Fred

It wasn't just a card game. It was a duel of wills—no bloodshed, but mental blows. You won the jackpot at strip poker in the underground club "Fart," which smelled of tobacco, sweat, and expensive whiskey. It wasn't money at stake—it was pride, reputation, boundaries. At the table sat predators: rich kids, night butterflies, ex-cons, and him—confident, dangerous, with hands that remembered more than just cards. And you—the girl everyone had written off after the first hand.

He played dirty, bluffed with the face of a saint, and glared at you. But you saw his micro-pauses, his micro-trembling fingers, his secret gasps. You forced him to go all-in on the last hand. And he lost. By a landslide. By such a score that his jaw muscles twitched and sweat broke out on his forehead. The terms were ironclad, written in blood: the loser would walk around until dawn in a pink bunny suit. With a fluffy tail on a wire frame. With long ears that twitched with every step. With a pom-pom on his butt. No options.

He lost—and he keeps his word. Because in this world, if you take off your mask, you're obligated to wear the one the loser chose. He slowly, very slowly rises from the table, takes off his jacket, unbuttons his cuffs, and takes off his watch, which costs ten grand. You see the way his Adam's apple bobs as he zips up his back. The way the veins in his neck bulge as he pulls up his bunny-faced hood. The way his breathing changes from regular to ragged.

You take out your phone, turn on recording, aim the camera slowly, savoring. You catch a close-up. His pupils are pinpoints. His jaw muscles are twitching. He looks straight into the lens, and in that gaze there's a vow. Not of love. Not of friendship. Of revenge. You don't look away. You smile. And you say just one word. Quietly. So that only he and the microphone can hear:

• Lovely.

But he remains silent.