"Are you sure you don't want another round?" James asked, shuffling the cards.

Busy thinking, Owen shook his head. The fact that it would be far harder to steal a soul from Schulmer was definitely a setback, but at the same time, had he really ever believed he could pull off such a task? I can't even win a proper game a blackjack.

Yet somehow, the Tashar-crisis also had an upside to it, and the more Owen thought about it, the brighter the upside seemed. It wasn't that the crisis itself had anything to do with it - Owen wasn't even sure if the GRAILCORP heist was the first option anymore - but James, while mentioning it, had let slip something that could change all of the plays in Owen's deck.

Simply, James also had an excess soul.

And James would be the last person to ever expect it to be stolen from him.

It seemed almost perfect. James, the overconfident narcissist he was, would eventually lower his guard, if he hadn't already. He would lower his guard, creating the tiniest crack in the shining armor that he wore so proudly, and the moment Owen saw his chance, he would slip his spear through that crack. James deserves it, anyway. Him and his filthy, spoiled money... holding a million dollars against me when he could very well burn those million dollars for his own amusement!

Thoughts tumbling around his head, Owen smiled in spite of himself. James would learn his lesson, but for now, hope of a future for Jessica seemed closer than ever. And that was all that mattered to him.

"James," Owen began to ask in an almost mocking voice, "I changed my mind. Do you still want another round of blackja-"

Blinking, Owen realized that he was alone at the table. James was probably gone off to gamble with other, perhaps bolder, people, now that Owen was now uninteresting to him.

Let him bide his time. I have things to do too. After all, he still couldn't pull off the theft by himself.

*     *     *

As far as Owen could tell, there were three different kinds of people you became friends with. Those that you used solely as leverage without any care for them, those who you didn't particularly care about but didn't particularly not care about either, and those that you truly understood and sympathized with. 

Most of the friends Owen had were the leverage kind, though Owen often found himself on the shorter end of that stick. Sure, he also had friends that he was mostly neutral about, but he rarely talked to them either. Or more as if they don't talk to me. Owen gave an empty sigh. Could he really blame them? To them, I am dead, only the shell of my former self. And though I'm not dead, I'm not completely alive either. It's strange. Who am I, then?

"Are you okay?" a familiar voice asked, and Owen forced himself out of his thoughts, turning to look at the person who spoke. "You were walking towards me, and then you suddenly slowed down, as if you'd seen a ghost." Owen gave an uncertain laugh.

"Sometimes when life throws a bucket of crap at you, it's easier to brood for a while before scraping the crap off." This time, it was the person who laughed, with a face that said that he knew what Owen was talking about. One of the few people who do. If there was one particular reason why Owen and Hob were so trusting of each other, it was that both of them knew what it felt like to lose everything. In fact, Owen would almost say that Hob had it worse than him. Unemployed and left without a family of his own, Hob relied on his parents for a flimsy excuse of a cash supply and most often spent his time around the Dice Cup bar, waiting for something exciting to happen in his life. 

Like a starving lion, waiting for its prey, unbeknownst to him that nobody will come. Left to wither, still waiting, until it finally dies.

Owen almost saw that offering Hob to help him steal a soul was an act of mercy. It was a compromise for both of them, in its own, sadistic way. 

"Do you want a drink?" Hob asked, motioning to the stained bar counter in front of them. Owen shook his head and smiled. "Why does everybody keep asking me that? Besides, I already had too much yesterday." And for once, I need to keep my mind clear. 

Hob shrugged. "Fair enough. Not that I could pay for it anyway."

There was a strange moment of silence between them, in which everything seemed amplified, from the blaring of overhead music to the spots on the counter, to the taste of bitterness in Owen's mouth, to the reek of Hob's never-washed clothes. It wasn't as if Hob could wash the blue jacket that he always wore, either, or the white linen pants that had its fabric beginning to come loose. Even that would've costed him too much. Owen sighed. Does it really even matter, or am I just saying it to avoid the inevitable? And then, I might as well ask him sooner than later.

"Um... Hob?" Owen began, fidgeting his hands. If only he could see the future and know whether he was sending both of them into a death trap! "You know about Jessica, right?" Hob nodded. "She's, er... sick, with Bloodfire disease, and if I don't save her, she'll die." Looking at Hob's suddenly sympathetic face, Owen continued. "But the thing is, there's no proven way to cure Bloodfire disease. In fact, the only known way to cure it would be to..." Owen swallowed. "Inject an excess soul into the person's body."

Hob seemed to realize what Owen was going to ask but stayed silent. "James has an excess soul, Hob. I don't know where exactly he keeps it, but it has to be in his house somewhere, unless he has a bunker or safe that he keeps somewhere out of the country, like in the movies. James doesn't need the soul and plans to sell it, but I - no, Jessica needs it. Desperately."

Owen paused for a moment, waiting to see if Hob had anything to say. There, it's done. I rolled the dice, and now we'll see whether it works out in my favor.

"You want me to help you steal it," Hob said as if it weren't even a question. Owen nodded hesitantly, causing Hob to brighten and vigorously pat Owen on the back. "I'm in. Finally, something out of the ordinary! I can't tell you how much I owe you for this."

Owen returned the smile, though still slightly unsure how this would turn out. "No, Hob... I'll owe you if this works." Anything for Jessica.

"So, what's the plan?" Hob asked, looking around and then leaning closer as if they were two spies in a mission. He was a dramatic man, like that. Naive, but dramatic when he wanted to.

"Usually if James is in a good mood, he'll let us have dinner with him. I can give you the address to his house. When we get there, he'll probably have the food all prepared, in which you delay him and I'll try to steal the soul. I've been to his house before. I know my way around most..."

*     *     *

Surprisingly little had changed when Owen returned to the apartment of his. Save that the pool of disease-tainted blood surrounding Jessica's bed had grown and was slowly eating away at the floor, everything else had appeared as it was hours ago. Clean, orderly, and undisturbed.

It doesn't feel right. The neatness and tranquility of it all unnerved him, yet in a way, it seemed to be a sign that everything would be alright in the end. A wave of relief went through Owen as he thought about it. If all went well, the Bloodfire incident would only be something of the past. Something that one day, he and Jessica might even joke about.

Striding over to the bathroom, Owen considered bringing a tuxedo to the dinner, only to remember that he didn't have one. Shrugging, he began to comb his mangled, dark hair into something presentable, or at least more presentable.

And then after, I should probably shave my beard too. Best foot forward - can't let anything ruin tonight. Oh, all the trivial matters Owen was suddenly worried over! It was almost as everything was already back to normal.

*     *     *

"You look like you nearly died," James remarked as he opened the front door, Owen quickly stumbling inside and shaking the snow off of him. It seemed all the effort he had put into appearing well-mannered was indeed a short-sighted idea.

"Have you ever tried biking through the night, when there's ice on the sidewalk? I plummeted into the snow at least twice on the way here."

James grinned. "If only I knew how that's like. Keep your bike outside, will you? You wouldn't expect to get all those dirty bicycle tracks over the floor. But seriously, we just polished the floor yesterday."

With James closing the door behind him, Owen looked around and began to chew his lip again. He hated the place, with its grand, marble pillars and polished, crystal ornaments. It just screamed that James was, in a twisted way, superior to him simply because of their living standards. Every gold-coated piece of furniture seemed to laugh at him, every maid that shuffled by gave a look of concealed mockery.

Walking across the entrance room, Owen turned around the corner, remembering where the dining hall was from before, and then blinked as he saw Hob already waiting for him.

"How do you already get here?"

Hob shrugged, sitting on a chair at the very other end of the table. "I knew I would have to walk for a while, so I came here early. But not too early, if you were wondering."

Owen couldn't help but smile. "Thanks, Hob."

"Well, take a seat," James said, also walking into the room and trailed by three chefs carrying an assortment of meals, many which Owen had never seen before. Owen complied, sitting closest to where he could exit the room.

James followed suit, sitting down in the middle and looking at both of his guests with a strange glimmer in his eye before he said, "Our chefs cooked a variety of foods specially prepared just for this occasion." Owen highly doubted that, but held his tongue, somewhat impatiently. "You might not recognize some of them, as they are only available in other parts of the world, but one of our chefs wishes that he introduces you to an interesting fruit salad which he likes to call..."

Unable to care less, Owen stood up, ignoring the surprised looks from all the others, even Hob. "I'm sorry, James, but... ah, do you know where the bathroom is?" That was certainly graceful, as if nobody would remember him saying that.

A flash of disappointment crossed James' eyes, but he pointed around the corner of the dining room and said, "Down the hall. Take a left turn, then keep going down to the middle room at the very end."

Owen blinked, gears suddenly spinning in his mind. "Er, thanks, James."

James nodded, and Owen shuffled out of the room, bursting into a jog as soon as he was out of sight.

Where would James keep a soul? Owen thought as he walked down the hall. If he doesn't have much use for it, he wouldn't bother keeping it overly hidden. In fact, knowing him, he would probably even boast it around, placing it where everybody could see it.

The living room? It would a good enough guess. Continuing to walk down the hall, Owen turned the other way and stepped into another massive chamber, with a fireplace on the very end, and a bookshelf and several couches across from the window.

Bingo. A sense of victory went through Owen as he spotted a container holding something that closely resembled a soul, with its multi-colored wisps aimlessly floating around inside. Walking over to the fireplace and reaching for the canister on top of it, Owen abruptly flinched and recoiled his hand as he noticed something else.

A cube of transparent glass surrounded the canister, likely a trap of some sort. They still have those fingerprint-identifier things, don't they? And if James ends up tracing the fingerprints to mine...

Grabbing a tong from beside the fireplace, Owen gently nudged the cube, wondering if he could just take the entire thing.

Dammit.

Grimacing, Owen suddenly felt all too aware of his surroundings. Of the stakes. That if James felt that something was wrong, or if a maid came by and saw him... this was his only chance, and if he failed, Owen could do nothing more than watch Jessica suffer her inevitable fate. 

Even the smallest nuances - of the house settling, or the voices from the dining room - seemed to signal danger. Beginning to sweat, Owen took one last glance at the cube and then in an act of desperation, raised the tong and wedged one edge of a glass frame off the cube.

I suppose that would work, Owen thought as he clenched his teeth and wedged two other edges off the cube. Looking around, Owen put the tong back where it came from and rubbed his hands together. The canister was exposed. Reaching for the soul, Owen contemplated whether he should've also wedged the final edge of the frame off the cube, then decided not to. Hopefully if all works out, it falls at the wrong time, and James'll assume that somebody else came along and carelessly broke it while trying to steal it. It seemed almost too simple now.

Making sure he didn't touch anything else, Owen took the canister out of its cell. It would be easy enough to conceal, considering that it was no larger than the average can of cheap soup that he bought sometimes.

Making sure nobody saw him, Owen hid the canister under his arms as he navigated the labyrinth James lived in, reaching the entrance door to the house once again. He would hide the soul in his coat somewhere, and then on the way back to the dining hall, he might even drop by the bathroom to flush the toilet, simply to add on to his guise of innocence.

It seems almost too easy.