one another, where they had many, many rounds of Russian Roulette. iTrapped sits opposite him, perfectly calm, watching Chance with eyes that seem to shake every layer of denial he attempts to envelope himself in. Chance tries to move, wanting to run away from it all, but his body remains frozen, a puppet held still by unseen strings.
“Please, no... I can’t...”
But iTrapped does not listen. He reaches across the table, and his hand—gentle, startlingly so—closes over Chance’s trembling fingers. Something hard and cold presses against Chance’s palm. He looks down, and the realization causes dread to rush through him like ice in his veins. The truth he has spent so long trying to bury claws its way back to the surface, forcing him to confront a reality he can no longer outrun.
It's a gun—the same gun. The very one that had ended iTrapped’s life.
His hand quivers uncontrollably in fear.
“You’re a terrible friend, Chance. This is all your fault.”
The black haze obscuring their face finally melts away. Chance attempts to look away, and avoid his gaze, but iTrapped grips his chin firmly, forcing him to meet their eyes.
“Don’t look away. You should see what you’ve done.”
Blood begins to trickle down iTrapped’s face, slow at first, then heavier, seeping into the corners of his mouth, dripping from his chin. Their blood smears hot across Chance’s skin. A puddle spreads beneath them, thick and crimson, bleeding across the dark floor until it laps at Chance’s feet. He stares down, trembling, only to see his own reflection in the pool—tired and weary eyes, overwhelmed with guilt.
Something cold presses against his forehead, causing him to look up once more. iTrapped is smiling again, though the curve of his lips is sickly sweet, a grotesque sight.
“No, please, I—” Chance thrashes, writhing in terror. He feels the gun dig deeper into his skin.
Bang!
The gunshot erupts, deafening, the sound cracking the air like the sky itself had split apart. For a blinding second, he swears he feels the bullet rip straight through his skull—the hot, searing pain flashing white behind his eyes.
“I’ll see you again."
And then—Chance is swallowed up by the darkness.
He wakes with a violent gasp, tears brimming at the corners of his eyes. He realises he has slumped over a table in the casino’s bar, and his body is stiff from the awkward position. The place is nearly empty, the silence broken only by the faint clink of glass somewhere in the distance. He stares at his reflection in an abandoned whiskey glass. It's warped, but it's enough to reveal the bloodshot eyes and worn-thin face staring back.
There's no one left to play with tonight. Tomorrow, he tells himself. He'll win tomorrow. He'll be better tomorrow.
It's always tomorrow, isn't it? He'll continue on, pretending that everything is fine. He'll keep on winning, until even that victory feels meaningless.
He leaves a bill behind—far too much for what little he drank—then drags the back of his sleeve across his face, wiping away his tears, as if that could erase the haunting memories in his mind. He rises unsteadily, then he gathers what remains of his composure and forces his legs to carry him home. On his way back, his feet seemingly drag heavier than usual. But he continues on, even though he's exhausted beyond belief.
But as he rounds a corner, he chances upon a woman. She's wearing a cloak woven from leaves, that rustle softly with the night breeze. And cradled in her arms rests a basket overflowing with flowers of every variety. When she speaks, her voice is rasping and dry, yet it carries a strange lilt in it, an unexpected kindness in her words.
“Please, sir. A flower before they wither?”
Chance nods, already reaching for his pocket, to grab his wallet. "Sure."
“Is there any particular bloom you would like?” she asks, tilting her head, lifting the basket closer. Flowers of all kinds—roses, lilies, carnations—so many colors, all waiting to be picked.
“Any will do.”
She studies him for a moment, her gaze lingering on him. Finally, she plucks a single, yellow blossom free, then offers it to him. “A camellia. It suits your eyes.”
For a moment, he falters. His golden eyes were hidden away behind his tinted sunglasses—a secret he had desperately tried to keep. And it was dark out, so how had she seen them?
Still, he takes the flower. "Thank you," he murmurs, before handing her a bill in return.
Her eyes widened in shock. “This... this is too much!”
“It’s fine. Please, keep it."
Upon hearing that, she takes his hands, clasping them in hers. Her touch is warm and comforting. “May you be blessed with happiness, young man. I hope that good dreams find you tonight.”
He forces a smile, dismissing her words as nothing more than a kind-hearted sentiment. His hand grips the flowers tighter, and his lips twist into a thanks he doesn't quite feel. The woman smiles back, her basket swaying at her side, before fading into the shadows. With that, Chance tucks the flower into his blazer pocket, before continuing home.
At last, he reaches home. He fiddles the key in the lock a few times, before the door finally gives way, and creaks open. He slips off his shoes and sets them neatly by the wall, drapes his blazer onto the coat hanger and makes his way to the bathroom to take a shower, and wash up. But when the water runs cool across his skin and he lifts his head, the mirror betrays him—sunken eyes stare right back, and exhaustion is carved deep into the very bones of his face.
Good dreams? He hasn’t had those in so long. Only nightmares.
He exhales a weary sigh and turns the tap off, trying to leave his racing thoughts behind. Moving on autopilot, he changes into his pajamas, swallows a pill with a sip of stale water, and finally sinks into bed, exhausted. As his eyes flutter shut, the familiar darkness returns—creeping over him, all-consuming.
The nightmare begins again. The casino door slams open, the sound echoing in his mind. He tries to run, but the darkness stretches on and on, endless.
“Chance.”
An unfamiliar voice calls out to him, dissonant against the void. He turns, stunned—only for the ground to open up beneath his feet. Panic tears through him as he plummets. His arms flailing uselessly at his sides, until he crashes hard into a vast sea of burning black liquid.
He thrashes violently, struggling against the current. His lungs scream for air, and the world is a blur. And from the abyss, iTrapped rises, his hands locking tight around Chance's throat, stealing his breath. Words bubble out, muffled by the rushing of water—but Chance can hear it all the same.
“You deserve to die, Chance."
His grip on their neck tightens, and the world begins to abandon him. Dark spots bloom across his vision, and his consciousness slowly slips away.
And then—
A hand seizes his collar, pulling him upward, dragging him free from the suffocating current. He rises to the surface, coughing and gasping as the bitter water pours from his lungs. The world is eerily quiet now—there is no ringing, no chaos—only stillness, the kind that feels wrong.
His rescuer looks over him—a man in a black coat, his fedora tilted low so that his face is obscured by the shadow.
The man lets go, and Chance crashes back into the shallows, choking, scrambling away for air. He stares at them, his voice cracking.
“Who... are you?”
But there is no answer. A moment of silence passes. The man's presence feels oppressive, almost—like a judgement he needs to face, one that he’s been waiting for a very, very long time.
A sharp click of their tongue breaks the stillness. He stared down at Chance, clearly annoyed. Gloved fingers drift to his side, before he draws a sword. He lowers it toward their throat, and for a fleeting second, Chance believes he will be cut open, but the blade stops just shy of his skin.
The shadow beneath the fedora shifts. Perhaps they're smiling. Perhaps it's a frown. Maybe this is a mercy—Chance cannot tell.
But before Chance can speak, the man strikes—a swift, precise motion—he plunges the blade right into his neck. A wet choke escapes him as blood froths at his throat. Crimson seeps into black, and his vision wavers, the clarity of the world dissolving into haze. The stranger turns away from him, and in a blink of an eye, he vanishes into the endless dark.
Chance collapses, the water swallowing him whole. He lifts his gaze one final time, and manages to catch a flicker of light above—a lone star, faint and faltering, struggling before it dies. And at last, he surrenders, letting the darkness claim him.
The dream ends. Chance jerks awake, his chest heaving. He reaches for the side of his neck, still reeling from the sting—ome that felt too real, too painful to be a dream.
What... was that?