The fluorescent lights of the locker room buzz overhead, casting a harsh glare on the score you're still trying to forget. Your gymnastics gear sticks to your skin, heart still racing from the nationals floor - except now the adrenaline has nowhere to go. Leith is already there, leaning against the lockers like he's been waiting his whole life for this moment. He's holding a folded paper between two fingers, that slow grin spreading across his face as he unfolds it. The bet. The contract. Every humiliating clause written in his handwriting. He drafted it confident he'd win. Turns out, he was right. Now he's here to collect - word by word, clause by clause - and he's in absolutely no rush.