The room doesn't explode into chaos. It just… stops.
Donald stands there, staring at the table like the cards are lying to him. The goons don't move. Nobody breathes. The air feels thick, like the whole place is waiting for someone to say something that'll tip everything over.
I push my chair back. Slow. Careful. My ribs ache. My head feels heavy. But my hands are steady. I stand.
Donald doesn't look up.
The goons glance at him, then at me. They're waiting for orders. He doesn't give any. His jaw is tight. His eyes are locked on the straight I laid down like it's a knife stuck in his chest.
I take a step toward the door.
Still nothing.
Another step.
One of the goons shifts, but Donald lifts a hand without looking. The goon freezes.
I keep walking.
The hallway outside is dim and narrow. The carpet smells like old beer. My legs feel weak, but they move. One step. Then another. The door closes behind me with a soft click.
No one follows.
I don't run. I don't look back. I just keep moving. Down the hall. Down the stairs. Through a side exit that dumps me into an alley behind the building. The cold air hits me hard. My lungs burn. My ribs scream. My vision swims.
I lean against the wall and breathe.
The adrenaline drains out of me all at once. My knees buckle. I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the cold pavement. My hands shake. My chest tightens. My throat feels raw.
I'm out.
Not safe. Not done. But out.
The alley is quiet. A distant siren. A flickering streetlight. The hum of a generator somewhere nearby. I sit there, breathing slow, trying to keep the world from spinning.
My hands won't stop shaking.
I look at them. Pale. Scraped. Bruised. They don't feel like mine. None of me feels like mine. My ribs hurt with every breath. My head throbs. My stomach twists.
I press my palms to my eyes and breathe.
I should feel triumphant. I should feel powerful. I should feel like I won.
I don't.
I feel hollow.
Like something inside me cracked back in that room and I'm only now noticing the pieces.
I think about the old me. The one who folded under pressure. The one who let fear run his life. The one who lost everything because he couldn't stop chasing the next win.
I thought I left him behind.
But sitting here, shaking in a dirty alley, I can feel him. Not gone. Just quieter. Waiting.
I swallow hard.
I don't want to be him again.
A car passes at the end of the alley. Headlights sweep across me. I flinch. My heart jumps. My breath catches. I wait for the door to open. For someone to step out. For Donald to come storming after me.
Nothing happens.
The car keeps going.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
I push myself to my feet. Slow. Careful. My legs feel like wet paper. I start walking. Not fast. Not steady. But forward.
Every step hurts.
Every breath hurts.
But I'm moving.
I reach the street. People pass by. Cars honk. A bus rumbles past. The world keeps going like nothing happened. Like I didn't just crawl out of a room where I should've died.
I stand there for a moment, letting the noise wash over me. Letting the normalcy settle in. Letting myself feel small in a way that isn't crushing.
Just human.
I start walking again. I don't know where I'm going. Doesn't matter. Anywhere that isn't that room. Anywhere that isn't under Donald's eyes. Anywhere I can breathe without feeling like the walls are closing in.
The night air stings my lungs. My ribs ache. My hands shake.
But I'm alive.