"Master is coming," the guard announces, poking his head through the chain-clad iron door. The room on the other side is full, yet a token dropping can be heard from a mile away.  

 

After flinching to the ice-cold voice, each of the faces in there paints a different picture of torture: the younger ones look scared, but hope still lurks underneath their eyelids. The ones that look like they could be their parents, in a world where having a family was allowed to those of their caste, are the most drained of any life. They are young enough to be angry about the position they're in, but too old to still imagine a better future. The oldest ones sit in the back, pulled faces and bony bodies. Neither fury, nor aspiration.  

The guard shivers upon seeing them. Despite his current position of power, he knows the system well-enough: all who still can't afford to stop working are vulnerable. The Master's upcoming game may result in him looking no different than these poor souls, only in another powerful person's vault.

He nods, gaze fixed on the gray wall, then shuts the door again.  

 

"If Master loses and has to give us up, I prefer leaving this world entirely," a small voice echoes. It belongs to an elderly man, the one who has been enslaved the longest, although only recently by the man that's keeping them now. "Enslaved", as agonizing as it is, is not a strong enough word to describe what the people in the room have been subjected to. Or what hundreds of thousands, from newborns to hoary-headed, have endured ever since the world decided to abandon money altogether. 

 

Put concisely, the oligarchs, politicians, and billionaires were scared that anyone who had lucky investments, won the lottery, or gambled their way up to the top, was a threat to the control they had established over their respective countries. Thus, numerous meetings were held, all while the general public was distracted by celebrities and "random" deaths of controversial figures. A decision was made, one with more power than the wars the elite had pretended to fight for decades: people were the new currency. 

 

At first, no one suspected anything, they were still too busy with discourse about who was casted in a children's movie, or who was the bad guy in a conflict they would never come close to. Slowly but surely, the most vulnerable groups were affected, different in each part of the world. Young and old, able or disabled, employed or unemployed, dark-skinned or fair-skinned, humans turned into assets. And the hundred most powerful people on the planet managed their lives, not as workers (although some had to be), but as paper bills to be passed on, getting dirty or torn in the process.  

 

Gambling has a whole different meaning now, because the gentlemen in those rooms aren't crossing their fingers for a set of cherries or a Royal Flush. They are chasing the trendiest hair color, body type, or deformity to own and sell. Becoming one of the Masters is practically impossible until someone dies and their children inherit the bloody hobby. 

Until Shark, the one who owns the group in this room, came along. His nickname originated from his ability in poker, the game some used to play when the world had been a little kinder. According to legend, he killed his own Master. The guards still don't believe that rumour; he doesn't punish his subjects enough for that to be true.  

 

After the frightened guard's announcement, the other ones escort the Master to the small jet that awaited him in front of the property, so clean it sparkles in the sun. The fireball in the sky had turned the Earth warmer ever since the Masters took charge, their lavish lifestyles forever erasing the concept of sustainability. Shark sits in a leather seat inside of the plane, glancing at his watch. The arrows point to the time at which his subjects are usually fed the tiny portions assigned to the chefs. The staff had called bids to his leftovers: a meal with premium ingredients is a treasure these days, even if it's expired. 

 

Not long after, since tournaments are only held in the Northern Hemisphere, Shark arrives at the exquisite hotel and starts preparing for the meet. As he reads his book, one that belongs on the list with books forbidden for subjects, a young girl enters. Her oversized beige clothing indicates that she is a worker: other subjects aren't allowed to wear anything but grey. 
"Your tea, Master" she says, leaving a silver tray on the coffee table. 

The girl prepares to bow in an act of obedience before she leaves the room, but Shark stops her with a snap of his long fingers.
"What would you do, Miss, if you had your freedom back? If you weren't working?" he asks.
"Sir, if I wasn't working, I would have become a gambling token again," she answers, escaping his gaze by staring at the wall.
"Perhaps you would," he swallowed. "But what if you didn't?"
"I... I don't think about it. Don't want getting my hopes up. Not that I even want it or anything!"
"Fair game. You're free to go."
The girl bows once again and exits the room, a bead of sweat already forming on her temple. 

 

A few hours later, Shark is chatting up the other players in the luxurious lobby, his brow furrowed, when the croupiers, a pretty woman with ginger hair and a tall brown-skinned man, urge them to go into the hall.
"Important game tonight, huh?" sighs one of the players, the one with oily white hair.
Although the half question-half statement was aimed at Shark, the third one answers, patting his beer belly:
"Don't intimidate him. Doesn't look used to it yet."
The young master furrows his brow, visibly annoyed by these men and their lack of soul, depth, or empathy. They, however, don't notice anything beyond the percentage of wool in their designer coats or the smiles of women decades younger than them. 

 

And there it is, the turning moment. The second where the all-powerful three Fates stop spinning the wheels of fortune, the instant where the Universe holds its breath: the final bet of the game is called. Not surprisingly, the prideful men who were mocking Shark are already out of the game. The one left against him, his "heads-up" foe, is more cunning, a sleazy smile blooming on his face as he watches the young master's eye twitch. 
"I call it too", Shark states. The room freezes. Most of the spectators expected him to fold. 
"Bravery often leads to stupidity," whispers the old man, smirking.
"You already have three of a kind, don't you?" Shark juts his chin at the grotesque picture of the other three white-haired gentlemen, now sweating buckets in their expensive clothes. 
"So, confident boy, what will you do with those chips...if you had the tiniest chance of winning?" 
Shark smiles to himself.
"Let's put it simply, so that your aging brain will understand, Sir. I'll break some shackles to pieces".
A nod. A cough. And Shark uncovers his royal flush. 

 

 

***

A few weeks later, some workers are working at Shark's residence, their neon vests sparkling. 
"I can't believe it, man. Who would even do that, for pity's sake?"
"I couldn't either. But he did. It's empty, you see."
"So he won and freed them all? No questions asked?"
"He did. Now let's finish our work here and leave. I've got a family to spend time with. Thanks to him, of course".