Before every meeting, Gordon was thoroughly briefed by his team on the individuals he was about to encounter. Their background, beliefs, family situation, social status, connections, age... Every speech he gave existed in multiple versions; the team would analyze them and select the most suitable one for the specific occasion. Then it would be rehearsed, acted out in front of a mirror, again and again.

  The media was well-greased, favorable articles commissioned, journalists dined at the campaign’s expense. His attire was carefully considered, right down to the choice of tie for each event. Even the tiny lapel pin had to send a message. Where he would appear, and where he wouldn’t. Who he should be seen with, and who the cameras must never catch him beside. When to smile at the crowd, and when to wear a look of deep concern.

  Never, absolutely never, was anything left to chance.

  And now, this? Why had he let his guard down? Maybe because she was young and beautiful. Maybe because it was a secret no one could ever discover. Or maybe, simply, because she was a nobody. And after all, how much of a sin was a little fun? Would he ever get an opportunity like this again?

  *

  She was lying in the lounge chair on the cabin's terrace, gazing out at the lake. He lay with his back against her chest, his head resting just below her chin, while she had her legs wrapped loosely around his waist. Her fingers moved lazily through his hair. She reached for a can of beer on the small table and tapped it against his.

  “Cheers.”

  She noticed something behind his ears, faint scars, where the skin was slightly darker.

  “You know someone once tried to cut off your ears?” she said.

  He snapped out of his thoughts, turning his head toward her with raised eyebrows.

  “You have thin scars behind your ears,” she explained with a smile.

  He got the joke. As a child, his ears had stuck out awkwardly. His mother, determined that nothing would mar her perfect son destined for great things, had them fixed early.

  “When I was little, I got into a fight with a bunch of street thugs. They knocked me down, two of them held me while the third pulled out a switchblade and started to slice my ears off. Luckily, a man showed up, and they all ran off.”

  He looked at her with the kind of haunted expression that came from a lifetime of suffering, an expression he had carefully practiced and deployed on many strategic occasions.

  “Really? That’s awful!” she said, straightening up behind him, eyebrows raised like a startled child.

  He watched her for a few seconds, then burst out laughing.

  “No, not really. I had surgery. I was a kid. Cosmetic.”

  Offended that she’d fallen for it, she scowled and muttered,

  “So, you made up the thugs. You just didn’t want kids calling you ‘Dumbo.’”

  His smile faded. He didn’t like being the butt of the joke. Weakness was never allowed.

  She noticed the shift in his mood.

  “Don’t be mad, please. I was teasing,” she said, cupping his cheeks in her hands and covering him with kisses.

  He accepted the kiss. While she kissed him, she whispered, like teasing a child:

  “Dumbo... Dumbo...”

  He couldn’t help but smile.

  *

  The limousine glided smoothly through city streets toward its destination. Streetlights slid across its polished black surface, unable to cling to it for more than a moment. Like light on a slick black eel.

  In the back seat, Gordon was silently going over the lines of his speech for the upcoming donor gala. There could be no mistakes. Big money was at stake.

  He felt a vibration from the inside pocket of his blazer. Impossible. That wasn’t supposed to happen. They had agreed. He’d given her a burner—and kept one for himself—but under one condition: she would never use it. Never. Except in the case of absolute emergency. He had looked her straight in the eyes.

  “Do you understand?”

  “Okay,” she said, cheeks puffed out in boredom, rolling her eyes.

  He grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a light shake.

  “Look at me. Look at me.”

  She met his gaze again.

  “Say it, never.”

  She huffed.

  “Fine… I get it.”

  Now he reached into his pocket carefully, as if a scorpion might be waiting inside. He looked at the screen. It read, simply:

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  A dark wrinkle formed on his forehead. A cloud of dread.

  Did she not understand? Dear God, how could he ever have thought she would grasp the necessity of discretion? How long had it been since they’d seen each other? A month? Two?

  He thought about what to do next. Ignoring it might only make things worse. Then again, what kind of situation was this, really? Maybe something harmless. Maybe she was just bored. He typed:

  The reply came instantly. A sad face emoji.

  Jesus Christ.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow.

  *

  A storm was coming. Wind lifted the dust from the path leading to the cabin, scattering it across the headlights of Gordon’s SUV. Branches bent low, as if bowing to his arrival. But he knew the road as well as the lines on his own palm.

  At last, the cabin appeared. In the glow of the lights, he spotted her on the front steps, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. Her hair was tied back. Tucked into the doorway, out of the wind, she looked like someone who wished to disappear. Watching in silence, he wished he were somewhere else.

  The key turned. The engine died.

  He opened the door, bracing against the wind that pushed back with every step. Gusts rocked his body as he made his way to the porch, gripping both sides of his jacket as if it, too, were trying to flee.

  Crouching down in front of her, he looked at her face.

  “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

  The heavy wooden door closed behind them, sealing off the world outside. She stood trembling. He stepped closer, gently placed his hands on her shoulders.

  “Hey... What is it? Are you still at the Wilkersons’?”

  She slipped from his touch and moved a few steps away, turning her back.

  “A couple more days. They’re coming this weekend.”

  He stood still, watching her shiver.

  “Deborah... Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

  “Do you like being with me?”

  She didn’t turn around.

  “Of course I do. Why are you asking me that?”

  She mumbled something—barely audible. He leaned in.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Silence.

  “For God’s sake, just tell me what’s going on.”

  She turned at last. Sad eyes. Tearful.

  “I’m late. That’s what’s going on.”

  *

  The first lightning bolt tore across the sky. Then came the thunder. A sudden downpour lashed against the cabin shutters. Gordon felt as if he'd just received the kind of slap only his father could deliver, no, not a slap, a punch to the gut. He couldn’t breathe. His eyes went wide.

  She saw it. Saw the panic. And what had she expected? A wedding with a hundred Washington guests? A house in the suburbs with neat white columns? Kids’ birthday parties in the backyard, complete with a clown?

  He felt cheated. Betrayed. One small, harmless mistake, and it’s all over? No. That’s not how this ends.

  “I thought…you were being careful.”

  “That’s the first thing you have to say?” Now she was furious. The tears were dried, replaced by something sharper. Hysteria. Rage. And that, strangely, gave him resolve. He knew what had to be done.

  He pulled out his phone.

  “No problem. We’ll handle it. I know a good doctor. I’ll make the appointment now.”

  She looked at him like he was speaking another language, shaking her head slowly. It was as if the words couldn’t reach her.

  “Handle what?”

  He pointed at her stomach.

  "Well... that."

  Everything collapsed. In her mind, she'd imagined this encounter differently. Not like this. Absolutely not like this. That?

  “That?” she said, wrapping her arms around her stomach.

  “That is my business if you don’t want to be part of it. No one should ever call their child that.”

  Fear like this, he hadn’t felt it in years. Maybe as a boy. But that had been beaten out of him. Corrected. With force.

  “Oh, come on, Deborah. Don’t be ridiculous…”

  And just like that, something inside her broke. She had been in love. His attention had flattered her. What a fool she had been. Maybe it was better to end this conversation here. Maybe he just needed time to pull himself together.

  She gave him a cold, detached look, turned on her heel, and headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m leaving.”

  She opened the cabin door. The storm was now in full force. He caught up with her on the threshold, grabbed her upper arm. In an instant, both were soaked to the skin. She pulled away again and walked firmly across the porch toward the lower deck. Gordon spotted the boat swaying violently on the lake.

  “Deborah, stop!”

  But she kept going, determined, heading for the rope tied to the wooden post.

  Instinct, and childhood lessons, kicked in. Never let them push you to the ground. Strike first, before it’s too late. His father’s voice.

  He went back inside, straight to the fireplace. Took down the old Mauser Gewehr 98, a relic from the Great War, now a family trophy. Then to the sideboard. Opened the drawer. Inside, bullets of every kind, neatly arranged. He could name them all blindfolded.

  He picked an original 8mm Mauser cartridge, black powder. Switched on the terrace light. Stepped outside, loading the rifle as he walked.

  Deborah had already untied the boat and was struggling with the rope, trying to keep the waves from carrying it off. She was just about to step in.

  “Hey!” he shouted.

  She turned her head and stood upright. The light from the terrace and the pouring rain blinded her. She could only make out a silhouette by the railing. She raised her hand to shield her eyes. Squinted, trying to see.

  He waited for the right moment. In his mind, the words beat like a drum: Force is not a sin… Force is not a sin…

  A crack of thunder.

  And at the same time, the old Mauser.

  She felt the blow hit square in the chest. Staggered. Looked back, stunned, at the terrace, where a thin column of smoke still rose. Shook her head, as if trying to reject a thought she couldn’t bear, then collapsed.

  by TheLazyDreamer

  What to Expect:

  ? Cunning Protagonist

  ? Rich World-Building

  ? Unique Destiny Manipulation (LitRPG-Adjacent)

  ? Romance and Family Building

  ? Epic Conflicts and Intriguing Mysteries

  [Winner of Writathon Challenge, April 2025]

  Chapter length: 1.4–1.6K words