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T here were exactly twenty-seven steps from Reuben’s bed to his makeshift desk - he’d counted them enough times during sleepless nights. Twenty-seven steps that led him from one failed dream to another, marked by rejection emails that arrived with cruel regularity.

This morning’s rejection made an even two hundred.

He should have been in a corner office by now, putting his finance degree to use instead of calculating pot odds in underground poker games just to make rent. Should have been proving his parents wrong about his life choices. Should have been anywhere but here, staring at his laptop screen while his last few chips from last night’s game mocked him from the kitchen counter.

The worst part was knowing it wasn't just him - every finance grad he knew from his class was struggling. Tech layoffs had flooded the market with experienced candidates, and entry-level positions were getting snapped up by people with decade-long résumés who were willing to take pay cuts just to stay employed.

He slouched back in his chair, the cheap plastic creaking in protest. The damp spot in the corner of his ceiling had grown again, matching his mounting frustration from last night’s game. He’d misplayed that final hand, letting his exhaustion cloud his judgment, and now a stack of unpaid bills fanned across his desk like the losing cards he should have folded.

So, when his phone rang, Reuben almost ignored it. Almost. But Corey’s name on the caller ID made him pause. His old college roommate had a talent for turning up like a bad penny whenever Reuben was at his most desperate - always with some too-good-to-be-true opportunity that somehow managed to be both.

These days, Corey’s social media painted a picture of impossible success - designer clothes, VIP parties, celebrity connections - though he’d never been clear about his actual profession. They’d taken different paths after graduation; where Reuben had chased corporate dreams, Corey had seemingly glided into luxury with the same effortless charm that had gotten him through college with minimal effort.

Reuben ran a hand through his disheveled hair as he answered the call. “What’s up?”

“Dude, where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you all week.” Corey’s words tumbled out in a rush, like he was already three steps ahead of the conversation.

“Job hunting.” Reuben’s gaze drifted to the half-empty package of ramen on his counter. “You know, like a responsible adult.”

“That’s still a thing? Man, forget that corporate bullshit. I’ve got something way better.”

Reuben’s stomach clenched. Corey’s ‘better’ ideas usually ended with someone in trouble or broke. Often both. “I’m not investing in another one of your trading bot schemes, Corey.”

“No, no–this is right up your alley. Remember those private games I told you about?”

Despite himself, Reuben straightened. His fingers found the deck of cards he always kept within reach, the worn edges familiar against his callused fingertips. “The exclusive ones? With the poker sharks and trust fund babies?”

He’d heard whispers about these games, where million-dollar pots were decided between tech moguls and poker professionals. The kind of games where the buy-in alone was more money than he’d ever held at once.

“Got you a seat. Tonight. Two fifty kay minimum buy-in.”

The cards stopped mid-shuffle. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Already covered. Consider me your investor.” Paper rustled in the background. “You’re still crushing those 20/40 games, right? Even on that short roll you’ve been running?”

Reuben glanced at his dwindling chip stack. Just enough for another week’s groceries if he played tight. “Sometimes.”

“Well, this is your chance, man. One good night, you’re set for months. Better than begging corporations for scraps.”

The rejection email still glowed on Reuben’s screen. Valedictorian to unemployed poker player. His parents would be so proud - if they still spoke to him.

“I don’t know...”

“Come on, what’s the worst that could happen?”

Reuben’s laugh held no humor. “With you? Nuclear war.”

“Eight o’clock. I’ll text you the address.”

“Wait,” Reuben said, something in Corey’s rushed tone setting off warning bells. “Why me? Why now?”

“Because you’re the best poker player I know! Come on, you used to crush those college games.”

“That’s not an answer, Corey. What’s really going on?”

A pause stretched across the line, too long to be casual. When Corey spoke again, his voice had lost some of its polish. “Look, I’m kind of in a spot here. The guy I had lined up dropped out, and I need... I mean, you need this opportunity.”

“Dropped out? Why?”

“Does it matter? You’re twice the player he was anyway.” The smooth charm was back, but now Reuben could hear the desperation underneath. “This is a win-win. You need the money, I need a player. Simple as that.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing! Jesus, when did you get so paranoid?” Papers rustled again. “Look, are you in or not? Because I can find someone else if—”

“I’m in,” Reuben said, even as his instincts screamed at him to ask more questions. “Text me the address.”

The line went dead before Reuben could say another word. He dropped his phone onto the desk and pressed his palms against his eyes when his laptop pinged. Another rejection.

Two hundred and one.

The cards once again whispered through his fingers as he shuffled, each pass a quiet reminder of his talent - the one thing he hadn’t completely failed at yet. One night. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It could more than buy him enough time to find a real job, to get his life back on track.

Or it could ruin him completely.

Reuben’s phone lit up with Corey’s text. An address in the warehouse district, where the city’s polished facade gave way to something darker, more honest about its intentions.

Hope edged into Reuben’s chest, cautious but insistent, like a timid player stealing a glance at his cards. Reuben checked his reflection in the window; dark blond hair that needed a cut, green eyes shadowed by too many late nights, clothes that still passed for presentable despite too many washes.

He looked exactly like what he was: desperate .

The deck made one final pass through his hands before he slipped it back into its pack and into his pocket. He patted the weight against his thigh like it was an old friend–or maybe an enabler.

His fingers moved to delete the rejection email, but stopped. Instead, he created a new folder labeled “Motivation” and moved it there with its two hundred companions. A reminder of what waited if he failed tonight.

Standing, Reuben once again counted the steps to his bed. Twenty-seven. He’d memorized the number during countless nights of insomnia, pacing between what he was and what he should have been.

But maybe tonight would change that.

Maybe.

The word echoed in his mind as he grabbed his jacket - the nice one, the one he saved for interviews that never seemed to lead anywhere. Outside, the city was slipping into slumber, lights dimming like candles snuffed out one by one. And somewhere in that concrete maze, a poker game waited. A chance lingered, just out of reach.

Or maybe just another failure to add to his collection.

Reuben locked his apartment door, the click of the deadbolt sounding with bitter finality. Tomorrow, he’d either be thanking Corey or cursing him. But tonight? Tonight he’d play cards.

It was the one thing he was still good at. And for now, that would have to be good enough.