The first time I realized luck can’t hug you back was the day a 200-pound stranger tried to turn me into luggage.
It started like every bad idea in my life: quiet sidewalk, late hour, and that little itch between my shoulder blades that says, Somebody’s looking at you like a coupon. I’d just ducked out of a dingy spot with a “totally not suspicious” name and a crowd that smelled like cheap cologne and expensive regret. That’s when I saw him—big guy, broad shoulders, heavy steps, the kind of confidence you only get when you’ve never been punched for being wrong.
He didn’t bother with charm. No sweet talk, no fake directions, no “Hey, beautiful.” Just a hand grabbing my wrist like I was a purse with legs. “You’re coming with me,” he said—like my day planner had an opening for kidnapping, 9:15 PM.
Now, I’m Domino. People love to whisper about my “luck,” like it’s some glittery force field that solves everything while I sip margaritas. Truth? Luck is just the universe blinking at the right time. It’s not a bodyguard. It doesn’t put its arms between you and a guy who thinks “consent” is a brand of mouthwash.
I tried the polite version first—because I’m generous like that. “Let go,” I told him, calm as a weather report. He tightened his grip. I felt the squeeze in my bones, the threat in his breath. He was heavier, stronger, and absolutely convinced he could win by being the biggest problem in the room.
That’s when I stopped negotiating and started editing.
My gun came up so smoothly it might’ve been part of my hand all along. No dramatic speeches. No movie slow-motion. Just a clean, practiced motion and a look that said, You picked the wrong statistic to mess with.
His eyes flicked to the weapon and I watched the math in his face change. You could practically hear it: My size minus her size plus her gun equals oh no. He lunged anyway—because some men treat consequences like urban legends.
I didn’t give him a lecture. I gave him a choice. He chose wrong. A sharp crack, a sudden yelp, and he stumbled like his bravado had been unplugged. He tried to power through, still thinking momentum was a personality trait—so I put another shot where it turned his plan into a problem he couldn’t lift. He went down hard, gasping and furious, as if gravity had personally betrayed him.
I held position, steady, breathing controlled—because the serious part of this story is that you don’t get to “wing it” when someone wants to erase your tomorrow. My heart was pounding, sure, but my hands didn’t shake. Luck helped, maybe. A slick patch of pavement at just the right moment. A streetlight that buzzed and flashed like it wanted better visibility. A distant siren that decided to wander closer. Little dominos, falling in my favor.
But the biggest domino?
The gun.
He lay there, pinned by pain and the sudden realization that “bigger” isn’t the same thing as “invincible.” I leaned in just enough for him to hear me over his angry wheezing.
“Guns,” I said, voice light—because if you don’t laugh sometimes, the darkness wins—“the ultimate equalizer.”
And I meant it.
Because without it, that night doesn’t end with him on the ground and me walking away. Without it, the story turns into headlines, missing posters, maybe a memorial where people say I was “so full of life” and “always smiling,” like that’s supposed to be comforting.
Instead, I holstered, stepped back, and let the universe finish what it started. Another domino fell—someone finally noticed, someone finally called it in, someone finally cared. I left before the crowd could gather, before the questions could start, before anybody could turn my survival into their entertainment.
Luck is real, yeah.
But luck didn’t save me that night.
I did.
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