The table wasn't waiting.
That was the problem.
Cole felt it before he saw it—the absence where something should've been. Rustline had plenty of tables. Too many. They nested in alleys, bloomed in courtyards, hid under awnings like sins people pretended were small.
This one appeared because it had to.
A scrape of sound drew him in. Wood dragged across concrete. Not careless. Deliberate. Someone making sure it was heard.
Cole turned the corner.
The table sat in the open, centered in a narrow square where three streets converged and pretended they weren't watching each other. It was sturdier than the local ones. Thicker legs. Reinforced joints. The kind built for outcomes that mattered.
A Dealer stood behind it.
Not robed.
Not marked.
Just a man in a clean vest with sleeves rolled to the forearms, hands steady, posture relaxed in the way professionals practiced when they didn't want trouble but were very good at surviving it.
Dusty stopped cold.
Hackles up.
No growl.
Cole slowed.
The Dealer smiled when he saw them.
"Ranger," he said. "Was hoping you'd pass by."
Cole didn't stop walking until he was close enough to see the cards already laid out.
Face down.
Five and five.
That was another problem.
"I didn't agree," Cole said.
The Dealer nodded. "Defensive wager."
Cole felt the House stir.
Text slid into place before he could ask.
HOUSE OF RECKONING // DEFENSIVE DRAWTRIGGER: PROXIMITY CONFLICTSTAKE REQUIREDOPTIONS: ENDURANCE / LUCK
Cole exhaled.
Defensive wagers meant someone else had already made a move. He was just being billed for the reaction.
"What's the threat," Cole asked.
The Dealer gestured vaguely at the streets.
"Rustline," he said. "You're disrupting the bleed rate."
That tracked.
Cole glanced at Dusty.
The dog stood rigid, eyes fixed on the Dealer's hands.
"Endurance," Cole said.
The Dealer nodded once.
"Luck," he replied.
Of course.
The House approved.
STAKE CONFIRMEDENDURANCE vs LUCKESCALATION LOCKED
Cole took the chair.
The wood felt warm under him.
Not comfort.
Anticipation.
Dusty stayed standing at his side. Cole didn't tell him to sit.
Didn't want him to think this was normal.
The Dealer dealt.
Clean.
Professional.
Cole turned his cards over immediately.
A mess.
High cards scattered. No pair. No structure. The kind of hand that leaned on grit instead of math.
Endurance.
He could work with that.
He looked up.
The Dealer hadn't touched his own cards yet.
He was watching Cole.
Waiting for something.
"Let's see it," Cole said.
The Dealer's smile thinned.
He flipped his hand.
Three of a kind.
Queens.
Red stitching flashed along the card edges for half a heartbeat before settling back into paper.
Royal-touched.
Cole felt it in his teeth.
"That's not clean," he said.
The Dealer's eyes flicked up.
"House allows contamination within tolerance," he said mildly.
The House confirmed it.
VALID VARIANCE DETECTEDALLOWANCE: ACTIVE
Cole's jaw tightened.
Endurance meant surviving a bad outcome.
It didn't mean accepting a crooked one.
He leaned back in the chair and breathed.
Slow.
Measured.
He felt his body. The old aches. The deeper ones. The parts that didn't heal right and never would.
Endurance wasn't strength.
It was refusal.
The Dealer cocked his head.
"You folding," he asked.
Cole shook his head.
"No."
The Dealer waited.
Cole didn't move.
Didn't reach.
Didn't chase.
He let the moment stretch until the table itself seemed to notice.
The House text flickered.
TIMING WINDOW NARROWING
Cole shifted his weight just enough to make the chair creak.
Not accident.
Signal.
He pushed his cards forward.
Not as a fold.
As a claim.
"I'm still here," he said.
The Dealer's smile vanished.
The table shuddered.
Not physically.
Conceptually.
The red stitching on the Queens pulsed once.
Then dulled.
The House hesitated.
Just a fraction.
LOSS——RECALCULATION…
Cole felt the pressure spike behind his eyes.
Pain bloomed along his ribs. Sharp. Bright. Like a warning shot fired from inside his own chest.
Endurance.
Hold.
The Dealer swore under his breath.
The House finished counting.
WIN RECORDEDMETHOD: ATTRITIONANOMALY FLAGGED
The world lurched.
Cole sucked in a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and felt the pain recede to a deep, dull ache.
The Dealer staggered back a step.
Blood ran from his nose in a thin line he didn't bother wiping away.
"That shouldn't have—" he started.
Cole stood.
Slow.
Controlled.
He didn't reach for the revolver.
Didn't need to.
Dusty growled now.
Low.
Satisfied.
The House text finished writing itself.
ACCOUNT FLAGGED: IRREGULAR WINREVIEW PENDING
The Dealer laughed once. Short. Broken.
"Figures," he said. "You always were bad for clean books."
Cole met his eyes.
"Tell whoever sent you," Cole said, "I'm not done."
The Dealer nodded.
"I will," he said. "They already know."
He gathered the cards with shaking hands and backed away from the table like it might bite him if he turned his back.
The table didn't vanish.
It just… stopped mattering.
Cole stepped away.
Each movement pulled a dull protest from his body, like something inside him had been stretched too far and wasn't done complaining.
Dusty pressed close, shoulder hard against Cole's leg.
"You alright," Cole murmured.
The dog huffed once.
They moved on.
Behind them, Rustline exhaled.
Somewhere deep under the town, something adjusted a number it didn't like.
And far away—far enough not to hear, not to see—the King felt a win that didn't belong to him and finally, truly noticed who was sitting in his way.