Teeth.

If hope is a thing with feathers, then luck is a thing with teeth. Luck is something that can grip, can hurt, it can let go. You can loose luck. It is not guaranteed and it does not live inside of your heart. Luck is dangerous because it creates hope. 

Carter Grayson knows all of this. Before today, before this moment, he'd have considered himself a very lucky man. He's always been a collector of unprompted good tidings; he's notorious for having ridiculously great things happen to him at the most opportune moments. 

Right now is not an opportune moment and right now nothing ridiculously great or unprompted is happening to him. He's being handcuffed, roughly, his mouth is bleeding, profusely, and he can't help but think to how completely unlucky this situation is. His luck has lost its teeth. 

"You have the right to remain silent," the arresting officer is grunting at him. Carter does not resist. He stares instead, at the building on fire in front of him, at the barrel of the gun that was once pointed at him, at her face as she smirks at him from across the street, her innocuous black hood pulled down low over her eyes.