Cold concrete. That's the first thing I feel. Then the pounding in my skull. Then the ropes.
Great. Perfect. Love this.
I open my eyes. The room is some shitty back office somewhere. Yellow water stains on the ceiling, buzzing light, stale cigarette smell baked into the walls. My wrists are tied behind the chair. Ankles too. My head feels like someone took a bat to it.
Deep breath
Okay. I'm alive. That's something.
The door swings open. Two goons walk in, same guys from the hotel. And behind them, stumbling like a newborn deer, is Donald.
He looks like hell. Shirt half untucked, face flushed, eyes glassy. He's still drunk, but not blackout drunk. The dangerous kind. Angry, sloppy, unpredictable.
"Well look who's awake," he slurs.
My throat is dry. "Yeah. Real warm welcome."
One of the goons cracks me across the jaw. My ears ring. Donald waves him off, swaying a little.
"Let him talk," he mutters. "Wanna hear what kinda crap he's gonna spit."
I spit blood onto the floor. "You lost. That's all."
Donald laughs, a wet, ugly sound. "Nobody beats me like that. Nobody. Not without cheating."
He paces. Or tries to. It's more like a slow wobble in a circle. He points the gun at me, hand shaking.
"You're gonna tell me how you did it," he says. "Every trick. Every scam. Every little-"
He stops. Blinks. His eyes sharpen just a bit. The alcohol haze thins.
Oh no. He's sobering up.
Drunk Donald is dangerous.
Sober Donald is worse.
I gotta stall. I don't have my notebook. No pen. No way to write anything. No way to use my power. I'm stuck unless I can buy time.
"Donald," I say, steadying my voice, "you're making a mistake."
He snorts. "Yeah? How's that?"
"If you kill me, you'll never know how I beat you."
That gets him. His eyes narrow. The ego wakes up. The real Donald starts crawling back into the driver's seat.
I keep going. "You'll never trust another game. Every time someone calls your bet, you'll wonder if they're doing what you think I did. You'll lose your edge. You'll lose everything."
He stops pacing. He's breathing heavier now, but not from anger. From thinking.
Good. Keep going.
"Let me show you," I say. "One game. Just you and me. No money. No stakes. Just proof."
The room goes dead quiet. The goons look at him. He looks at me. His eyes are clearer now. Still drunk, but the ego is awake, hungry, offended.
He licks his lips. "One game, huh?"
"Yeah," I say. "You pick it."
He stares at me for a long moment. Then he smirks, that same smug little curl he had at the table.
"Untie him."
The goons move in.
As the ropes loosen around my wrists, one thought hits me hard:
Im not out of the woods yet.
I just bought myself a few more minutes to figure out how the hell I'm gonna survive this.