The first round of Monopoly started predictably enough, which somehow made it worse. Everyone settled into that comfortable rhythm of taking turns rolling dice, buying properties with barely concealed greed, and exchanging those special kinds of looks—the ones that promised future betrayal, sabotage, and the eventual destruction of all relationships in pursuit of fake paper money.
The coffee table had become our battlefield, littered with the corpse of our fourth pizza box and the scattered remains of several strategy discussions that had devolved into arguments about the color of the dice.
"Your turn, Satori," Juan mumbled without looking up from his position, his body language screaming that he'd rather be literally anywhere else. "Try not to bankrupt us within the first hour, please. I'm already regretting agreeing to be on your team."
