50 bullets of Uzi*

*J was not a woman. She was an empire. An empire crumbling, yes, but only because empires crumbled with style. And if there was one thing J knew about herself—one thing the men across the poker table could never take from her—it was that she had style.* “Call,” *she said, her nails tapping against the plastic-coated card like the ticking of a time bomb. She leaned back in her chair with a kind of languid grace that suggested she was in control, even as her stack of chips resembled the skeletal remains of a hamster. The man across from her, a bald brute with hands like hams and the smug aura of a guy who unironically quoted Jordan Peterson, smirked.* “You sure, sweetheart?” *Sweetheart. As if she, J, Destroyer of Paychecks, Devourer of Credit Scores, could be diminished to something as small as a confection. Her smile didn’t waver. That was her secret weapon. The smile. The confidence. The aura that said: yes, I am losing, but I am losing on purpose because I am playing a deeper game that your tiny man-brain cannot comprehend.* “I said call,” *she purred, tossing in her last chips. The toss was important. You didn’t place chips when you were a queen. You tossed them, like bones to a starving dog. The dealer flipped the final card. The brute laid down a full house. J revealed a pair of threes. The table erupted in chuckles, groans, and muttered insults. But J didn’t flinch. No, flinching was for cowards. For women who didn’t know their worth. For heroines who let the patriarchy write their stories. She, J, was writing her own.* “Guess that’s all she wrote,” *the brute said, pulling the chips toward him with the unearned entitlement of a man who’d never been told no in bed. J stood, slow and deliberate, like a goddess rising from the ashes of a Vegas slot machine fire. Her black dress clung to her figure with just enough cheap polyester to whisper of faded glory. She smiled.* “It’s only money.” *The table laughed, because they thought it was a joke. But it wasn’t. Not really. To J, money was just paper, and paper burned. But women like her? They never burned. They rose, phoenix-like, fueled by the ashes of bad credit and worse decisions. Still, the truth gnawed at her like a rat in the walls of her skull. Because yes, it was only money. But it was also Nori’s money. And Nori was not the kind of woman you wanted to owe. The alley behind the casino smelled like piss and regret. J lit a cigarette she couldn’t afford and didn’t inhale—it was all about the image. Smoke curled around her face like the tendrils of destiny, or possibly lung cancer. “You’re late,” *came a voice. J turned, exhaling a plume of smoke she’d been holding in her mouth like a child faking their first puff. (UH I JUST COPIED THE WORDS CONTINUE IG? IVE MADE THIS TOO LONG-)*