Real Name: Dan ‘Ace’ Fortune
Alignment: Villain
Faction: The Rot
A journalist by day and a masked vigilante by night, Ace had always leaned on luck. Every close call, every tight squeeze, every deadline narrowly met, somehow, the cards had always fallen in his favor. But luck is a fickle ally, and The Rot did not respect chance.
That rainy night brought Ace to the old, abandoned Gramercy Casino, where the unfathomable would be born. He was chasing a long-shot lead into disappearances among the city’s homeless. Once a bustling hub of neon and noise, the casino now sagged under years of neglect, but Ace felt the old thrill of being in the right place at the right time. He had no idea this night would change everything.
Ace pushed open the heavy doors, expecting dust, broken slot machines, and the occasional rat. Instead, the air was thick with an unnatural hum, a miasma of decay that made his skin crawl. Shadows twisted unnaturally across flickering neon signs. His pulse quickened, but he told himself it was just adrenaline.
Then the floor shuddered while cracked mirrors rippled like brackish water under moonlight, and neon lights bent into impossible angles. A cold presence pressed against his mind — not a villain he recognized, nor a trap he could anticipate.
Grimoire stepped from the shadows, his right hand clutching the unspeakable tome that sourced his power, while his left guided tendrils of purple-black darkness. A cadre of cultists followed each gripping a kris dagger. At Grimoire’s feet lay The Hessian, undead villain from a bygone era. Ace knew he was outmatched.
Grimoire directed the darkness toward The Hessian, lifting him like a twisted marionette on umbral threads. Laughing maniacally, Grimoire uttered words alien to Ace. A creeping pressure filled the vigilante, a cold realization that his luck had finally run out.
All vision was suddenly obliterated by a burst of inky energy which enveloped the room and washed over Ace like a tidal wave of oppressive thought. Unconsciousness followed.
Moments, perhaps minutes, passed before Ace recovered his senses. First, he heard guttural screams. Then his sight returned; he saw Grimoire biting into the neck of one of his cultists, the others descending on Ace. The hero fought and flailed to no avail. Teeth and nails tore at his armor and broke his skin as he felt The Rot surge through him, intertwining with every nerve and instinct.
Panic gripped Ace. The Rot whispered to him a single truth: survival was gone. He could be reborn, or he could die. Staggering into the main hall and then out into the crumbling streets, he felt its weight guiding him, an implacable evil.
Under The Rot’s influence, Ace lashed out. Innocents became victims of a chaotic sweep of violence. They were not chosen targets, merely victims of circumstance. Every misstep, every unlucky footfall, was amplified by the force coursing through him. The lucky hero became an instrument of chaos.
From that night forward, Ace was never seen again. Empire City’s newspapers no longer reported on the masked vigilante. Instead, whispers spread of a silent, terrifying shadow playing a game no one could win. Screams echoed through the city’s darkened streets as Solitaire stalked, an emissary of The Rot.
“Just your very bad luck, Ace! I don’t need any competition! It’s eatin’ time!”
Solitaire– The Rot #3