Phei read it with widening eyes again, something cold and viciously satisfied unfurling in his chest like smoke from a fresh kill.
The system had noticed. Had approved.
It was fucking right, wasn't it? He knew the fight hadn't been fair—he'd used Brett's secrets, his leverage, the simple fact that Brett had been caught with his pants down (metaphorically, and probably literally at some point). He'd fought dirty because clean fighting got you killed in Paradise.
Life isn't fair.
Harold's words. Delivered countless times over the years with that cold, superior smile—the same one he wore while reminding Phei how lucky he was to even breathe Maxton air. Always as justification for whatever new cruelty he was inflicting.
Phei had absorbed them like poison, let them settle into his bones alongside all the other lessons in powerlessness.
