Smoke Over Brick Lane

The fog came in low that night, thick as a lie.

Eli Cross stood outside the betting shop, coat collar turned up.

Lighter clicking but never lighting. A man who didn’t rush fire usually controlled it.

Inside, the city whispered—coins, curses, cheap hopes. Eli stepped in.

The room went quiet, not because he was loud, but because he

wasn’t. He placed a single coin on the table. Odds don’t matter.

Outcomes do. The bookmaker laughed once. Only once. By morning,

the shop belonged to Eli. By evening, so did the street.