"Fail, fail, fail, fail, fail, fail, win, fail, fail, fail, fail, win, fail, fail, win, win, fail, win, win, win, win, win, win, win, win—until you can't lose anymore." — Old Man
***
After the death of his parents, Reese was sent back to the most impoverished parts of the slums with nothing but his gambling skills and exceptionally high IQ. Those two things kept him alive from the age of twelve until now, at twenty-one. All he could do was imagine the day he would become rich.
"Tsk. Tsk. Another loss... I'll have to try again until I finally win," Reese muttered, sitting atop a pile of garbage. He wore a ragged punk jacket covered in graffiti and a pair of torn, wild-looking jeans. His hair was styled in a rough, unwashed wolf cut, its natural black colour left untouched. He was a good-looking young man, but poverty had stripped him of any chance at romance. His frail frame and defeated appearance only added to the image of a hopeless loser. A skinny loser.
This was his ninety-ninth attempt at the increasingly popular lottery game Winners Only. Ironically, the name never seemed to apply to him—he kept losing. Still, he never gave up. He tried again and again, increasing his effort with each attempt. His high IQ wasn't helping much.
Atlas was a world ruled by gods in suits—businessmen who built empires through ambition and filth. There were three classes of people in this run-down, post-apocalyptic world.
At the top were the Gods in Suits (GIS)—wealthy corporate moguls who ruled the power sectors. They had built Atlas and constructed the colossal wall that protected humans from the dangers of the outside world. Only nine sat at the Grand Table of the Gods, located in a man-made realm separate from the slums. They controlled magic, mystery, deception, truth—and most of all, money.
Below them were the Monkeys—individuals who accumulated wealth through investments, lotteries, high-stakes games, and three other major cash-flow methods (to be specified). They held no seats at the table, as their wealth was never quite enough, nor was luck ever truly on their side.
And at the bottom were the Slummers. Reese belonged here—and always had. When his parents were alive, at least he had a roof over his head. Now, he had nothing. Denied formal education from birth, he only survived by being a little smarter than most.
Ironically, the slummers were the very backbone of the GIS's power. Their labour and discarded scraps were converted into value, which is why they were still allowed to exist—crammed into designated areas of the city.
At least Reese had his own alley, filled with enough trash to claim. Each night, he scavenged a few dollars, played the lottery, lost, then ate expired food and stolen snacks. He'd steal water when he had to, fighting off anyone who dared stop him. Jail wasn't an option—not yet. Maybe later, but not now.
Beep... Beep... Beep.
Reese tossed away the lottery ticket in his hand and looked up. Overhead, an aircraft was approaching—one that dropped trash daily from the Upper Valley, where the GIS resided, and from The Garden, home of the Monkeys. A sly grin spread across his face as he stepped aside, preparing for the aircraft to unload its rubbish.
"I wonder what premium item I'll find today," he muttered, rubbing his hands together as a fresh mountain of waste descended from the sky.
Four minutes later, the drop was complete. The aircraft shot off at insane speed, its jetstream knocking Reese flat onto his back. He groaned, swore, and got back up.
"Shit, I should've stayed down. For fuck's sake—respect the dying humans underneath you!" he shouted.
Wasting no time, he sprinted to the fresh dump and began digging. He tore through it quickly, grabbing what few dollar notes he found. Then something odd caught his eye—a crumpled, unused lottery ticket. It wasn't from Winners Only. This one was different.
Turn And Run. Classic Lottery.
Number: 76, 78, 98, 65, 89, 90.
"Weird," he muttered. "Never heard of this one... What's the ticket price, anyway?"
At the bottom of the ticket, in small print, it read: "$10 to a Diamond Life."
Instantly, Reese reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar note. He grinned, trusting his gut this time. No overthinking. No logical deductions. Just one final shot.
He had been hit by poverty one too many times.
All he had left was that last, fragile string of hope.
"Let's play this shit."
***
Couple of minutes later, Reese stood beneath the dying light of the sun, the strange ticket pinched between his fingers like a curse. He had been to five different lottery shops in the Lower Ring—each one run by shady clerks and failing tech—but none had recognised the ticket. One even accused him of fraud. Another waved him off like a disease. No channel, no code, no registry. The "Turn And Run" lottery didn't exist, not in this part of Atlas.
The deeper he wandered through the fractured city, the more the day slipped through his hands like sand. Night came swiftly in the slums, and when it did, it brought patrols, monsters, and men far worse than poverty. Reese had no choice but to retreat, slipping through the iron-rusted fences and collapsed walls until he was back at his alley, his little kingdom of trash and decay.
He sat back on a cracked, dirty mattress, the ticket still between his fingers. His raven-black eyes stared at it in silence.
"Ten dollars to a Diamond Life," he muttered.
"Diamond life, huh? Must be a joke."
Reese wasn't stupid. In fact, by all medical standards, his IQ hovered at 220. His brain worked like a machine when given time and pressure—but even a genius needed luck. And luck was something the gods in suits had stripped from people like him.
Out of options, and patience wearing thin, he began to vent—violently. He hurled crates, tore open bags, scattered broken plastic and rotten cans across the alleyway. His rage echoed through the walls like a madman's final cry.
That was when it happened.
A soft mechanical whirr emerged from under a dense pile of junk. The trash trembled slightly before shifting aside, revealing a dark, metallic screen embedded in the concrete ground. It flickered to life with a single line of gold text:
"Turn And Run. Classic Lottery - Entry No. 76, 78, 98, 65, 89, 90."
Reese's eyes widened. "...No way."
Then, two card-like slots appeared on the screen—one on the left, marked with a faint blue light, and another on the right with the sign: "Payment Required – Insert $10."
He stared at it, blinking rapidly. His mind whirled with every possibility—was it a trap? A scam? A leftover tech prototype? He scanned the device, feeling its subtle electromagnetic pulse with the tips of his fingers.
"Tech this advanced isn't built for slummers," he whispered, narrowing his gaze. "Unless... it wasn't built for anyone."
After a long pause, and several simulations played out in his mind, he sighed, defeated by the sheer weight of curiosity and exhaustion. "Fine... screw it."
He slid the mysterious ticket into the left slot. It accepted it with a smooth, seamless pull. Then, he inserted the ten-dollar note into the right. Both slots blinked green.
The screen lit up.
Numbers started spinning—fast, blurred, infinite combinations. One row. Then two. Then five. Then ten. Endless. Reese watched it, hypnotised by the storm of codes and sounds, until slowly, his eyelids betrayed him and he drifted into sleep.
***
By the time he opened his eyes again, daylight had returned.
The screen was still glowing.
But this time, the numbers had stopped.
Reese rubbed his eyes, staring at the bold letters that had replaced the spinning chaos:
"YOU HAVE WON."
Beneath it, another line pulsed with golden light:
Class Upgrade: Monkey
Total Sum: $400,000
Withdraw? [TAP HERE]
His mouth hung open. For the first time in his life, his fingers trembled—not in fear, but in disbelief. He slammed the screen.
"TAP."
In an instant, the card slot on the left spat out a sleek black card with a crimson edge—it hovered briefly in the air before smacking into his chest. Reese gasped. Then screamed.
Pain, like molten fire, crawled up his left arm.
A searing red tattoo bloomed into existence on his skin—dragon-shaped, coiling and biting into his flesh as if alive. His whole body convulsed as he dropped to the ground, rolling, sweating, fists clenched and mouth open in a silent scream.
It felt like death had come to stamp him permanently.
Then—sudden silence.
The screen vanished, retracting into the earth as if it never existed.
Reese lay there, panting in his alley, alone. The pain dulled slowly, but the mark remained—burning faintly like a cursed sigil. And in his hand... was the card.
He stared at it. Then, through gritted teeth, he exhaled the only word he could:
"Fu*k."