10- FIRST STRIKE

Stage 1

Kale raised his golf club and took position. His legs and arms moved in perfect coordination. He checked the ball in front of him. Without hesitation, he carefully lifted the club and struck the ball with a precise, parabolic motion, just half a centimeter into its center of mass. The ball launched forward with a click-clack rhythm.

There were exactly five holes. Their points matched their numbers: hole 1 was worth 1 point, and so on.

"There!" Kale said, casually crossing his arms with the club still in hand. "Let's see." His tone made it clear—he was confident in the result. The ball rolled steadily across the surface. My blood rushed faster. I looked at the two figures on the stage with a strange sense of detachment. Each hole was spaced about a meter apart. The ball finally clinked into hole number 5.

Everyone held their breath. The room fell into silence. A few shuffles stirred among the seats. I recorded the score into the system. I could feel Ayaz's metallic eyes on me. Sometimes they were a sign of disaster, sometimes of miracles. It felt like the fog in the room was merging with me, second by second—even if I hadn't looked directly at him. I backed out of the bottom-shelf tablet screen and re-entered the interface. My fingers were sweating. The dampness left traces on the screen, like someone familiar with its texture.

The audience erupted with excitement.

It was Ayaz's turn.

Something strong held him back from making eye contact with Kale—or even speaking to him. It felt like he was moving with the sole desire to show the outcome. And in that, he was right.

All or nothing.

There is either a result, or there isn't.

In our time, they called this materialism.

He swung the club quickly and stepped back, watching the ball roll along the ground. Kale shot him a piercing stare. Ayaz glanced at me from the corner of his eye. I didn't know where to look. Ayaz had made a straight shot. Clean and calm. Number 3.

I logged the score again.

Kale: 5Ayaz: 3

The slogan solidified in my mind, filled with numbers. The first stage—the one to determine fate—was already over. It had all been that simple.

They were both professionals, clearly following a plan. Kale looked ahead with the cool ease that came from scoring high. It was as if it were his duty to entertain everyone, to stir whispers in the crowd. But he was too proud to ever admit it was his duty. His gaze was cloaked in a sharp chill. The eyes under his brow had darkened. The parts of his face touched by his hair were lost in shadow, giving him a sinister appearance that didn't conflict with his nature—a shadow that disturbed you in your sleep.

Ayaz, by contrast, was calm. Almost tender, as if he believed number 3 was his destined score. His posture—one that sometimes screamed kindness in specific moments or to certain people—was completed as he slid his hands into his pockets. His eyes dropped briefly to the floor and found the hole marked 3. He stared at it for a moment. Then, frowning, he turned to me."I want to proceed to the second stage."

Kale stared him down. With a deep, impatient breath, he muttered, "Let it begin."

The second stage would truly determine the game's fate. Here, silence could collapse into ruin. A ruin that could shatter the dice of fortune.

I placed my hand on the podium again, forcing myself to maintain composure. A faint smile—suggesting some past enjoyment—briefly flickered across my face, and as soon as it did, I scolded myself for it. Zenan's stories passed through my mind one by one, like pages turning in a worn-out notebook. The scene before me only worsened the trauma and sense of alienation I felt.

"I'd like to repeat the rules—"My words were cut off by Kale's sharp, mocking voice, now laced with a heavy dose of impatience.

"We both know the rules well enough. Let's just play."