Luck Breaker: Wicked Spies Division
Episode 1 – Rookie's Luck
Cold Open
The city never slept, but at night it whispered.
New York's streets shimmered with dirty rain, neon lights streaking across cracked pavement. Sirens wailed somewhere far away, drowning out the arguments of lovers and the muffled sobs of someone being dragged into a dark alley.
Theo Mercer tightened his grip on the steering wheel of the cruiser. Thirty years old and just out of the academy, he knew he wasn't the poster boy for rookies. He was older than the other wide-eyed recruits, slower than some, stronger than others, but most of all—he was tired. Life had aged him before the badge ever touched his chest.
His partner tonight, Officer Darrell Vega, slouched in the passenger seat, half-asleep. Vega had fifteen years on the force and it showed. His tie was loose, shirt collar open, eyes bloodshot. "First patrol, huh?" Vega muttered without looking. "Here's your first lesson: don't touch anything. You see weird shit, you call it in. You don't play hero."
Theo nodded, though he felt that old defiance in his chest. "Got it."
The radio crackled. "Unit 42, suspicious activity. Old textile warehouse on 158th. Multiple 911s about screaming."
Vega groaned. "Of course. Midnight screams in an abandoned building. Welcome to the force, rookie."
⸻
The Warehouse
They rolled up to the warehouse, its windows shattered, its doors chained but half-open like a crooked smile. Theo's gut twisted. Every cop show he'd ever binged, every lecture from the academy whispered this is a trap.
The stench hit him first—iron, copper, blood. He pushed forward anyway, flashlight beam cutting through the dark.
On the floor lay a body. No, not just a body—what remained of one. A man, stripped and mutilated, symbols carved into his flesh. Around him, candles guttered in a circle, flickering against symbols scrawled on the walls.
Theo froze. Vega swore.
In the center of the circle was something else—an object pulsing with a faint red glow. It looked like a coin, but too large, etched with spiraling patterns that seemed to twist when you weren't looking straight at them.
Theo's breath caught. His instincts screamed don't touch it. Vega barked, "Mercer! Don't!"
But Theo already stepped forward. Some force pulled him in, something stronger than fear or reason. He reached out and his fingertips brushed the surface.
Pain ripped through him like a bullet through the skull. His vision shattered. He dropped to the floor, heart ceasing. His last sight was Vega screaming his name.
Theo Mercer died.
⸻
Resurrection
Darkness wasn't empty. It was alive.
In the void, Theo saw dice rolling, cards shuffling, roulette wheels spinning. He heard coins flipping endlessly, a slot machine lever pulling again and again. Probability, chance, odds—they all collapsed into one point: him.
A voice whispered in his mind, cold and merciless:
[Luck Breaker unlocked. Probability is yours to shatter. Level 1.]
Theo gasped awake, sucking in air. Vega was crouched over him, pale as death. "Jesus Christ, Mercer—I thought you flatlined."
Theo sat up. His body hummed, buzzing with energy that wasn't his own. He glanced at the artifact—it was dark now, lifeless. But inside him, something pulsed.
On the edge of his vision, faint glowing text scrolled like a HUD from a game:
[Level 1. EXP: 0/1000]
Theo blinked hard. When he looked again, it was still there.
"What the hell did you touch?" Vega demanded.
Theo swallowed. "Nothing. Must've been the fumes."
But inside, he knew everything had changed.
⸻
The Wicked Spies Division
Morning came with paperwork and whispers. The warehouse scene was locked down, evidence filed, reports buried. Theo was reassigned before he even got comfortable at his desk.
He wasn't sent to any normal precinct. No—luck, or something darker, dumped him into Wicked Spies Division, the precinct everyone avoided.
The building looked like a mausoleum: cracked bricks, flickering lights, bullet holes in the walls nobody had ever patched. Inside, three detectives and a captain held the place together with liquor and cynicism.
• Detective Marisol Cruz, former lawyer. Stunning, sharp-tongued, her lips curled around a cigarette as if it were a dagger. Rumors said she'd slept with half the judges in Manhattan, and buried evidence for the other half.
• Detective Darrell Vega, his partner, already there, pouring whiskey into his coffee. "Told you, rookie. Welcome to hell."
• Detective Omar Briggs, ex-military, scars across his neck. He never spoke unless necessary, but when he did, it was commands.
And then there was Captain Reynolds, known as Iron Jaw. Half his face was steel plating, an old war injury. He eyed Theo with contempt. "You're older than my last three rookies combined. You wash out, Mercer, I won't bury you. I'll just erase your file."
Theo forced a nod. "Yes, sir."
Reynolds slammed a file onto his desk. "First case. Make it count."
⸻
The Case
The folder contained crime scene photos. A woman in her twenties, strangled, body dumped in the East River. But there were details that screamed not normal. Symbols on her wrists, identical to the warehouse carvings.
Marisol leaned in, eyes narrowing. "Looks like you've been cursed, rookie. Two cases in two nights and already knee-deep in ritualistic shit."
Theo felt the HUD flicker:
[Case Assigned: Homicide – Ritualistic. EXP potential: 200–300.]
His jaw tightened. No one else saw it.