There is an old saying, usually mouthed by men who have never known a day of hunger: 'The harder I work, the luckier I get.'
They like to tell us that luck is simply 'preparation meeting opportunity.' Motivational speakers preach it from stages. Business executives frame it on their office walls. Self-made millionaires—most of whom started with their father's money—repeat it in interviews with practiced humility.
But those people have clearly never lived on my side of the city.
I have never believed in luck. Luck is nothing more than the word comfortable people use when the world finally decides to go their way—a polite mask for privilege, a convenient excuse that lets them sleep soundly at night. It allows them to believe they earned everything through merit alone, that their success had nothing to do with the safety nets beneath them, invisible and strong.
For someone like me, the math doesn't work that way. You can be as prepared as a soldier going to war, study until your eyes burn and your mind goes numb, work until your bones turn to dust and your hands crack and bleed—but if the door of opportunity is bolted from the other side, if your name doesn't carry weight, if your address marks you as less than, then 'luck' never finds you.
In my world, there is no magic, no fate, and no fortune. There is only the relentless, soul-grinding weight of hard work—a cycle that demands everything you have, every hour of every day, just to make ends meet. Just to survive.
Still, two years ago, when I stood at the iron gates of one of the most successful and prestigious academies in the city—The Ivy League High School—I almost allowed myself to believe that miracles do exist.
The school was as old as the city itself, its reputation woven into the very fabric of the upper class. It was known far and wide as one of the most elite institutions in the country, and its ancient-looking architecture made it resemble a royal palace more than a school. Gothic spires reached toward the sky. Stone gargoyles perched on corners, their expressions frozen in eternal judgment. Ivy—actual ivy, not just the name—crawled up walls that had stood for over a century.
Each wing of the campus was as big as a small village. The library alone could swallow my old neighborhood whole. There were tennis courts, an Olympic-sized pool, a theater with velvet seats and gold trim, laboratories that looked like they belonged in a pharmaceutical corporation.
And inside those hallowed halls walked power itself.
Sons of ministers and governors strode through corridors like they owned them—because in many ways, they did. Daughters of oil magnates and media tycoons moved in packs, their designer bags worth more than my mother's annual salary. Their shoes shone with fresh polish. Their watches glimmered with understated luxury—the kind that whispered rather than shouted. And their laughter was sharp with the particular arrogance that comes from never once worrying about tomorrow.
And there was Lucas—wearing a faded jacket that had seen three winters, shoes scuffed at the toes from being worn too long, a secondhand backpack that sagged with patched seams and fraying straps. An intruder among lions. A sparrow in an eagle's nest.
The only reason he'd stepped inside those gates was because of one word: scholarship.
His mother had cried when the acceptance letter came. Not the quiet tears of sadness he'd seen so many times before, but heaving, gasping sobs of relief and joy. She had clutched that letter to her chest as if it were a golden tablet handed down from the heavens, as if it could shield them both from the crushing weight of their circumstances.
"This is it, Lucas," she had whispered, tears shining in her tired eyes, her rough hands—hands that had scrubbed floors and washed dishes for years—trembling as they held his face. "This is your chance. Don't waste it. Show them you can be more than what the world expects. Show them you belong."
He had promised her he would.
And for a while, he believed he could.
But brilliance, he was learning, wasn't always enough. Not when brilliance came without connections. Not when excellence wore the wrong clothes.
Now, just days before the critical winter examinations, Lucas sat in his dorm room with his head bowed over a textbook, the words blurring into nothing. His eyes burned from lack of sleep. His neck ached from the same hunched position he'd held for hours.
The room was quiet save for the faint hum of the old radiator—one of the few that still worked in the scholarship wing—and the distant sounds of laughter echoing from the common hall where the other students gathered. The ones who didn't need to study every waking moment. The ones whose futures were already secure.
Lucas didn't just need to pass his exams. He needed to be one of the top performers in the entire school. The scholarship had conditions—brutal, unforgiving conditions. Fall below the top ten percent, and he was out. No second chances. No appeals. Just a one-way ticket back to the life his mother had sacrificed everything to help him escape.
The pressure sat on his chest like a physical weight.
He glanced at the clock. 3:47 PM.
He had thirteen more minutes before he needed to leave for work.
Thirteen minutes to try and absorb concepts that his classmates learned from private tutors years ago. Thirteen minutes before he had to close the books and step back into the other half of his double life.
At exactly 4:00 PM, Lucas closed his textbook with a hollow thud, packed his bag, and left the dorm.
The bus ride to the busiest district in the city took forty minutes. Lucas spent it with his forehead pressed against the cool glass window, watching the city transform. The clean, tree-lined streets near campus gave way to tighter blocks, brighter lights, louder sounds.
By the time he reached his stop, the evening crowd had already begun to gather. Rows and rows of neon lights flickered to life—bars, clubs, restaurants, each one bleeding color into the darkening streets. Music pulsed from open doors. The smell of grilled meat and cigarette smoke hung thick in the air.
Lucas worked at The Velvet Rose, a high-end bar that catered to businessmen with expense accounts and young professionals pretending they'd already made it. The pay was decent—better than most places would offer—but the work was exhausting, and the hours stretched late into the night.
He was also, technically, too young to work there.
The establishment required employees to be eighteen or above. Lucas was seventeen. But his fake ID had been good enough, and his desperation had been convincing enough, and the manager hadn't asked too many questions. What was one year, really? Just a number. Just another rule that didn't seem to matter when survival was on the line.
Lucas slipped through the back entrance and changed into his uniform—a crisp white shirt, black vest, black slacks. The clothes transformed him, at least on the surface. Made him look like he belonged in this world of clinking glasses and easy money.
By the time he took his shift, the bar was already packed.
The stage lights were low and warm, casting everything in shades of amber and gold. Conversations hummed beneath the soft jazz music that drifted through the speakers. Laughter erupted from corner booths. Ice clinked in expensive whiskey.
And there, on the small stage near the back, a woman sat with a guitar cradled in her lap.
Anna.
Her fingers moved across the strings with practiced ease, coaxing out a melody that was both melancholy and beautiful. Her dark hair fell over one shoulder. Her eyes were closed, lost in the music. She looked like something out of a dream—untouchable, perfect.
Lucas's girlfriend.
Or… was she?
Because there she was, setting down her guitar as the song ended. There she was, stepping off the stage with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. And there she was, walking straight into the arms of Marcus Zhou—the owner's son, Lucas's so-called best friend—and kissing him.
Not a quick kiss. Not a friendly peck.
A real kiss. Deep and hungry and shameless.
Marcus's hands roamed over her waist, sliding lower, groping her with the casual ownership of someone who'd done this before. Anna didn't pull away. She leaned into it, her fingers curling into his expensive shirt.
They hadn't seen him yet. Lucas had just stepped out of the changing room, still adjusting his vest, still caught in the vulnerable space between identities. He stood frozen in the doorway, watching the woman he loved betray him in real time.
His breath came shallow and shaking.
Everything inside him went cold, then hot, then numb.
Anna. His Anna. The girl he'd worked double shifts to buy gifts for. The girl he'd walked home in the rain. The girl who'd told him—just last week—that she loved him.
And Marcus. His best friend. The only person at Ivy League who'd bothered to talk to him when he first arrived. The guy who'd lent him money for textbooks. Who'd invited him to study groups. Who'd made him feel, for the first time in his life, like maybe he did belong.
Lucas let out a shaking breath, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
"Anna."
His voice came out hoarse. Broken.
She turned slowly, her expression shifting from surprise to something far worse—disgust. Not shame. Not guilt. Just cold, casual disgust, as if he were an insect that had wandered into her line of sight.
She didn't even stop touching Marcus.
"Anna, why would you do something like this to me?" Lucas's voice cracked. "After everything I've done for you?"
Anna's lip curled. She exchanged a glance with Marcus—a glance that said everything. A glance that made Lucas feel smaller than he'd ever felt in his life.
Then she leaned back in and kissed Marcus again. Deliberately. Slowly. Making sure Lucas saw every second of it.
Marcus returned the kiss with enthusiasm, one hand still gripping Anna's hip, the other rising to cup the back of her neck. If Lucas were telling this story in the future, he would swear—only half-joking—that they would have had sex right there in front of him if given the chance.
Finally, Marcus pulled back just enough to look at Lucas. His expression was almost bored.
"Guard," he called out, loud enough for the entire bar to hear. His voice dripped with lazy contempt.
Two security guards appeared almost instantly.
Marcus pointed directly at Lucas, his finger as casual as if he were selecting a drink from a menu.
"Teach our friend Lucas here a lesson," he said, his smile sharp and cruel. "About what happens when I take something. When I eat, I finish the meal."
The guards moved forward.
And Lucas realized, with sinking clarity, that no amount of hard work would save him now.
Not here.
Not tonight.