The unknown figure finished reflecting on the previous day's chaos. A sharp pang of regret hit him as he remembered practically chasing away the girls he had invited to the hotel. He considered calling Jasmine, eventually gathering the nerve to try, but after two missed calls went unanswered, he forced himself to stop. She needed time to process. He needed time to figure out his "side" of the story.
But what was his side, exactly? He sighed, realizing his only defense was a pathetic excuse:
"I was tired and I wanted to sleep. I didn't mean to shout at you and your friends like that, but like I said, I was tired."
He rehearsed those words like a mantra until his second call was ignored. He hesitated, the silence of the room allowing a darker memory to resurface—the initials burned into his mind: "I WILL KILL YOU." The words rang in his ears as he mentally cataloged the players from the poker game. He had walked into that room a nobody and walked out a target. His list of suspects was growing:
The Game Master: If the man was even alive, he had every reason to seek revenge. Not only had the unknown figure stolen his fiancée, but he'd also walked away with half a fortune the Game Master surely believed was his.
The Desperate Player: He pictured the Black man with the frantic eyes, shakily betting his life savings from a suitcase. That kind of desperation didn't just disappear; it turned into a hunt probably for the person who won the money.
The New Player: The standoff still made his skin crawl. He tried to bluff himself into believing the gun was just a prop, but the "excitement" of being held at gunpoint wasn't something he wanted to grow accustomed to.
Reflecting on these events wasn't just a trip down memory lane; it was a survival tactic. He needed protection from this mysterious killer.
His first instinct was flight—escape to another country. But how determined was this shadow? If the killer was committed, fleeing was just an expensive way to delay the inevitable.
The second option was a payoff. If asked "your money or your life," he would gladly part with the cash. His funds were high—thanks to "questionable" means he used to generate it since he left a decent job of working as a government official—and a million dollars was usually enough to buy a man's soul, or at least his own safety.
Finally, there was the most reliable path: Leslie. She was his best bet for a safe house or a real investigation. They weren't strangers, and since she had been at the casino during the game, reaching out to her would be simple. She was the only one who could help him find the killer before the killer found him.
To enlist her help, the unknown figure first had to find her. Not knowing which base she was currently stationed at, he was forced to improvise. He recalled they had exchanged numbers during his last visit, so he pulled up his contacts and dialed. He waited, the rhythmic ringing filling the silence, until the call finally connected.
"Hello, James! How are you doing?" Leslie's voice was bright and cheerful. "I hope you didn't spend all your winnings on a bottle already."
The unknown figure winced as he reminisced about the previous night. Her teasing hit a little too close to home; a quick check of his account balance that morning had revealed that he only had a million—plus a few grand in change—left over from his winnings at the casink. It had been a hell of a night, but his habits were becoming an expensive drain on his earnings. Soon enough, he'd be back at the casino, hoping his next win wouldn't bring as much trouble as the last one.
He focused back on the call and replied dryly, "Leslie, you jest. That's a question you should probably be asking yourself."
Leslie let out a short, melodic chuckle. "Nice one. You've got me there. However, I'm guessing you aren't calling just because you miss me—especially after I saw you in... that place yesterday."
She paused, her tone shifting to a playful needle. "Or are you still fuming because you had to split the take? I know that greedy heart of yours won't let you sleep."
The unknown figure reflected on her guesses. She was right on almost every count, but he pushed the distractions aside and replied:
"I had a great night, thank you."
He paused briefly to steady his breathing, his tone shifting to a deadly serious note. "Leslie, where are you? I need your help. I think someone is trying to kill me."
***
A flash of shock crossed Leslie's face. A gritty sense of unease settled in her gut, and she prayed he was merely joking. "You're joking, right?" she asked.
"No."
The bluntness of his reply hit her hard. He wasn't exactly known for his sense of humor, she really wished this was a joke, but she could tell this was different. As her mind raced to piece the situation together, one terrifying thought took hold: *If he was in trouble, so was she*.
Worse yet, she could even be the cause of the trouble her friend was currently in.
"How do you know?" she asked cautiously.
He didn't answer immediately. After a heavy silence, a notification pinged on her phone—a screenshot of a message. To anyone else, they might have reasoned that it was probably a prank message, but they weren't "normal" people, and they didn't have "normal" days. This was a death threat, and they had to treat it as one. Leslie immediately sent him a location and began searching for the nearest safe house.