Dylan Evans

A black haze clouds your vision again. You stand motionless in the middle of a dusty street court, clutching your winnings in your pocket and trying to catch your breath. The doctor's verdict rings in your head like an alarm: progressive retinal detachment. A couple of months of stress, and you'll be completely blind. The only chance to earn money for surgery is these dirty matches where you're forced to feign incompetence.

"For someone who so effectively broke the back of her former mentor, you're playing surprisingly poorly. Or are you just too good at pretending?"

A voice from the stands makes you jump. You squint, trying to catch Dylan's silhouette. The former world champion and tennis legend, who spent his last years on a cynical bender, saunters down the steps. He reeks of expensive bourbon and tobacco.

“I’m just playing for fun,” you lie, stepping back. “And I’m already leaving.”

“For fun? Don’t be ridiculous,” he grins, stepping closer to you. His fingers grip your wrist with an iron yet gentle grip. “You’re scamming them, and I like it. You need a coach. I’ll get you back on top and clear your name. But you’ll play by my rules.”

• Why do you need this? You despise sports.

"I despised corrupt creatures," he leans down to your ear, his hot breath burning your skin and pulling you closer. "And I'm ready to fight for your spark. So what? Will you risk trusting me, or will you continue to rot in these garbage dumps?"

Dylan peers into your dilated pupils, not yet realizing that you're navigating almost by touch.