My Femboy System-Chapter 51: The Subtle Art of Losing

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.

"In the hours before this match, I made...arrangements, much like you did with your little trick of the cards."

He paused beside the altar, eyes watching the audience above us who still hadn’t dared leave. He gestured upward, vaguely, toward the balconies and terraces stacked with players.

"Each guest on this floor was invited to participate in a side contest," he said. "Nothing grand. Nothing threatening. A playful wager. A simple game. They would each stake one percent of their current holdings. Just one. In return, they’d place their bet on who would win in our little game."

I blinked.

"Wait. They bet on our match?"

Vincent nodded. "Almost all of them."

I looked up—and damn it, I saw it now. The way the crowd watched him. Not with fear. Not with reverence. But with investment. The way you watch a lottery ticket with legs.

"If I won," Vincent continued, "I would have pay out one percent of my final winnings. Shared among the winners who placed their faith in me."

"Generous," I spat.

"And if I lost...they would each forfeit one percent of their current holdings to me—not as a punishment, but as collateral. A commission, if you will. Because I was the one risking everything for the sake of their entertainment. I was the one making the sacrifice they were too afraid to attempt themselves."

My stomach dropped.

"That’s why they were throwing crowns at your feet," I whispered. "You turned the audience into your goddam escrow account."

I stared at the growing mountain of chips beside him. A monument to manipulation. To math. To some sick economy of sin that he had engineered long before I even stepped onto the floor.

"And they agreed to this?" I asked, incredulous.

Vincent raised a brow. "It was only one percent. A tiny, forgettable sliver of wealth. Harmless. A small thrill for the crowd."

I swayed, suddenly dizzy as my brain fought to keep up.

Then I blinked.

No. No, that didn’t make sense.

"Wait," I murmured, my mind catching up at last. "If you had won, then you would have owed one percent of your earnings to the crowd, right?"

Vincent nodded his head.

"And that," I said slowly, "would have bankrupted you."

I looked at the pile of chips he had. Went over the math in my head. If he owed one percent of that to each bettor, he’d be in the red immediately. There wouldn’t have been a payout. There would have been a fire sale on his bones.

He didn’t flinch. He just smiled wider and reached into his coat. From the inner pocket, he withdrew a thick piece of paper—creased, folded, sealed in wax. A contract. He let it fall open on the altar between us with a flourish. I leaned forward.

The parchment shimmered faintly under the chandelier, the edges lined in gold, the lettering precise and predatory. I scanned the page with one eye and a rising sense of horror.

At the bottom was the clause, simple and clear.

"In the event that Vincent Lacona wins the All-Out match, the agreed repayment of one percent of his total earnings shall be distributed to the ’Winning Party’ as a collective entity."

A pause.

My stomach twisted.

No. No, that wording—

I looked again. The words didn’t lie, they just didn’t care about being understood. If he won, the one percent wouldn’t go to each person individually. It would go to the group. As a single share. They wouldn’t receive one percent. They would split it. A fraction of a fraction.

My mouth went dry.

"You bastard," I breathed.

Vincent gave a polite little bow.

"It was always a trick," I whispered. "And they didn’t catch on?"

"They never do," he replied blankly, "You should know that better than anyone."

I stared at him, stunned, before collapsing into my seat like a broken puppet. My hand—what was left of it—was a ruined thing dripping blood across the obsidian altar. Each throb was a hammer blow to the inside of my skull, each heartbeat a scream of "you’re still alive," which, by now, felt less like reassurance and more like mockery.

"How much in total?" I rasped, blinking through the vertigo.

"A little over sixteen thousand," he answered, as if he were announcing the weather.

I blinked again. "That’s it?" My mouth cracked into something resembling a smile. "You bleeding bastard. That’s barely one-sixth of what you need to move on."

Vincent said nothing. He simply reached for the revolver on the table.

"No—" I tried to move, tried to lunge, but my legs were sandbags and my chest felt like it had caved inward. My hand wasn’t even responding anymore. Too much blood loss. All I could do was watch.

Then, like a slap of perfume and profanity, she arrived.

Willow burst into the pit like a storm, sweat-slicked and beautiful in a way only witches on borrowed time can be. Her voice wasn’t a chant—it was a curse. Ancient. Forbidden. Drawn from a throat that had kissed too many demons and made it worthwhile.

She dropped beside me, palm pressed against my mutilated hand.

"Don’t—" I wheezed.

"Shut it," she hissed, voice low and raw. "Let me work."

My fingers didn’t regenerate—they resurrected. One knuckle at a time. One tendon. One sliver of nerve. It was agony. And I could feel her feeding it, pouring slivers of her own life into mine, trading months for bone and hours for skin.

She staggered once but didn’t stop.

Vincent watched the spell without comment.

"I’ll be fine," she said softly, barely audible.

Before I could say another word, Vincent was already speaking.

"Lords and Ladies," he called out, voice rising like dusk on an execution day. "Players. Spectators. Sinners."

Everyone turned toward him. The casino silenced.

"I request one final wager," he said. "A sponsor for one last bet. A test of luck, played with a single bullet and my own skull. A gamble against myself. Against fate."

Not a single voice answered. The crowd held its breath.

Then came the call.

"I’ll do it!" A voice boomed from the second-floor balcony, fat and theatrical. A man dressed in enough silk to strangle a kingdom stepped forward, wine in hand, laughter on his breath. "On one condition! Five bullets to one! A one in six chance for a sixfold return!"

Gasps erupted.

Vincent inclined his head, serene as a blade about to drop.

"I accept."

The revolver’s chamber clicked open. He removed a single round with care, the cylinder slick with blood. Five bullets remained. One chance to survive. One death waiting to sing.

He spun the chamber.

The click was wet, final, and unforgiving.

My legs buckled. My lungs seized. My throat closed like it knew any sound I made might snap the moment in half. Time didn’t stop—it coiled, ready to strike.

Vincent raised the pistol.

Placed it to his temple.

Closed his eyes.

And smiled.

A silence so loud it screamed.

Click.

No shot.

The silence snapped. A single string of laughter erupted above, wild and unhinged. Chips rained down from the sponsor’s balcony like celebratory ash. Then the casino howled.

Vincent set the pistol on the table and slid it toward me like an offering. His smile widened. No words. Just the triumphant hush of someone who had survived something stupid on purpose.

In that moment, a thought struck—sharp, undeniable, clear as scripture carved in bone:

The man—this demon wrapped in elegance and skin standing before me—wasn’t human. Not even slightly. Not in breath, not in thought, not in the way he smiled at death like it was an old friend coming to collect a favor.

The bandages came swiftly.

An Overseer stepped forward. Vincent wrapped his hand without flinching, using his teeth to tie off the cloth. Then he collected each severed finger—calmly, clinically—and placed them into a small black box. He closed the lid, stowed it inside his coat, and turned to leave.

"Wait," I croaked as Willow stepped back, completing her incantation. I stumbled to my feet, breath shallow.

He turned back to face me.

"I know you were tasked with assassinating the Graywatch city Council," I paused, panting slightly, "But I need to know...why go after the Red Mistress? What part does she play in all of this?"

His eyes glinted. "I have a contract to fulfill, one that furthers my mission and benefits her in turn."

Cryptic. Of course.

"But you could’ve carved straight through to Graywatch. Why didn’t you? Is that contract of yours really that important?"

Vincent’s head tilted again.

"I’ve been restricted from stepping foot into the city," he said plainly.

I frowned. "Restricted? What do you mean restricted? By who? By the ’Maker’ you keep referring to?"

He shook his head. "No. Something else entirely, though nearly as old. You’ll understand in due time, if you survive that is."

With that said, he turned again, walking through the doorway the Overseers had opened. The hallway pulsed with light and at its end stood the elevator, clean and simple.

He stepped inside.

And vanished.

I dropped to my knees.

My party surrounded me. Willow rested a hand on my shoulder, trembling but quiet. Aria knelt beside her. Leo hovered nearby, jaw clenched. Miko stood just behind, arms crossed, his grin long faded behind his eyes. Jazmin stood in the distance, silently watching everything unfold.

I should’ve been furious. I was furious. But then I looked up at the alter.

And smiled.

Because I knew, deep down, that there had been a shift, the tables turning ever so slightly. I lifted myself to pick up the items resting on the obsidian surface. I had his pistol now.

Cold and heavy, it pulsed in my grip like it still remembered the lives it had taken—like it was hungry for more. Its long silver barrel gleamed with cruel elegance. Beside it was his stopwatch, a relic which held time itself wrapped in its gears. He may have ascended for now, but I knew that the next time I faced him, it would be on even ground.

I crossed into the hall with the elevator. My party followed. I gave one last look back toward the casino with a face of reverence.

And then—

The Tower screamed.

Not in sound, but in structure. A deep, bone-shaking groan rolled through its foundation like the death rattle of something ancient waking up wrong.

The walls rippled, as if exhaling. Tiles cracked. Lamps exploded in sparks. And then, high above, the ceiling—seamless, inviolable—split like skin under pressure.

My heart jumped and a deep pit of unease rested in my stomach.

Just then I knew that something was wrong.

Very wrong.