Silas stared at the stranger in the cramped train bathroom mirror and splashed another handful of cold water on his face. The fake beard itched like it had a personal grudge. A dull pressure was already building behind his eyes — nothing sharp yet, just a slow, creeping throb that made the fluorescent light feel like it was drilling straight into his skull.

  He hated this part.

  Not the running. Not the fake IDs. Not even the very real chance of getting caught with two duffel bags full of other people’s money.

  He hated Sirius.

  Well, not the jokes, the improvisations, or even the quips. Those were actually fun, it's just different from..

  What Sirius actually represented, or rather, symbolised. A bridge between his past and his present.

  The fur coat weighed on him like it was trying to strangle him with its own price tag. Every time he slipped into that lazy, arrogant drawl, something in his chest twisted, a sour, nauseating wave that tasted like every rich asshole he’d ever watched ruin lives and laugh about it.

  His power didn’t force anything. It only ever locked chances that were already leaning hard in a direction. People who already wanted to believe that rich, untouchable persona. People who already wanted to impress, to defer, to bet big because the man in front of them looked like he’d never lost.

  That was the trick. The better the act, the higher the probability he could nudge. Even so, the toll was substantial.

  The migraine pulsed harder, right on cue. A static hum behind his temples, like his skull was reminding him the battery on his power wasn’t infinite.

  Great. Just what I needed.

  He dried his hands roughly, grabbed both duffel bags, and pushed the door open before the headache could win.

  Two stops later he switched to a regular commercial maglev. The moment he stepped into the carriage every head turned. The extravagant fur coat, the tailored suit, the fake diamonds glinting on his sunglasses.

  Yeah, yeah. I know. I look like I just robbed a mafia funeral.

  He dropped into a seat and let Sirius settle over him like a second skin. The migraine sharpened with every sway of the train.

  He tried to distract himself by thinking about the plan.

  Rule one: never 'lose' around the same casino twice.

  Rule two: never keep what you earn.

  Rule three: burn everything the second you’re done. Stupid. Effective.

  His actual goal was simple on paper and hilarious in practice — turn lounge winnings into “rich guy” money, gamble just enough to look like a guy who sometimes wins and loses, then disappear with one big hit before anyone starts asking questions.

  Just a few more hours.

  Finding the largest gambling den in Luminara District was pretty easy. It sat in the middle of the city like a neon middle finger to good taste, too many blaring lights, too many sound speakers, the kind of place that screamed “we have nothing to hide and also please don’t look too closely.”

  Silas adjusted the beard one last time outside the entrance. The migraine throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

  How confidently can I play this off like I belong here?

  The answer was simple.

  Unimaginable swagger, and let the money do the talking.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  The bouncer took one look at him and waved him through like royalty.

  Inside, the air was thick with perfume, cigar smoke, and desperation wearing expensive cologne. A senior attendant, Sable, according to the little gold tag, glided forward with the smile of a man who’d already spent Silas’s money in his head.

  Foxes.

  “Good evening, sir. How may I serve you tonight?”

  Silas didn’t even glance at him. He waved one gloved hand like the man was a mildly annoying fly. “Top floor. Biggest table you’ve got.”

  Sable’s smile widened like he’d just won the lottery.

  The elevator ride was silent. Silas stared straight ahead, radiating bored wealth while his brain quietly tried to leak out his ears. Sable kept stealing glances, calculating commissions like a kid counting candy. When the doors opened onto the VIP floor, Sable practically vibrated with excitement.

  He’ll remember this place. He’ll come back. He’ll spend.

  The private poker room was all dark wood and low lighting. A crocodile mask waited on the table, some house tradition. Silas slipped it on without comment. The games began.

  First roulette. He bet big on black and won. Sable’s chest visibly tightened with joy.

  Then blackjack. Another win. Then poker. Win. Then a big loss that made Sable relax so hard he almost sighed out loud.

  Silas could feel the house adjusting, shifting odds the way casinos always did when someone got too lucky. He laughed like it was nothing, letting Sirius take the wheel completely. Every loss was calculated to them. Every win was just enough to keep people hooked.

  The migraine was a hydraulic press now, squeezing his skull with every hand. His vision flickered at the edges. But he kept the arrogant grin plastered on his face.

  If I keep playing they’ll rig every machine. And I literally can’t push outcomes anymore without my brain exploding, so… one last.

  The final table. Silas leaned back, swirling an untouched glass of whiskey like he owned the room.

  “Wow,” he dragged his voice, voice dripping arrogance. “My luck is insane tonight. I’m gonna bet everything this time.”

  Sable’s eyes lit up like Christmas. “Oh very well then, sir. The house is always happy to accommodate such confidence.”

  The wheel spun.

  Black.

  Silas won everything.

  Sable’s smile froze so hard it looked painful. He shot a glare toward the dealer like the man had personally betrayed him.

  Silas stood up, stretching lazily. “Ahaha, amazing sir, you should certainly play some more—”

  “Nah.” The word dropped like a brick. “I’m good. Bring me to the checkout.”

  Sable’s voice cracked. “Wait — but sir, just see how lucky you are right now. You should take this chance to—”

  “No.” Silas’s eyes were cold behind the crocodile mask. “Take me to the exchange.”

  He could feel Sable’s panic like a physical thing. But the man had no choice.

  Silas walked out with both duffel bags significantly heavier and a migraine that had graduated from “throb” to “someone is jackhammering my skull from the inside.”

  He was on his final straw for the day.

  Everything was making him sick — dizzy, drowsy, the coat felt like a noose. The air tasted like metal. Something inside him recoiled. He needed to finish this. Now.

  He pulled up the map on his burner phone. Closest advanced weaponry dealership: three blocks away.

  His head throbbed harder with every step.

  Whatever. Just a little further.

  He walked faster than he should have.

  The store was less a shop and more a museum that had decided to sell death. Glass cases glowed under soft lighting. Artifacts sat behind triple-layered security. The manager gave him the full tour like he was royalty.

  By the time they finished, Silas had bought roughly half the inventory.

  The manager stared at the total, then at Silas, then back at the total.

  “…Sir?”

  Silas just smiled behind the beard and tapped the burner card.

  Payment cleared. Everything he’d earned today — erased. Sort of. Good enough.

  He grabbed the bags, turned to leave, and felt the left side of his beard suddenly sag.

  Shit.

  One side had come loose. Just enough to look suspicious.

  Three hulking security guards near the exit noticed at the exact same second.

  Silas didn’t wait for questions.

  He ran.

  Maybe if my head had been in any better condition, or I'd been any less of an idiot who gets rash when the beard starts slipping, I would’ve played it cool. The justifications and rebuttals were fighting inside his head.

  Unfortunately, if even one of them got bold enough to take him for questioning, very unlikely sure, but still, it would be the end. One half decent credentials review would jeopardise everything.

  So, you know, play it cool enough or panic.

  Panic won.

  The migraine was a hydraulic press now, squeezing his skull with every stride. Beard flapping like a dying bird, bags slapping against his legs, brain screaming — he vaulted over a street vendor’s cart, slid under a parked hover-bike, and scrambled up a fire escape like his life depended on it.

  The biggest guard was gaining.

  Silas’s lungs burned. The beard was now hanging by one sad adhesive strip.

  Might be a bit screwed.

  The guard’s hand closed around the back of his coat.

  Got you—

  “HEY!”

  Two figures dropped from the tall ledge above like cartoon vigilantes.

  Both were wearing paper bags over their heads with crude eye holes cut out.

  They looked utterly ridiculous.

  The guard froze mid-grab, staring up at the two paper-bag crusaders in pure confusion.

  Hana’s voice came from inside the left bag, slightly muffled but very amused.

  “Uh… we’re gonna need you to stop right there, big guy.”

  Liora (the right bag) tilted her head, paper crinkling.

  “Yeah. This is a citizen’s arrest. Or something. We’re still workshopping the line.”

  The guard blinked twice, clearly questioning every life choice that had led him to this moment.

  Silas, on the verge of collapsing, gave the two heroes a weak thumbs-up.

  “…The paperbaggers. Nice. Ten out of ten.”