Sloane
I shouldn’t have been enjoying this whole game as much as I was, but I was.
Like, a lot.
I was curled up on the window seat in my bedroom, one leg tucked under me, laptop open, a fresh latte in one hand and my phone in the other. It was early afternoon, but I’d already checked the betting forums, two Discord threads, and a burner Reddit account three times.
Moretti’s odds were still dropping.
Not enough to raise red flags, just enough to make people start side-eyeing him. It was exactly the kind of subtle psychological warfare I was good at. Doubt was leverage. Rumors were currency, and I had just made a withdrawal.
My phone buzzed.
Ghost: Moretti’s cousin just clapped back on a fight blog. Says he’s ‘100%’ and rumors are ‘desperate noise.’ We still pushing?
Me: Nope. Let it hang. The cousin’s reaction makes it look more real. Defensiveness breeds suspicion.
Ghost: Remind me never to piss you off.
Me: You’d have to matter first.
I dropped the phone into my lap, smiling as I took another sip of my coffee.
I’d never been this invested in a fight in my life. I used to think underground betting was just testosterone and broken noses, but this? This was strategy, misdirection. It was like a high-stakes social game, and I was playing it better than any of the sweaty men in the ring.
And the best part?
The payout would be clean.
If I bet on Moretti now, when the odds were tilted against him, and he still won? I’d make bank.
All I needed to do was time it right.
I refreshed the page one more time, watching the numbers like a stockbroker with better makeup and absolutely no regard for federal gambling laws.
Odds: –120.
Perfect.
I flipped over to the private betting site, checked the crypto wallet Ghost helped me set up, and dropped a fat bet on Moretti to win. Not my whole allowance—I was reckless, not stupid—but enough to make the payout entirely worth it.
Then I sat back, smug as hell, and let the thrill of it wash over me.
I couldn’t help it—I opened another tab and typed his name into the browser: Nikolai Morozov.
I scrolled through the same threads, the same grainy fight footage, and I swore I could’ve drawn his face from memory at that point. The cut of his jaw. The ink on his neck. The fire in his eyes when he stepped into the ring.
I knew I should have stayed away. I knew men like him chewed up girls like me and spit them out in a trail of red lipstick and regret, but I kept looking anyway.
There was just something about him that made me want to cross every line.
Something told me he’d love it if I did.
