Phei's fingers tightened in Melissa's hair.
The game wasn't over.
It was just getting interesting.
Right now—or maybe hours ago, time was weird—Brett and his crew would have gathered somewhere. Danton's private gym, probably. The kind of place that smelled like money trying too hard and teenage testosterone marinating in fear.
They'd be circling him like hyenas around a wounded lion, demanding answers. Why had their champion thrown the fight? Why had he let the charity case—the human doormat, the kid who flinched at shadows—win?
And Brett would fold. Of course he would. Brett was built like a tank but wired like wet tissue paper. He'd spill everything: the messages, the threats, the video preview that proved Phei wasn't bluffing.
Good.
That's exactly what Phei wanted.
