My Femboy System

There are questions you didn’t ask gods.

Not because you’re afraid of the answers—but because you already know they’ll be beautiful, smug, and devastatingly logical. The kind of truth that lands with a knife and a smile. Vincent sat at the broken edge of our blood-soaked game table, lounging in a chair that might as well have been a throne.

I stared at the pile of chips stacking high in front of him, more than should have been possible. I’d won. The match. The wager. The goddamn audience. I’d pulled off a miracle most would’ve deemed impossible and tasted the ash of victory in my mouth.

So why did Vincent look like he hadn’t lost a damn thing—like the world had just blinked, bowed, and handed him the crown?

"Tell me," I said, my voice raw and feral, like I’d just coughed it up through broken teeth. "How the hell—"

Vincent cut me off with a raise of his hand. He tilted his head slowly, the movement measured, feline, indulgent. He looked at me as though he’d forgotten I could speak—like I was a painting that had started whispering.

He leaned back in his seat and gestured to the towers of chips now resting on the altar. Red. Black. Ivory. Cursed, kissed, and glittering like sin. He raised a chip, letting it glint between his fingers like a coin tossed to fate.

"It’s simple, really," He smiled. "I knew from the moment you arrived that there was a chance—however slight—that you might beat me," he said. "you’re the kind of man fate smiles upon. Not because you should win. But because the story gets louder if you do. So I planned for that."

I frowned. "You planned for me to win?"

"No," he said, rising slowly to his feet. "I planned around the possibility. Which is the difference between a gambler and a god."

He stepped forward, hands behind his back, posture coiled and elegant. His bloodied hand, stripped of fingers, refused to tremble.