Peter washed his face one last time before making his way to the hall. His head still throbbed, the weight of everything—the game, the system, the cheat—pressing down on him. The air in the hall was different now. Where once the room had been packed with nervous, hopeful applicants, now only a select few remained. The remaining students were scattered across the vast space, far fewer than before. Maybe a 50? Maybe less. Peter didn’t bother counting. He slipped into his seat, the same one from before, a few rows toward the back. His body moved on autopilot as he pulled out the chair’s small, foldable slate table and rested his head against it. The ache behind his eyes was dull but constant. It wasn’t just exhaustion. It was guilt. But unfortunately, his moment of rest didn’t last long. “Oh my, my— you actually did it. You beat a grandmaster at chess.” Peter sighed before even looking up. Ace. Of course. And this time, Chloe was with him. Peter sat up, rubbi

Peter stepped through the massive glass doors of Celestia Royale Medical Center, and the world instantly changed.The air inside was crisp, clean, and carried a faint scent of jasmine and sterilized linen. The ceiling stretched impossibly high, adorned with intricate chandeliers that cast golden light across the vast marble floor. The walls were a pristine white, accented with sleek gold trimmings that screamed wealth and exclusivity.A grand reception desk sat at the center of the lobby, crafted from polished onyx and manned by staff dressed in immaculate white uniforms, their expressions calm and professional. Behind them, a massive digital board displayed real-time medical updates, schedules, and donation acknowledgments from some of the wealthiest benefactors in the world.To the left, an open lounge area extended into a five-star café, where patients and visitors alike sipped on imported teas and coffee worth more than Peter’s rent. A pianist played a soft, melancholic tune fr

Peter woke to a pounding headache and the metallic scent of the room.His head throbbed as if someone had taken a hammer to it, and his stomach churned with nausea. The air was thick, stale, carrying the faint scent of sweat and cigar smoke. He blinked against the dim lighting, his vision swimming before gradually settling into focus.Cold.Not just the temperature of the room, but the sensation creeping over his skin. A wrongness that made every nerve in his body snap to attention.He was seated on a metal chair in what looked like a backroom—concrete walls, a single hanging lightbulb swaying faintly overhead. His hands were free, but that didn’t bring him any comfort.Something was off.A deep voice cut through the silence.“Finally, you’re awake.”Peter’s body tensed.A man sat across from him, behind a wooden desk. He wasn’t bulky or physically imposing, but there was something about him that radiated power. A quiet, unwavering confidence. He had the air of someone who ne

They both agreed on a game of Baccarat, A game of prestige, chance, and gut instincts. One of the oldest and most respected gambling games in the world, played in the grandest casinos by the wealthiest elites. Yet, beneath all its grandeur, the rules were simple. Two hands were played—the Player and the Banker. The goal was straightforward: get as close to nine as possible. Numbered cards 2 through 9 carried their face value, while 10s, Jacks, Queens, and Kings were worth zero. Aces were one. If a hand’s total exceeded nine, only the last digit counted. For example, a hand with a 7 and an 8—which would normally be 15—was actually worth 5. There were no complicated strategies, no deep calculations like in blackjack or poker. It was a game of pure probability, a gamble in its truest form. And Peter? Peter had never played it before. “How much does the pizza boy even have to gamble?” Viktor sneered, lounging in his chair like a king on his throne. Peter didn’t flinch.

Peter remained at the restroom of the gambling den till the late hours of the day. He sat on the floor, frozen in despair. And when he finally took his leave, he left his bike at the gambling den and walked home. His legs felt like lead, each step heavier than the last. He wasn’t just exhausted—he was hollow.The night air was thick with humidity, clinging to his skin like a damp sheet. Streetlights flickered overhead, casting long, distorted shadows on the cracked pavement. The city still buzzed around him—cars honking, people laughing, the faint hum of distant music—but it all felt muted, like he was trapped in a vacuum, completely detached from the world around him.He had lost.Not just at the gambling table, but in every possible way.Naomi had humiliated him, had ripped him apart from the inside out, and the worst part?She wasn’t wrong.Peter reached the trailer park, stepping over puddles of dirty rainwater as he approached the small, rusted metal box he called home. It