The tiles speak to me in the language of luck and fate. Wind, wind, dragon, bamboo. Old Mr. Lee’s hands shake as he discards the five of circles. He’s going to lose everything tonight if I don’t intervene.
“Careful with that one,” I murmur, sliding him a fresh cup of oolong. The steam mingles with the cigarette haze hanging thick above the tables. He hesitates, pulls the tile back. Smart man.
Across the room, Morgan Chen pretends not to watch us. She’s wearing a qipao that costs more than my monthly rent, but the dragons embroidered on it are facing the wrong way. Amateur. Real fortune dealers know better than to tempt fate with backward-facing dragons.
I see what she’s doing, though. The way she touches each player’s shoulder as she walks past, leaving traces of dark energy that curl around them like hungry cats. Their luck literally bleeding out onto her perfectly manicured fingers.
“Pung!” someone shouts, and the familiar clack of tiles drowns out the tension. Three seats down, Mrs. Zhang’s aura flickers warning signs of an impending heart attack. She’ll lose more than money if she stays much longer.
I should kick Morgan out. Could kick her out. But Grandmother’s voice echoes in my head: “Never start a fight in a room full of tiles. The fortunes get mixed up, and then nobody wins.”
Fine. I’ll wait.
But if she steals one more soul from my regulars, I’m going to show her why my parlor’s name, “Lucky’s,” is both a promise and a threat.
The sound hits me first — like a champagne cork popping, but backwards. Mrs. Zhang’s soul, iridescent as a soap bubble, floats from her parted lips. Her tiles clatter to the table as she slumps forward, and Morgan, that absolute amateur, actually tries to catch the soul in her designer purse like she’s hunting butterflies.
What. The. Hell?
“Hey!” I vault over two tables, sending tiles flying. My regulars know the drill — they’re already ducking under tables, except for Mr. Lee, who’s finishing his tea. “We have a strict no soul-stealing policy on Thursdays!”
Morgan bolts for the back door, her heels somehow not slowing her down at all. Must be enchanted Louboutins. I grab Tommy’s gun as I pass — he’s been my bodyguard for six years and knows better than to protest — and follow her into the alley.
“That’s the third soul this month, Morgan.” I aim at her stupid backward dragons. “And Mrs. Zhang still owes me her egg tart recipe.”
She spins, Mrs. Zhang’s soul swirling in her cupped hands. “You’re still playing small, Lucky. Protecting these nobodies and their little fortunes.” She sneers. “What would your grandmother say?”
“She’d say —” I squeeze the trigger, shooting the jade bracelet off her wrist. The one holding all the stolen souls. “— that your mahjong technique sucks.”
The bracelet shatters, and the night fills with the sound of souls finding their way home.
Image made with Midjourney.
Prompt provided by NoGENver, GoOnWrite.
Flash Fiction written by S. J. Pajonas with assistance from Claude 3.5 Sonnet.
You can listen to this story on YouTube at https://youtu.be/JOU01AlUkN0
