Work Text:
“If the universe wants me dead, it can start by paying me in cash,” Jessica mutters under her breath as she slams the door of the Lexus, the thud vibrating in her teeth.
She is vibrating for other reasons; her skin feels too tight for her body, a buzzing anxiety that tastes like copper and old pennies. She stands before the house: 44 4th Street. Four bedrooms. A numerical massacre. To a woman of Jessica’s convictions, the number four isn't just a digit; it is a death sentence, a phonetic echo of the grave. The air around the property feels stagnant, heavy as a wet wool blanket. She marches inside, her heels clicking like gunfire on the hardwood, her chest heaving with a shallow, frantic heat.
The closing is a blur of ink and sterile breath. When the agent hands over the commission cheque, Jessica’s eyes lock onto the sequence: 4444.
The sight triggers a visceral recoil. Her stomach flips, a sudden surge of bile hitting the back of her throat. It is an omen of total collapse. Without a word, she grips the paper. She doesn't just tear it; she shreds it, the crisp paper slicing into her thumb, drawing a bead of hot, metallic blood. She shreds the check into confetti, her breath coming in jagged, ragged gasps, refusing to let the curse enter her bank account.