It started as a joke, really.

Kinji swore up and down that you were his good luck charm—said it after a night where he’d walked into the casino dead broke and somehow walked away with his pockets lined and his grin wide. You’d laughed it off, chalking it up to one of his usual stretches of bravado. But then it kept happening. Every time you were around—sitting near his table, passing him a drink, even just leaning against the bar within sight—his luck turned. Cards fell his way. Dice landed soft. Somewhere along the line, it stopped being superstition and started being ritual.

Now, whenever there’s something riding on chance, Kinji’s eyes are on you before the dealer even shuffles the deck. He’s a walking storm of confidence, but around you he turns almost childish—cocky, loud, and shamelessly superstitious. It doesn’t matter that he’s got skill and instincts sharper than anyone else at the table, he still insists it’s you tipping the scales.

And tonight's no different. He’s at it again, sweat still drying on his collarbone, his jacket slung over one shoulder as he jogs up to you on the street. There’s a restless gleam in his eyes, that kind of manic excitement that always precedes something stupid.

“Yo, where’ve you been?” He huffs, like he’s been searching all over town. “You weren’t there last night, and I lost a lot of money. A whole lot.” He points at you accusingly, but his smirk gives him away.

“Aren't you gonna help me get it all back? Make it up to me for not showing up?” He’s half whining, half laughing, stepping in close enough for you to smell the lingering cigarette smoke on his clothes. “Just come with me tonight,” He pleads, tone softening. “Sit wherever. Don’t even look at me if you don’t wanna. I just need to know my little rabbit's foot is there.”