Razor's Edge

The atmosphere in Benny's garage had shifted. The earlier casual jeering and side conversations had mostly died down, replaced by a focused, almost predatory silence as Jake Miller leaned into his break shot. The ten dollars sitting on the rail next to the cue ball wasn't just money anymore; it felt like Kaizer's entire future in this timeline, condensed into a single, flimsy bill. Lose this, and he was out. No tournament entry, no McDermott cue, just the mocking laughter of Spike and Jake echoing in his ears as he trudged home empty-handed.

Kaizer forced himself to breathe slowly, evenly, mimicking the calming techniques he'd honed over decades facing down pressure far exceeding this dimly lit garage game. He leaned against the concrete wall, trying to project an image of cool indifference, but inside, his nerves felt frayed, stretched taut like overtightened violin strings. Fifteen dollars total in his pocket – five safe, ten on the line. It was pathetic. Sixty-three years of experience, reduced to sweating a ten-dollar game against a teenager. The irony wasn't lost on him, but it wasn't funny either.

CRACK! Jake's break was solid again, maybe lacking the explosive power of the previous one, but controlled. The balls scattered, but none dropped this time. The cue ball rolled towards the side rail, leaving a clear, if slightly long, opening shot on the one-ball. Not a terrible leave, but not commanding either.

Jake surveyed the table, chalking his cue methodically. He seemed less overtly cocky now, perhaps sensing Kaizer's desperation or maybe just settling into the rhythm of the match. He shot the one-ball into the corner pocket cleanly, the cue ball drifting naturally towards the center, leaving decent shape on the two.

He proceeded with quiet efficiency, pocketing the two, then the three. His form was consistent, his pre-shot routine unchanging. He wasn't rushing, wasn't forcing things. He played the percentages, focusing on making the immediate ball while leaving acceptable, if not always perfect, position for the next. It was smart, solid pool. Compared to Spike's erratic aggression, Jake was a genuine threat.

Kaizer watched, analyzing every shot, every decision. Jake played the four, but his position wasn't ideal. The cue ball ended up slightly further down-table than he likely intended, leaving a tougher angle on the five, which sat near the foot rail. It required either a delicate cut with lots of table travel for the six, or playing safe.

Jake paused, considering the layout. The aggressive play was risky. Playing safe conceded the initiative back to Kaizer, who hadn't had a shot yet this game. After a moment's deliberation, Jake opted for caution. He played a gentle safety, nudging the five-ball slightly while rolling the cue ball behind the cluster of the seven and eight near the center of the table, leaving Kaizer hooked.

"Your shot," Jake said, stepping back with a neutral expression. It was a good safety. Solid, professional. It left Kaizer no direct line to the five-ball.

Kaizer pushed off the wall, approaching the table. The onlookers murmured softly. This was the first real test for him this game. He needed to escape the hook and ideally leave Jake in trouble, or take a risk and try an offensive escape. A simple one-rail kick, bumping the five and leaving the cue ball safe, was the standard play.

But Kaizer saw more. He felt the familiar pull of the impossible shot, the whisper of the ghost stroke. He walked around the table, studying the angles, the cluster of balls. He could try a two-rail kick, aiming the cue ball off the side rail, then the head rail, to contact the five. Difficult, but makeable. Or… there was something else. Something riskier, flashier, potentially game-changing if it worked.

He could attempt a jump shot.

Even in his prime, jump shots were risky, especially on unfamiliar tables with subpar equipment. A house cue wasn't designed for jumping – it lacked the stiff shaft and specialized tip. A miscue could send the cue ball flying off the table, resulting in an automatic loss of game (ball in hand for Jake, plus the nine). But if he executed it perfectly… he could hop the cue ball cleanly over the obstructing seven-eight cluster and pocket the five directly.

He glanced at the warped cue in his hand. He glanced at the ten dollars on the rail. He glanced at Jake's impassive face. Playing safe felt like admitting defeat, like accepting the limitations of his situation. He hadn't come back thirty years just to play safe.

He made the decision in an instant. He gripped the cue further back, elevating the butt end sharply, creating the steep angle needed for the jump. His bridge hand formed a stable, elevated platform. This was pure muscle memory fused with cold calculation.

The onlookers leaned forward, recognizing the setup for the jump shot. Even Jake looked surprised, raising an eyebrow slightly. Nobody expected this, especially not with a house cue, especially not with his last ten dollars on the line.

Kaizer focused, blocking out everything else. He aimed at the base of the cue ball, a precise spot required to make it hop without scooping. He took a short, sharp, stabbing stroke.

POP!

The sound was distinct from a normal shot. The cue ball leaped off the felt, sailing cleanly over the blocking seven and eight balls. It landed softly just before the five-ball, hitting it almost dead center.

Clack. Thump.

The five-ball shot straight into the corner pocket. The cue ball, its forward momentum spent by the jump, stopped almost immediately, leaving Kaizer perfect shape on the six.

A collective gasp went through the garage. Spike's jaw dropped. Tank actually took a step closer to the table, eyes wide with disbelief. Jake Miller's carefully constructed composure cracked, his eyes betraying sheer astonishment. Jumping a ball with a house cue and pocketing the object ball? It was extraordinary.

Kaizer felt a surge of pure adrenaline, the sweet satisfaction of a perfectly executed, high-risk maneuver. He allowed himself a fleeting internal smile before schooling his features back into a neutral mask. He calmly walked around the table to address the six-ball.

The jump shot had done more than just get him out of the safety; it had shattered Jake's composure and seized the psychological momentum of the game. Kaizer could feel the shift in the garage's energy. The respect, mixed with fear, was palpable.

He ran the remaining balls – six, seven, eight – with effortless precision, the warped cue now feeling like an extension of his will. He didn't need fancy shots anymore; the jump shot had made his statement. He played simple, perfect position, ending with the cue ball just below the nine for an easy finish.

He lined up the nine, glancing briefly at Jake, whose face was a mask of barely controlled frustration. Kaizer tapped the nine-ball gently into the pocket. Thump.

Game over. He'd won his ten dollars back. He was back to twenty-five. The entry fee. Safe.

He collected the ten dollars from the rail, adding it to the fifteen in his pocket. He looked directly at Jake. "Good game," he said, his voice quiet but firm.

Jake stared at the table for a long moment, then finally met Kaizer's gaze. The surprise had faded, replaced by a grudging, almost bewildered respect. "That jump shot… " Jake shook his head slowly. "Never seen anything like it. Especially not with… that." He gestured towards the warped house cue Kaizer held.

"Just playing the angles," Kaizer replied noncommittally, the same phrase he'd used before.

"Yeah, well," Jake managed a tight smile. "Looks like the angles are on your side tonight. One more? Double or nothing again? Twenty bucks?" The question was almost reflexive, the gambler's instinct to chase losses, but there was less heat in it now, more genuine curiosity about Kaizer's limits.

This was the moment of truth. Again. He had the entry fee. Twenty-five dollars, secured through a nerve-wracking comeback capped by an improbable shot. He could walk away now. Stick to the plan. Go home, sign up for the tournament tomorrow, figure out the cue situation later. It was the smart play. The right play.

He looked at the twenty-five dollars in his hand. He thought of the McDermott cue. PoolShark88's message. One hundred dollars. He was still seventy-five dollars short. Winning another twenty would get him closer. Almost halfway there. And he had the momentum now. Jake was rattled.

The pull was strong. The lure of the felt, the thrill of the win, the tantalizing proximity of the better cue. He could almost feel the smooth balance of the McDermott in his hands, imagine the crisp hit, the effortless control.

He met Jake's expectant gaze. The garage waited in silence. His promise to himself, already broken once tonight, felt paper-thin, ready to tear completely.

He opened his mouth, the decision hanging precariously on the razor's edge…

"Hold up."

A new voice, deeper and rougher than the others, cut through the tension from the garage entrance. Everyone turned. Standing there, silhouetted against the streetlight outside, was a figure Kaizer hadn't seen before. Older than the rest, maybe early twenties, stocky build, wearing a worn leather jacket despite the mild evening. He had an air of quiet menace, a look in his eyes that suggested he wasn't here for friendly games.

The newcomer's gaze swept over the scene – the pool table, the clustered teenagers, Jake holding his cue, Kaizer clutching his winnings. His eyes finally settled on Kaizer.

"Heard there was some new talent in town," the stranger said, his voice low and gravelly. He took a slow step into the garage, his boots crunching softly on the debris-strewn concrete. "Looks like the rumors were true." He nodded towards the table. "You Kaizer?"

Kaizer felt a chill despite the stuffy garage air. This wasn't just another teenage rival. This felt different. Dangerous.

"Who's asking?" Kaizer replied, instinctively shifting into a more guarded stance.

The stranger offered a humorless smile. "Name's Vince," he said, stepping further into the light. Kaizer could see a faded dragon tattoo peeking out from under his jacket sleeve. "And I don't play for ten bucks a game." Vince's eyes flickered towards the money still visible in Kaizer's hand. "I hear you're good. Let's see how good. Fifty bucks a game. Right now."