At the flip of a card, your opponent staggers, a subtle tremor working its way through their hands, disbelief flickering in their eyes. The realization blooms, slow and terrifying, as they clutch their side. The air between you thickens, tinged with the faint, metallic scent of impending dread. They thought this would end differently—finding you sprawled at their feet, gasping your last breath, their plan executed without a hitch. But you were one step ahead, watching every sip, every bite they took, slipping in a carefully calculated dose when they weren’t looking. An hour ago, you laid the groundwork for this very moment, quietly biding your time.
Now, you watch the poison creep through their veins, stealing their strength in soft, deadly waves. Their vision blurs, jaw slackening as they grasp for the knife at their side, fingers sluggish, too weak to tighten around the hilt. They manage to rasp, voice edged with the panic of a predator undone. You smile, almost regretfully, leaning just close enough for them to see the finality in your eyes. They thought they had control, believed they held your life in their hands. But the tables have turned. Their legs buckle as they crumple to the floor, powerless, fading fast. The irony thickens the air, and as they struggle to hold onto the last shreds of consciousness, they see it all too clearly: they were the one outmaneuvered. And now, there’s nothing left but silence, yours to savor.
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