The "Iron Veil" was the only bridge connecting the mid-tier industrial zones to the deep slums. It was a massive, soot-stained structure of arched steel, perpetually hissed at by the steam of the passing cargo-trains above.
Marzell was leaning against a rusted girder, his chest still burning from the black sludge he'd sucked out of his mother's lungs. He was supposed to be heading back to the sewers for the late-night runoff shift, but his legs felt like lead.
Then, he heard it. The rhythmic, heavy clack-clack-clack of polished boots on metal. It was a sound that didn't belong in the mud.
A group of "Palace Enforcers"—men in gleaming white ceramic armor—marched across the bridge. In the center of the formation walked a figure who looked like a ghost from another life.
It was Shu.
He was no longer wearing the simple linen shirt of a commoner. He was draped in a deep navy military coat with brass epaulets, his hair neatly slicked back. But the most striking thing was his right hand. Even through the fog, the King of Spades on his wrist pulsed with a rhythmic light so pure it made the surrounding shadows recoil.
"Halt," Shu commanded. His voice had gained a resonance it never had before—the authority of the King.
The Enforcers stopped. Shu stepped away from the formation, his eyes scanning the grime-covered workers huddling in the shadows. He stopped when he saw the man leaning against the girder.
"Marzell?"
Shu stepped forward, his face a mix of relief and profound pity. "I went to your shack. Your father said... well, he wasn't making much sense. He seemed terrified of you."
Marzell didn't stand up straight. He couldn't. He just looked at his old friend through bloodshot eyes. "The Upper Sector suits you, Shu. You look like you belong in a painting."
Shu ignored the sarcasm, reaching out to grab Marzell's shoulder. "I spoke to the Distribution Council. I have a seat now, Marzell. I can petition to have your card re-evaluated. A Blank on the left wrist... it has to be a mistake in the steam-calibration. The deck wouldn't do that to someone like you."
As Shu's hand touched him, the Joker card on Marzell's left wrist went insane.
It didn't just tingle; it screamed. It was a cold, predatory hunger. The Joker hated the King. It wanted to trip him, to stain his white coat, to pull the light out of his wrist and turn it into ash.
Look at him, the voice giggled in Marzell's ear. The Golden Boy. Want to see a trick? If I swap his heart with a piece of coal, will he still glow?
Marzell flinched, violently jerking his shoulder away from Shu's touch.
"Don't," Marzell rasped. "You're a King now, Shu. You don't 'petition' for people like me. You just look down and feel glad you aren't one of us."
"That's not fair and you know it!" Shu's voice cracked, the mask of the noble slipping for a second. "We grew up in the same soot, Marzell. I'm trying to pull you up."
"With what? Charity?" Marzell stepped into the light of a flickering sodium lamp, finally revealing his left wrist. The Blank card looked jagged, its edges seeming to sink deeper into his skin than a normal card should. "I have a job. I have a life. I'm 'Special Category' now. That's what the world decided."
Shu looked at the left wrist, and for a moment, the golden light of his King card flickered. He sensed something—not a Blank, but a void.
"Marzell... your eyes," Shu whispered, stepping back. "There's something... wrong. Since the ceremony, you feel... chaotic."
"I'm just tired, Shu," Marzell said, his voice suddenly going flat and empty. The Joker was receding, leaving him hollow. "Go back to your palace. Practice your royal wave. I have to go move some acid."
Marzell turned to walk away, but Shu called out one last time.
"I'm moving to the Lower Castle tomorrow! I'll be overseeing the sector's security. If you need anything—food, medicine, a way out—find me. Please."
Marzell didn't turn around. He just raised his left hand in a mock salute, the silver Blank card catching the light of the moon.
As he walked into the dark tunnels of the industrial zone, a single, involuntary chuckle escaped his lips.
He's a good man, Marzell thought.
He's a punchline, the Joker corrected.