The sound of dice rolling and coins clinking filled the smoky air of Decor, the infamous gambling den hidden behind layers of flashing lights and laughter that felt too forced to be real. Tables were crowded, filled with men whose eyes were red from greed and liquor. The scent of sweat, gold dust, and burnt cigars lingered like a fog over the place.
Then — a hand landed on Mickey's shoulder.
It was rough, heavy, like a slab of iron. The touch froze the room. The chatter dimmed, music stuttered, and every gambler in the room stepped back as if space itself had recoiled. Creek tensed beside him, his wolf's blue eyes narrowing, tail flicking low in warning.
The man behind the hand leaned closer — tall, broad, his smile showing gold-plated teeth. His beard was short but wild, his eyes glowed with a predator's confidence.
"New face," he muttered. "You play good with luck, boy. Care to try that luck against me?"
Mickey didn't move at first. His fingers brushed the edge of the table, eyes steady, unreadable. Then — a smirk tugged his lips.
"Sure," he said simply. "Let's see if luck's real."
Laughter rippled through the room — nervous laughter. The man took the seat opposite him, snapping his fingers. The dealer hesitated, then nodded and reset the dice on the felt-covered table.
"Name's Crux," the man said, his voice rolling like gravel. "Don't worry. We start small."
Mickey nodded. "Fine."
The first round — small bet. A handful of reecos clattered onto the table. The dice rolled — slow, bouncing, tumbling in the silence.
"Five and three," said the dealer.
Crux grinned. "Not bad."
Mickey rolled next — six and five. The dealer raised his brow. "Winner."
A cheer rose from a few nearby tables. Crux leaned back, his grin fading just a little.
"Beginner's luck," he said, voice like a growl.
Second round. A bit more on the table. Crux rolled — two and four.
Mickey's fingers flicked the dice with precision — five and five.
"Again," said the dealer.
The crowd leaned in now. The wolf growled low, sensing the shift. Mickey's hands moved calm, almost too calm for someone gambling with men like this.
Then came the third round — the real one. Crux threw down all his coins.
"Everything I got," he said. "Let's see if your luck still shines."
Mickey looked at the pile — then slowly took out all his reecos and pushed them forward.
"All in."
The crowd went silent again. Even the smoke seemed to stop moving.
The dice rolled.
Crux — double six. The men cheered, pounding tables. "He's done for!" someone yelled.
Mickey's turn. The dice spun out of his hand, hit the table — six... and four.
"Dealer says— Crux wins!"
Coins swept to the other side. Creek's ears went flat, a low growl echoing in his throat. Mickey stayed still, expression unreadable.
"Guess luck's got a limit," Crux laughed.
Mickey reached into his pocket and drew out something small — a metal collar, sleek, humming faintly with electric current. It was made of gold, shining faintly in the dim light.
Creek stepped forward instantly, teeth bared. "Mick—"
Mickey raised a hand. "It's fine."
"This collar," he said, placing it on the table, "has three golden systems. One gram each. Gold's rare now… can't be mined anymore."
Crux's eyes glinted greedily. "You're serious?"
Mickey nodded. "One system. Just one. I'll bet it."
"Accepted," said Crux, smirking.
The roll began again. This time, the air felt heavier. The crowd leaned so close you could hear their breathing.
Crux — five and two.
Mickey — five and one.
The room erupted with laughter. Crux slammed his palm down, dragging the collar toward himself. "Told ya!"
Mickey leaned back, lips tight. Then, slowly, he placed two more gold systems on the table — two grams at once.
"Again," he said.
"Brave," Crux sneered. "But you'll lose faster."
The dice rolled.
Crux — six and three.
Mickey — six and six.
"Winner!"
A cheer exploded. Creek barked sharply, tail wagging once in triumph. Mickey only smirked faintly and pulled the gold back.
From there — the streak began.
He kept winning. Every toss. Every roll.
Crux's grin vanished completely as sweat rolled down his temple. Mickey's movements grew sharper, quicker, his every throw perfect.
The crowd that once mocked him now shouted his name. "The kid's blessed!" "He's bending fate!"
Creek stood tall beside him, proud and wild.
Then Crux slammed his palm down. "Enough with coins and collars," he growled. "Let's bet something real."
He snapped his fingers, and two men dragged forward another man — drunk, unconscious, his head hanging low, a half-empty bottle clutched in his limp hand.
"This here's Tony," Crux said with a crooked grin. "He owes me more than you can count. Let's bet him. If you win — he's yours. If you lose — you work for me till your bones rot."
The crowd gasped. Even the dealer hesitated.
Mickey stared at the man on the floor. Then looked back at Crux.
"Deal."
The dice rolled.
Crux — four and five.
Mickey — six and six.
"Winner!" the dealer shouted.
The place went wild again. Crux cursed under his breath, slamming his fist against the table. Mickey only stood, pulling Tony gently by the arm, placing him near Creek.
"One last round," Crux hissed. "For everything. You win — you get my ship. You lose — I take every reeco you own, everything on you, and that collar too."
Mickey's eyes narrowed slightly. "Fine."
The tension was thick enough to cut. The dice hit the table — spinning, bouncing, rolling…
Crux — six and four.
Mickey — the dice spun once more, clattered, then stopped — six and five.
"Winner!"
The room erupted — louder than ever. Some cheered, some cursed. Mickey leaned back, calm amid the chaos, while Crux sat frozen, staring at the table in disbelief.
"Ship's mine," Mickey said quietly.
Crux looked up slowly — and smiled. Too wide. Too forced.
"Sure… yours," he said.
Then, from beneath the table — a metallic click.
Crux's other hand lifted — mechanical, glinting under the lights, and the finger bent backward, transforming into the barrel of a gun.
The room went dead silent.
"Sorry, boy," Crux said. "Luck ends here."
He fired — but Mickey had already moved. The shot tore through the table's edge, splintering wood. Mickey flipped the table up, kicked a stool toward the nearest thug, and dove sideways as Creek lunged, biting down on a man's arm.
Chaos erupted.
Men screamed, tables shattered, reecos scattered across the floor like stars falling from a broken sky. Mickey grabbed a knife from a dealer's belt and swung it backward — one clean arc — slicing through Crux's mechanical arm.
Sparks flew. Crux howled, clutching the ruined limb.
"Get him!" someone yelled.
They swarmed — ten, maybe fifteen of them. Mickey moved like a storm — fast, precise. His punches cracked bones, his kicks slammed men into walls. Creek tore through two at once, his fur streaked with smoke and blood.
Within minutes, Decor was a wreck — tables burning, lights flickering, glass shattering across the floor.
Crux crawled backward, eyes wide with pain and fear. "Wait—wait! Take the ship! Just don't kill me!"
Mickey stood over him, breathing slow and calm, knife dripping. He stared for a moment — then tossed the blade aside.
"I already did," he said.
Crux nodded furiously, trembling. "The ship—outside—the dock—"
Mickey turned without another word. Creek followed, tail raised high, the unconscious Tony slung over Mickey's shoulder. The crowd parted for them — silent, eyes wide, no one daring to stop him.
They stepped into the cold night. The air outside was wet and heavy with salt; waves slapped against the dock under the red glow of lanterns.
There she was — the ship. Sleek, dark, still rocking gently in the tide. The wood was polished black, sails folded neatly.
Mickey stepped aboard, the wooden boards creaking softly beneath his boots. Creek leaped up beside him, shaking off the rain. Mickey laid Tony down near the mast.
The ship rocked once as thunder rolled in the distance. The horizon shimmered — storm clouds gathering.
Mickey looked up at the sails, the ropes, the wheel — his expression unreadable, but his eyes burned faintly with something fierce and quiet.
Creek howled once — a long, low cry that echoed over the sea.
Then — a faint sound.
A groan.
Tony's fingers twitched. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused, staring up at Mickey.
And the scene froze there — lightning flashing behind them, sea winds rising, a new storm waiting beyond the harbor.