Chapter 1: The Poker Face of a Killer

Chapter 1: The Poker Face of a Killer

The world had become a smear of grey, and Alex Vance was a ghost haunting the edges of his own life. For months, a thick, suffocating fog had settled in his mind, muting colors, dulling sounds, and turning every simple task into a climb up an impossibly steep mountain. Getting out of bed was a negotiation. Eating was a chore. He felt like an imposter in his own skin, a poorly-rehearsed actor playing the part of ‘Alexander Vance.’

So when his phone had buzzed with the relentless persistence only his best friends could muster, his first instinct was to let it die. But Wallace’s name glowed on the screen, followed by a string of texts from Dan.

Poker night. My place. 8 PM. Not a request.

Dude, we’re dragging you out of your hobbit hole if we have to.

It was the most energy anyone had directed his way in weeks. And in a moment of weakness, a flicker of the man he used to be, Alex had agreed.

Now, he sat at Wallace’s rickety dining table, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and cheap pizza. A single, grimy lightbulb overhead cast long shadows that danced like specters on the peeling wallpaper. The drone of a late-night sports recap on the TV filled the silence between hands. It was all so familiar, so normal, that it made the grey fog in his head feel even more impenetrable.

“Alex, you in or out?” Wallace’s voice was a smooth baritone, cutting through his thoughts. Wallace was the anchor of their trio—handsome in a rugged, effortless way, with sharp, intelligent eyes that seemed to see right through you. He was a master of the bluff, his face a calm, unreadable mask whether he was holding a royal flush or a pair of twos.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m in.” Alex tossed a few chips into the pot. They were worn plastic discs, slick with the grease of countless game nights. His own hands felt clumsy and foreign as he handled them.

Across the table, Dan grinned, a wild, chaotic energy barely contained in his stocky frame. “Look at him! The prodigal son returns to lose his money to us degenerates.” He punctuated the joke with a loud slurp of his beer. Dan was the heart, the jester, the one who could always make you laugh even when you wanted to crawl into a hole.

Alex managed a weak smile. “Don't count on it.” The words felt hollow, another line read from a script.

He wanted this. He truly did. He wanted to feel the familiar camaraderie, the thrill of a good hand, the simple joy of being with the only two people who had stuck by him through this suffocating descent. But the fog was too thick. He felt a million miles away, watching a memory of himself play out from behind a pane of dirty glass.

They played another hand. Dan won with a ridiculous bluff, laughing boisterously as he raked in the chips. Wallace just shook his head, a wry, controlled smile on his lips. Alex folded early. He always folded early now.

“Be right back,” Alex mumbled, pushing his chair back. The room felt too small, the air too heavy. He needed a moment.

“Everything okay, man?” Wallace’s gaze flickered up from his cards, sharp and analytical. For a second, Alex felt pinned by it, like a specimen under a microscope.

“Yeah, just… need the bathroom.”

The bathroom was at the end of a short, dim hallway. It was even grimmer than the rest of the house. The linoleum was cracked, the porcelain sink stained with rust, and the single bulb over the mirror flickered with epileptic intensity. He ran the tap, the pipes groaning in protest, and splashed cold water on his face. He stared at his reflection. The man looking back was a stranger—gaunt, pale, with dark, haunted circles under his eyes. An imposter.

He sighed, leaning his hands on the edge of the sink. He dropped his gaze to the floor and that’s when he saw it. A dark, jagged tear in the cheap vinyl of the vanity cabinet under the sink. It was new. He didn’t remember it being there last time.

Curiosity, a long-dormant emotion, stirred faintly within him. Maybe a pipe had burst. Kneeling down, he reached out and pulled at the torn vinyl. It peeled away with a dry, ripping sound, revealing the dark, dusty space beneath.

And the smell hit him.

It wasn't the usual scent of mildew and old plumbing. This was different. It was dry, acrid, vaguely chemical, with a foul, sweet undertone like old leather and forgotten meat. He recoiled, his hand flying to his nose. His heart, a sluggish, forgotten muscle, suddenly hammered against his ribs.

He fumbled for his phone, his fingers shaking, and switched on the flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness under the sink, illuminating dust bunnies, a forgotten bottle of bleach, and something else.

Something wrapped in thick, industrial-grade plastic sheeting, secured with duct tape. It was vaguely man-shaped, about the size of a folded-up adult.

Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through the grey fog. This was a joke. It had to be. One of Dan’s stupid, elaborate pranks. He reached out a trembling hand and poked the bundle. It was hard. Unyielding. Like a rock.

His fingers found a loose edge of the tape. He pulled. The tape gave way with a sticky crackle. The plastic parted just enough for the flashlight beam to fall upon what was inside.

It wasn't a mannequin.

It was skin. Tanned, leathery, and drawn taut over bone. The shape of a human face was unmistakable, the mouth open in a silent, eternal scream. The eyes were sunken pits of shadow, the flesh around them shrunken and mummified.

Alex scrambled backward, his body moving on pure instinct. He slammed into the bathroom door, a choked gasp escaping his lips. His mind went white with a roaring static of pure terror. A body. There was a dead body under Wallace’s sink. A mummified corpse, hidden away like a piece of forgotten luggage.

The sound of laughter echoed from the living room. Dan’s loud, booming laugh.

Oh God.

The thought slammed into him with the force of a physical blow. Wallace. Dan. His best friends. One of them—or both of them—had put that thing there. One of them was a killer. The friendly game, the stale pizza, the easy banter… it was all a facade. A stage play, and he was the only one who didn't know the script.

His lungs burned. He needed to run. Scream. Call the police.

But his feet were rooted to the spot. The hallway was a direct line of sight to the living room. If he bolted, they would see. They would know. And what would they do then? The man with the easy smile and the sharp eyes, who could bluff his way through anything. The man who was his friend. Who had a body under his sink.

He heard the scrape of a chair from the other room. “Alex? You fall in?” It was Wallace’s voice, calm and casual.

Every nerve in Alex’s body screamed. It was a test. A question. Wallace was checking on him.

Alex had to answer. He had to go back out there.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, the acrid smell of the corpse still clinging to the air, to his clothes, to the inside of his throat. He forced his legs to move, his hand to find the doorknob. He had to pretend. He had to act like he hadn't just looked into the face of a nightmare. He had to sit back down at that table, across from a monster, and play poker.

His life was no longer just a grey, meaningless fog. It was a game. And he had just been dealt the worst hand imaginable.

He pushed the door open and forced a smile, a grotesque rictus of terror that he prayed looked normal in the dim light. He walked back into the living room, into the cage.

Wallace was looking at him, his head tilted slightly. A small, unreadable smile played on his lips. Dan was shuffling the cards, oblivious.

“Took you long enough,” Wallace said, his eyes never leaving Alex’s. “Thought we were going to have to send a search party.”

Alex’s mouth was dry. “Sorry. Stomach’s a little off.”

He sat down, his movements stiff and jerky. The familiar room now felt alien, a meticulously crafted trap. The friendly faces of his friends were terrifying masks.

Wallace finished shuffling and began to deal the cards, sliding them across the worn felt of the table with practiced ease. The soft hiss of the cards was the loudest sound Alex had ever heard.

“It’s your deal, but I’ll get this one,” Wallace said smoothly. He slid two cards in front of Alex. “Your turn, Alex. Ante up.”