Donald doesn't deal right away. He just sits there, staring at me across the table like he's trying to peel back my skin with his eyes. The goons stand behind him, silent, waiting for a signal. The room feels colder than before. Or maybe that's just me.
My ribs ache every time I breathe. My head feels thick. My hands won't stop shaking under the table. I press my palms against my knees to steady them.
Donald finally picks up the deck. He doesn't shuffle. He just holds it. Turning it over in his hands. Feeling the weight of it. Like he's deciding what kind of game this is going to be.
"You know," he says, voice low, "I been thinking."
That's never good.
He taps the deck against the table. Slow. Measured. "You're too calm."
I don't answer. Calm isn't the word I'd use. I'm hanging on by threads.
He leans forward. "Guys like you don't get calm. Not in rooms like this."
He's not wrong. The old me would've been shaking so hard the chair would rattle. The old me would've begged. The old me would've folded before the cards even hit the table.
I'm not that guy anymore. But I'm not far from him either.
Donald watches my face. "So what changed?"
I keep my breathing even. "Maybe I got tired of losing."
He snorts. "Nobody gets tired of losing. They get used to it."
He says it like a man who's seen a lot of losers. Like a man who made a lot of them.
He finally shuffles. Slow. Clean. Perfect bridge. The sound snaps through the room like a whip. He deals two cards to each of us.
I flip mine. Six and Jack. Not good. Not bad. Doesn't matter.
Donald doesn't look at his cards. He just watches me.
"You know what pisses me off?" he asks.
I stay quiet.
"You didn't flinch." He taps the table. "Not once. Not when I hit you. Not when I pulled the gun. Not when you called me twice with trash hands."
He leans in. His eyes are sharp now. Sober. Dangerous. "You're hiding something."
My throat tightens. Not from fear. From the pressure of holding everything in. The pain. The panic. The exhaustion. The fact that I'm one wrong breath away from breaking.
I swallow it down.
He flips the flop. Eight. King. Two.
He doesn't look at the cards. He's still watching me.
"You know what I think?" he says. "I think you're scared out of your mind. But you're trying real hard not to show it."
He's right. He's dead right. And hearing it out loud hits harder than the pistol did.
I push a small bet forward. My hand shakes. Just a little. I hope he didn't see it.
He did.
His eyes light up. "There it is."
He raises. Not big. Just enough to press on the bruise.
I call. Because folding now would be the end of me.
The turn comes. Another King.
Donald smiles. Not wide. Not smug. Just a small curl at the corner of his mouth. The kind of smile a man gets when he smells blood.
"You ever drown?" he asks.
My chest tightens. "No."
"I have." He taps the table with one finger. "Feels a lot like this."
He bets again. Bigger. Harder. He's not playing the cards. He's playing me. He's pushing. Testing. Seeing how far I'll bend before I snap.
I look at my cards. Worthless. I look at him. Worse.
I call anyway.
The river hits the table. A Four.
Donald sits back. Relaxed. Comfortable. Like he already knows how this ends.
He pushes a heavy stack forward. "Your move."
My vision blurs for a second. My head throbs. My ribs burn. My hands shake. I can feel the panic clawing up my throat, the same panic I used to feel when I was losing everything and couldn't stop it.
I grip the cards tighter.
I can't breathe.
Donald watches me. "There he is," he whispers. "The real you."
My heart pounds so hard it hurts. My fingers tremble. My chest feels tight. The room feels too small. Too loud. Too bright.
I can't think.
I can't breathe.
I can't—
I push my chips forward.
"I call."
My voice cracks.
Donald's smile fades. Just a little. He flips his cards.
Nine and Three.
Nothing.
He stares at the table like it betrayed him. His jaw tightens. His eyes narrow. His fingers twitch toward the gun.
I don't move. I don't breathe. I don't feel anything except the pounding in my skull and the shaking in my hands.
He stands up slowly. Too slowly.
"One more," he says.
His voice is flat. Cold.
The goons shift behind him.