Chapter 13 · Luck's Run Dry

"Call it. Now," the dealer sneered, his voice like gravel grinding in a blender.

I didn't answer. I couldn't. My left hand was twitching—not a shake, but a glitch. For a split second, my fingers vanished, replaced by a jagged smear of static and void-black smoke. I slammed my palm onto the felt table to hide it, the impact rattling the stacks of neon-blue chips in front of me.

"I said call it, kid. Or are you too scared to see the flop?"

I looked up. The man across from me was a mountain of a guy in a tailored charcoal suit that cost more than my life. He had a gold tooth that caught the flickering light of the Neon District’s underground lounge. He knew I was desperate. He could smell the debt on me like cheap cologne.

"I'm in," I snapped, pushing a mountain of chips into the center. "All of it."

"Bold," he chuckled, glancing at the dealer. "Let's see if that luck holds."

As the dealer flipped the first card, the world tilted. A sharp, icy needle shot through my spine, and suddenly I wasn't just seeing the cards. I saw the threads.