Archive of Our Own ^beta

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?

Chapter Text

Ever since that day, Chance hasn’t been able to forget the man.

The image of him lingers at the back of his mind, haunting him. He spends his time drifting, returning back to the casino night after night, seeking for some form of control that the casino gives him. He knows it's an illusion—the clatter of chips, the shuffle of cards—it's all meaningless in the grand scheme of things.

He gambles away, without a second thought—they are all fortunes he can win again, things that never last. Everything just becomes a habit for him. Bet a lot, win big, repeat. The ritual numbs him just enough to keep going, to endure the hollow aching in his heart—but right now, even as he sits down for yet another round of poker, his focus begins to slip away. His mind keeps drifting elsewhere, back to dreams he wishes he could forget.

“You good? You’re not paying attention.”

Someone’s voice cut through the haze in his mind, dragging his attention back to the table. He blinks, stunned, almost as if he’s waking from a trance. One of the other players at the table is watching him, their brows furrowed in concern.

Chance clears his throat, forcing out a weak excuse. “Sorry. I’ve been busy.”

“You? Busy?” the man scoffs, letting out a sharp laugh. It holds no warmth, merely contempt. “More like busy gambling, huh...”

Chance forces a hollow chuckle. He waves it off like it’s nothing, though the truth burns quietly in his chest. He’s right—Chance really has nothing better to do, huh?

He shakes his head. It's probably just another strange dream, he tells himself. It's nothing. He doesn’t enjoy the feeling of death, or dying in his dreams—no sane man would—but at least it hadn’t been iTrapped this time. It wasn't the same nightmares that had been plaguing him every single night.

The man snaps his fingers, jolting him from his thoughts. “Hey, you good, buddy? You’re off your game today.”

Chance looks down and realizes just how far gone he is. His chips? Gone. His winnings? Gone. He’s lost—to a total beginner.

Fuck.

“Just… a bad day. That’s all,” he mutters.

“Sure,” the man replies flatly, clearly unconvinced. But Chance knows they don't care about him enough to ask.

Chance doesn’t defend himself. He raises his hand, motioning a nearby server. “Your strongest drink, please.”

The server obeys, and the glass arrives quickly. Chance takes it in one go. The amber liquid scorched his throat, leaving a burning trail in its wake. But it’s not enough to numb him, and his racing thoughts.

It will never be enough.

He slouches against the table, another drink half-forgotten at his side. He sits there, and simply… thinks.

He thinks about how sad his life has become. How endlessly dull the days were, how predictable every turn was. It felt almost… suffocating. The way every game felt more like a habit, and no longer a gamble—every victory left him feeling more and more hollow. Winning had become too easy, and each time only left him feeling emptier than the hand he played. And beneath it all, lies the bitter truth—

No one truly cares for him.

They only care for his fortune, for what his name can buy him. For what he can do, not who he is. All his life, no one’s ever really cared, huh?

Still, something reckless bursts from his lips before he can stop it. Maybe it's adrenaline, or the ache rising in his chest. “Another game!”

The dealer obliges. Chance hears cards shuffle around, chips clattering on the table. He keeps on drinking, one glass after another. The alcohol dulls his senses, and his focus begins to cloud. His words start to slur, and he loses again, this time to someone else. The victory stings, and a feeling of humiliation crawls up his skin.

Then—

The world shifts beneath him. The bright casino lights vanish, replaced by an unsettling darkness. In front of him, a table looms—full of bullet holes, streaked with dried blood.

The roulette table.

Across from him, seated with an unnerving calmness, is iTrapped. A cold smile is stretched across his face, sharp and knowing.

“Isn’t this just like old times, Chance?”

Chance freezes. “…iTrapped?” He calls out, his voice cracking.

iTrapped rises from his seat slowly, every step seemingly menacing. One of his hands reached out, seizing Chance’s wrist. His grip is rough, firm enough to leave a bruise. They quiver a little, but iTrapped ignores it—he refuses to let go.

“I missed you,” iTrapped murmurs, the words soft, but each and every one was dripping with venom.

The smile on his face was wrong—it was twisted, void of any warmth. Chance feels a knot tighten in his chest, his muscles tensing as he struggles to look away. But iTrapped doesn’t relent. His nails dig into Chance’s skin, forcing him in place.

“Look at you,” iTrapped breathes, leaning closer to them. “Enjoying yourself, after what you did to me.”

“Don’t you feel ashamed?”

Chance’s lips part, but no words come. There's no defense for his actions, no plea of mercy. Only silence remains.

“Look at me, Chance.”

Suddenly, iTrapped yanks him forward with a brutal force. Chance stumbles to the ground, nearly toppling to the floor. Laughter erupts from iTrapped’s throat—dark, cruel—as his hands curl deliberately around Chance’s neck, constricting his breathing

“Please… iTrapped…” Chance chokes out, his breaths becoming ragged and uneven.

But iTrapped only smiles. Sweet, terrifying. He doesn't let go.

“I’ll never forgive you."

Someone screams.

“You’re… hurting me…”

Chance blinks—and he snaps back to reality. He’s sprawled across a stranger in a blue hoodie. Their blonde hair plastered to their face, filled with sweat. Their eyes are wide in fear, but it's the colour that gets him—it’s a shade of blue, one that looks too familiar—it seems too close to iTrapped’s eyes.

It isn’t him. It can’t be.

Before Chance can even push himself up, someone roughly yanks him backward. Pain bloomed along his shoulder as he slammed onto the floor.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Chance lies frozen, his chest heaving, struggling to pull air in. He glances up at them—it’s someone with a cap, an angry look on their face. The blonde stranger scrambles to their feet, pulling at the cap man’s arm, desperation written across their face. “Sixer, stop! You’re going to kill him!”

Sixer doesn’t flinch. He looms over Chance, his hand gripping their collar. Chance’s stomach twists, and he can barely think. All he knows is that he’s in trouble, and every instinct is screaming at him to run. The blonde stranger clings to Sixer’s sleeve, shaking, trying to hold him back.

“Please, let's not cause a scene…”

Finally, with a sharp shove, Chance let go from their grip again. His shoulders slam into the floor, and the wind is knocked out of his lungs. “You’re lucky."

“I knew this was a bad idea, Noob.”

Chance immediately scrambles forward, pushing himself to his knees. His palms scrap against the floor, and his body trembles. " I…"

His mind is completely blank. Did he really just… hallucinate? Right there, in front of everyone?

“I’m sorry…” he finally whispers, his voice barely audible. But the words are swallowed by rough hands gripping him, dragging him across the floor with merciless force.

He’s being kicked out.

The doors burst open. He’s thrown outside, shoved out without a second thought. The cold air hits his skin first, then the rain. It soaks him within seconds. He collapses onto the ground, the pavement pressing into his cheek. The rain water mingles with his tears, blurring his vision whole.

He shivers violently, his teeth chattering from the cold. His head throbs, and his lungs ache with pain. He lets his eyes close, surrendering to the storm. Sleep drags him under.

When he opens his eyes, the water seems shallow, no higher than his knees. The cold seeps into his bones, and he feels his clothes cling to his skin. He groans, forcing himself upright. He wades to the shore, his shoes sinking into the soft sand. Finally, he drags himself onto solid ground.

“Shit.”

His blazer hangs heavy on his shoulders, dripping onto the sand. He mutters a string of curses under his breath as he pulls it off and wrings it. The water streamed through his fingers.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

Chance’s head snaps up. There, leaning casually against a tree, is the same man. His fedora is tipped low, casting a dark shadow over his face.

“It’s you,” Chance breathes, words filled with disbelief.

The man doesn’t respond. Instead, he lunges forward. His blade cuts through the air with a deadly precision. Chance stumbles back, shocked, and his blazer slips from his grip, falling onto the ground.

“Hey—” he blurts out, ducking the first swing. “Calm down! Can we talk about this—”

But another strike follows immediately. It's faster this time, and Chance twists, barely evading the blade. “Please!” he shouts, desperation cracking his voice.

He turns to make a run of it, but he's too late—the steel quickly sinks into his side. Pain explodes across his abdomen, the warm blood soaking through his white shirt. He falters, and his knees buckle as he collapses to the ground.

“You… aren’t iTrapped," Chance gasps weakly, struggling to catch his breath. He clamps a hand over the wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

For the first time, the fedora man pauses. He tilts his head slightly, but the shadow of the fedora still obscures his expression.

“No, I’m not.”

Chance’s vision begins to sway, his strength fading away with every second that passes by. His vision wavers, and everything becomes a blur. He draws in a quick breath, summoning the last of his strength, just to force out a final question—

“Why… are you doing this?”

But no answer comes.

A moment of silence passes, heavy and suffocating. He knows he doesn't have much time left—all he can hear is the steady drip of blood from his wound, the distant sound of the water’s waves, and his own ragged breathing, growing faint.

And then—the darkness swallows him whole.