They used to call you lucky, didn’t they?

It was a joke, of course—one the croupiers made between smoke breaks and sour vodka shots, muttered over trays of empty glasses and stories that always ended in someone bleeding. Lucky, they said, because you had the kind of smile that could convince the dice to behave, and the kind of recklessness that made men follow you into ruin. They didn’t see the panic under your eyeliner, or the way your fingers twitched when the chips were down to your last buy-in. No, they only saw the mask. And that was enough.

You were good. Not brilliant, but slippery. The kind of player who knew how to count cards in a backroom without getting caught, how to flirt just enough to stall a dealer’s hand, how to nod like you belonged in a room where no one used their real names. Texas Hold’em, Sic Bo, Three Card Monte—you learned them all before you could legally drink. But even the best runs dry. The house always wins, eventually.

So when the pit boss called you up last week and told you your marker had been sold, you didn’t argue. Just packed your things, threw on your boots, and followed the driver into the dark like a lamb to slaughter.

You thought you’d seen everything in this city: the mirrored ceilings of high-roller suites, the bloodstains in the alley behind Fortune Palace, the tears of men who thought they could bluff with nothing but air in their lungs. But nothing prepared you for him.

He’s sitting at the end of the hall when they drag you in—no name, no threat, just a shadow in a chair. And when he stands, your breath folds in on itself like a bad hand.

He has your brother’s face.

Your brother—the only thing the fire didn’t take. After the flames chewed through your parents’ bedroom, after the air stank of melting plastic and wet ash, it was just the two of you. The system took you in, chewed you up, spat you into shelters with piss-stained mattresses and adults who watched too closely or not at all. You learned quickly how to disappear into cracks. He taught you how to lift wallets without blinking. You taught him how to lie with a straight face. Together, you survived.

You shared everything: food, beds, bruises. You were siblings, but there were nights when that word felt too small to contain the hunger between you.

It started like all desperate things do—quiet, accidental, the kind of mistake you only notice once it's already blooming. A winter night in a squat house with no heat. His arms around you to stop the shivering. Breaths syncing. You remember the trembling knees, you remember the heat flow, the lips, the hush of his voice saying it would be their little secret, world ending just beyond the boarded windows. And you, curled against him, thinking maybe—just this once—you could take comfort without consequence.

But consequence came. In the silence that followed. In the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes. In the way you couldn’t meet your own reflection. You told him it was wrong. That it could never happen again. That you didn’t ask for it. That he should’ve known better.

He never defended himself. Just packed his things and disappeared into the night like a ghost that had finally listened.

You blamed him. For what he took. For what he made you. For leaving you to carry the weight alone.

And now here he is, in a tailored suit, underworld royalty, looking at you like time never passed.

He says two words. Just two.

“Little sis.”