The old truck coughed and rattled before finally coming to life, its engine sputtering like it was shaking off sleep. Adrian gave the steering wheel a soft pat, relieved. "Good girl," he muttered. He didn't have a license, sure—but he'd driven enough on backroads with his dad to get by. Right now, he had bigger problems than the DMV.
Snow blanketed the forest around him, branches sagging with the weight of the storm that passed overnight. The road winding out of the woods was nearly empty, the silence pressing on the windows. He passed an old sign, half-buried in snow: Welcome to Bleakwood—population 3,208, give or take. A fitting name, he thought.
His eyes stayed forward, but his mind was racing. Weapons. Supplies. Traps, maybe—he wasn't going to be caught off guard again. That's why he needed money, and fast. The casino was a risk, but one he could bend in his favor. Literally.
He popped open the glovebox and out fell a worn leather wallet. Inside: a crisp bundle of cash—$1,000 in hundreds—and a fake ID under his name.
A note was tucked behind the bills."From your parents. You'll need this sooner than you think. Good luck."
He snorted. "You guys were always strict as hell about lying—and now this?" The irony stung, but it also warmed him in a strange way.
By the time he hit the edge of Bleakwood, it was just past 9 AM. The town was already alive—small clusters of people shuffling about in heavy coats, steam rising from coffee cups, breath fogging in the morning chill. Storefronts were modest and weather-worn: a pharmacy with frosted windows, a narrow gun-and-outdoors shop, a diner still flashing a neon OPEN sign, and further down the street, the place he'd come for.
The Pine Bluff Casino looked like it hadn't seen a renovation since the '80s. The sign was cracked, some bulbs flickering uselessly. Paint peeled from the siding, and cigarette butts littered the ground outside the entrance. As Adrian stepped in, the warmth hit him—along with the stench of stale smoke and cheap perfume.
Inside, dim yellow lights buzzed overhead. The carpet was sticky in spots, and the air reeked of desperation. Two overweight men with sweat-stained collars were hunched over a blackjack table, half-empty beers in hand. A waitress passed with a tray of watery cocktails, her eyes dull with boredom.
Adrian kept his hood up and made his way straight to a corner slot machine—one of the few not occupied. He sat down, fed it a $50 bill, and took a breath.
"Alright," he whispered. "Let's see if this still works."
He flicked his index finger subtly. A glint of green shimmered at the tip, invisible to everyone else—but not to him.
The reels spun. Ching. Ching. Ching.Jackpot.
The machine lit up with triumphant fanfare as credits poured in. Adrian blinked. He'd just quintupled his money.
"Holy shit," he mouthed.
Heads turned.
"Heyyy, lucky boy!" one of the sweaty gamblers slurred from across the room. "Hot damn! That your first try?"
Adrian didn't answer. He was already cashing out, stuffing the bills into his coat. As he left, he felt their eyes on him. Too obvious. That kind of luck draws attention—bad attention.
"I need a subtler way to use this," he muttered, stepping out into the cold.
He pulled his hood tighter and started down the snowy sidewalk, thinking. He wasn't watching where he was going when he bumped into someone.
"Oh—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—" he started, brushing snow off her coat. Then he heard it.
"Adrian?"
He froze.
She had long black hair and piercing blue eyes. Familiar. Too familiar.
He stared. "Do we… know each other?"